#loved her dearly but very few things made my eyes glaze over as fast

[doerot]

Currently having regrets over not listening to my witch friend in highschool everytime she tried to explain the meaning of zodiac signs to me bc now im trying to make a lunar/star sign system from scratch and it's confusing :(

[thedeeperlayer]

I was fourteen when I first tasted the sweet, aromatic blend of tobacco, sugars, and ammonia compounds. It was 1998. The year of Clinton and Lewinsky. The year the guy from Die Hard was saving the Aerosmith-adjacent Earth from a Michael Bay Meteorite. 

I was fourteen. Instead of navigating the intolerable 3D world of Hyrule in Ocarina of Time, I was out making an imprudent moron out of myself with an RCA Solid State Image Sensor VHS Camcorder. My idiotic entourage and myself thought we were the uproarious epitome of cool. In actuality, we were ridiculous, annoying fuckwits. I was an absolute pain in the ass.

I'm not going to cock and bull with excuses. I started smoking because I thought I was fucking cool. I had older friends that did it and I dated girls that did it. When my mum found out I was flicking the Bic on the cancer stick, she was both disappointed and somewhat content. Her contentment for my lung corruption behavior was only because it meant she now had a smoking mate.

Mum and Pops didn't always have a harmonious relationship. They would cross swords and oppose each other's views a lot. Mum would complain about Pops never being home. Pops would bewail mum's smoking habit. It was always constant repetition down the same path. Dad never knew I smoked. He would of berated mum and blamed her if he ever found out.

Because of our shared toxic pastime, my mum and I became very close. We discussed all things life. Everything from grace and elegance to the septic shithole bottom. We talked about atrocious dislikes and stupefying satisfactions. We told mindless jokes and gave deep-thought opinions. 

For the sake of storytelling length, let's just say we always had each other's back. 

Unfortunately, the clock ticks, and the hours pass. In a blink of an eye, things are different. I grew up. I got married. I moved. Mum was downhearted and sad. I was the first of her children to leave from beneath her roof. 

I've worked lousey, shit jobs just to make ends. It is indeed accordance with fact, smoking does alleviate stress. I didn't think it was cool to smoke anymore, instead I smoked because my shitty job was an emotional mindfuck. Pounding the coffin nails down my throat made me feel better. 

I didn't want to poison my saclike respiratory organs anymore. I tried quitting. I tried the gum that supposedly calms cravings. I tried the rubber band wrist snap when I had the desire. I tried the ridiculous electronic substitutes. Nothing worked. I thought, fuck it. I didn't want to grow old and become one of the dust bags that retire in Florida anyway.

It was October, 2015. I was just finishing a much needed break from my mediocre job. My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was mum calling. I contentedly answered it. 

She said she had a mass on her lungs. She told me not to be worried, it could be pneumonia. She said she would let me know more tomorrow. 

I instantly broke down and wailed. I could feel that something was extraordinarily wrong. My heart was in excruciating pain. It was exceedingly difficult to finish my shift that night. Every time I was alone, my eyes would swell. It was a long, tedious night.

The following day, I anxiously waited for mum to call. 

Haplessly, she called right before I had to go to work. She said it was stage 4 lung cancer. She told me not to worry. She said she was going to get help. I knew stage 4 was the inevitable. It's treatable, but not curable.

I was so heartsick.

I lit cigarette after cigarette.

My family was devastated. Mum is the support beam that holds my lunatic family's structure together. My brother and sister were in severe shock. Pops was completely shattered. 

The following week, my wife and I picked mum up from the hospital. She was being fitted for a radiotherapy mask. Mum was spiritless. She lacked vigor and enthusiasm. She looked defeated. This was the one time I convulsively, and uncontrollably sobbed in front of her. If you knew mum, she was always resilient and enduring. She was wholehearted, and a matriarch to many. It was challenging to see her in that frail condition. 

I lit cigarette after cigarette.

Mum had sort of a short fringe hairstyle with spiky bangs. She would ornament it with a decorative headband. Often she would dye it golden or honey blonde to hide the off-putting grays. 

The days passed. Weeks. My wife and I made frequent visits. Mum was sitting in her recently purchased stationary style comfy chair. She was wearing a sun-style flat brim cap. Mum never wore hats. “I'm losing my hair,” she said. She lifted a grocery sac where she was accumulating a large cache of her hair. 

Eventually Pops shaved her head. 

My wife and I purchased her a collection of hats.

The holidays came. Thanksgiving. Christmas. Mum always took pride in cooking the meals. She couldn't anymore. She was too weak. She could hardly walk. It was now Pop's responsibility to  prepare the brown sugar glazed ham. She shouted out the recipe to him in the kitchen. “Heat the honey and sugar until it dissolves!” Pops would earnestly urge her not to yell. She was always short-winded and depended on oxygen gas to breathe.  

Christmas morning was grim. Mum kept saying she wanted to have a nice Christmas. “This might be my last Christmas. I want it to be nice,” she despairingly would say. 

We wore smiles but they were fraudulent. Inside we were somber. Cheerless. Gift exchange was dispiriting. We were appreciative, but it was hard to express it. The only audio in the room was the pulling and shredding of novelty wrapping paper. We played unintellectual board games while Mum sat in the living room and stared at the TV. The Hallmark holiday collection was on but Mum wasn't interested. She was disconnected, absent of response. 

My wife and I went home. I lit cigarette after cigarette.

