I know most people think it’s wishful thinking that she will wake up, but I can’t give up on her. She taught me to walk, talk, use a spoon, and how to ride a bike. From the beginning, she has been by my side. She was my first friend. In fact, she is my only friend. She raised me as a single mom from the time I was born. My father walked out when he found out she was expecting. I never met the man; frankly, I don’t care to meet him.
I lost our house after three weeks of not being able to pay the mortgage. It turned out we were already months behind when the accident happened, and my mother had kept it from me. I had to choose to keep mom alive or keep the house. So, I chose her.
I know she would have done the same for me. I know I’m delaying the inevitable, but how do you kill your mom? Kill the one person who spent your entire life loving and supporting you? When the time comes, I need to know I have tried everything, or I know I won’t be able to live with the guilt.
I look down at my mother; she appears to be sleeping, besides the tube hanging out of her mouth that forces her to breathe and is keeping her alive. She has numerous tubes hanging out of her skinny arms.
My mother used to be strong, lively, and happy. She looked younger than her age. With her blonde hair that was just below her shoulder blades, she had excellent skin, no wrinkles, full pink lips, and a tan complexion. She looked great for a 45-year-old.
But now, her skin has turned gray from the lack of sunlight, and her hair has become oily and flat as she has lost the ability to care for it daily. She has lost all her weight and muscle mass and is now skin and bone. She is wasting away in this hospital bed, a living corpse. Sitting in the blue chair, I scoot closer to the bed and grab her hand.
“Hey Momma, I miss you.” I brush her hair off her forehead, which is stuck to her skin. I listen to the beep of her heart monitor, hearing it beep regularly and the sound of the ventilator forcing her to breathe. It is the same set of sounds every day. I used to come and sit with her for hours and tell her about my day or read to her. But after a couple of months, I just tell her I love her. I have run out of things to say.
I miss her soft voice telling me everything is going to be okay. I miss the way she made everything look effortless. Lila Riley may not have been a perfect mother, but she’d been perfect to me. Yeah, she had a drinking problem, but other than that, I know she did the best she could with the hand life had dealt her.
There was never a lack of love, and no matter how badly I fucked up, she was always there to help me pick up the pieces and rebuild.
When I watch her, I think of all the things she will miss and all the memories she won’t get to be a part of.
After sitting with her for a while, I quickly duck into the small bathroom. The nurse Sally is on night shift tonight and always lets me shower here. It’s the only time I get to shower with warm water. Not hot, but like lukewarm bath water as the showers are temperature regulated. Still, I don’t complain. Warm water is far better than cold. The other people in this room need assistance and are bedridden like my mother, so I don’t have to worry about anyone opening the door, but I always lock it just in case a cleaner or nurse decides to stop in.
Showering quickly, I wash my hair and my body, scrubbing extra good while I have the power of warm water. When I’m done, I hop out, dry myself off and slip into my track pants so I don’t have to change in the cramped car. I also slide my feet into some socks before putting on a pair of flats. I then jam everything back into my oversized handbag while making my way back to my mother’s side to say goodbye.
Sitting on the table next to my charging phone are some club sandwiches. Sally must have come in while I was in the shower. She knows my situation and that I have little left over after I pay the hospital, so every shift she is on, I always find sandwiches or any leftover food from the cafeteria on the table waiting for me.
Tonight’s gourmet dinner comprises thick cheese and sliced tomato sandwiches. I’m starving, having not eaten anything but some dry crackers the entire day. I devour the two sandwiches just before Sally returns with a plastic bag in hand. Sally is the same age as me, 23. She has dark hair cut into a pixie cut, dark brown eyes, and she is about 5’6 tall with a slim build. She’s an attractive woman and has a kind heart. Sally is my favorite nurse here; always happy to explain anything I don’t understand and has terrific bedside manner.
Every shift, she makes time to see me. When she walks in, I stand up, and she wraps me in a warm hug, rubbing my back softly. Handing the bag over to me, I find some bottles of water and a small orange juice, which I quickly grab out to wash the sandwiches down. Sally’s also been to the vending machine and grabbed a few protein bars and some chips. I also find, to my delight, a few pieces of fruit.
“I was hoping you were still in the shower. I know you don’t like accepting help, but you really need to start taking care of yourself. When was the last time you ate a proper meal? You look so skinny.” I give her a small smile. It’s hard keeping my emotions in check around her. Sally has seen me at my most vulnerable. She tugs on my shirt and track pants, trying to emphasize how much weight I’ve lost. I’m not blind. I know I have lost a lot of weight. My clothes don’t fit as they should. I even have to roll some of my pants just to get them to stay on my hips.