January came and went. February came. Mum had gotten worse. We went to visit her on my birthday. She was without emotion. Unresponsive. Pops struggled to make her recognize my company. She was comatose-like. Pops was in a panic. We rushed her to the ICU. She now had malignant brain tumors. Her recent actions were symptoms. The drowsiness. The constant agitation. 

She was given enough treatment to restore her moral senses. She asked to see me and my wife. Mum was stretched out on a hospital cot. She was buried beneath intravenous lines and hoses. She saw us and smiled. “Watch this,” she gently said. She proceeded with plucking the pulse oximeter from her finger to mortify the doctors. She still had her sense of humor. 

Later, Nurse Ratched impertinently pulled my family away from Mum. She disrespectfully spoke of Mum's unavoidable fate. Ratched told us that Mum will die. She told us to make sure we make the correct decision when the time comes. 

No one in my family wanted to hear that. 

The hospital discharged Mum.

My wife and I went home. I lit a cigarette. I took a drag, hardly inhaling. I breathed in a few more. 

I delve into searches about the great demise on Google. I’m not one who appreciates surprises, so I wanted to be hauntingly prepared. 

As the end approaches, your role is to be present, provide passionate comfort, and remove doubts from your loved one with soothing words and loving actions that help maintain their mental ease and dignity.

The entire evening I fixedly scrutinized my phone screen. It made me overwhelmed with grief. It put me in an unsettling place. It was that night that I accepted that my Mum was actually going to be gone.

Her condition continued to worsen.

It was difficult for her to digest food. She no longer could intake any solids. Pops couldn’t accept the harshness of the situation. He was in rack and ruin. Blatantly, he would hurry to the nearest fast-food establishment and order her a strawberry milkshake. In double time he would speed home to give her the malted treat. She would fiercely vacuum in the strawberry drink through a straw. Clearly she was hungry, but her gasping, pain and abnormal breathing patterns made it difficult for her to swallow. 

Pops told me, the prior evening, he strenuously got Mum into the loo. He proceeded to aid her, however she immediately denied his assistance. “Let me help you,” he despairingly said. “But you're a boy and I'm a girl,” she woefully baffled. 

Delirium. One of the common symptoms observed near death. 

Pops was hysterical. This unforeseen responsibility was so unfamiliar to him. He was terrified. He was frightened to lose the one person he spent his entire life with. 

Again he rushed her to intensive care.

My wife and I were at home. I lit a cigarette. I took a drag and quickly put it out.

Mum was denied anymore treatment. She was recommended hospice care and medically necessary equipment for at-home use. 

Pops thought hospice may not only be valuable to Mum, but also beneficial to him because the workers could assist him through the inexperience and unexpected. We all knew what misery and despair would come next, but Pops was in a idiosyncratic denial. 

Hospice was fucking useless, but more on that a little later.

My wife and I visited her everyday. 

Each day she worsened and disintegrating. 

She was often confused. She would appear asleep, but her breathing would be noisy, congested. She would appear peaceful and at rest, and within seconds she would begin screaming. She would holler agonizing cries. Dad would have to pump her with morphine to tranquilise her treacherous pain.

Day after day, her conditioned intensified. Her skin's pigment distorted to a grayish tone. Her face had depressed and sunken below her eyes. Her lips dried up and shriveled. 

The drainage bag connected to the catheter began to fill with a rust color. 

She had abnormal growths swell in unusual parts of her body.

Day after day we visited. She no longer would move. The congested breathing was the remaining sign of life. We attentively watched over her like this for days. She didn't want to go. She dearly loved her family. The Oncologist asked her, “what do you live for?” Her response was so straightforward and emotionally rewarding. She said, “my family”. Mum was uncomplicated. She lived to be a loving mum and caring wife. She always put her family first. That's who she was. 

She died on August 22, 2016. She battled cancer for seven months. She spent nearly four weeks in hospice care. Only four short instances was Hospice workers available for aid, one of the times being immediately after death. The available nurse plucked an orange Marigold from the neighbors’ garden and lied it in my Mum's cold hands. She called the Funeral Home to coordinate arrangements for pickup and hastily left. 

It was a horrifying experience for my family. Not only for us observing every nightmarish minute, but for Mum too. I can't imagine how afraid she was and how she felt. I just hope it wasn't guilt that resonated with her in her final days. She was the reason my family was so profound and passionate about things. The reason we were all there, again and again, expressing our sorrow and love together.

I haven't smoked a cigarette since her later days in hospice care. 

She was a beautiful, loving person, and we watched her severely weaken and diminish largely because of a lifelong bad habit. I never want to put anyone I love through that, ever again.

[chickenmcfuggits]

WIP

Running until her lungs burned but the feeling overshadowed by how much it hurt inside. Out of breath slow down with her arms wrapped around her chest as she tried to sob and gasp for breath at the same time. She paid no notice to the mucus or the passersby staring at her. There was only the emotion, a physical pain where no injury existed yet pain nonetheless. And suddenly the eyes on her became oppressive and she had to get away. Down into the subway and on before she even registered taking her rail pass out of her pocket. Alone now the world receded into a gray haze, and the tears finally flowed.

 He stepped on and felt the pain before he even saw her. It made him wince, checked his stride a moment, then he sat down across the aisle.

                        “Hi. I’m Kevin. Everyone is a bit busy, so they sent me.”

He stares at her eyes as she gives him a questioning look. The hurt so real, solid, material, it was like you could touch it.

“The angels, the spirits, whatever you wish to call them. They didn’t think they’d get here in time, so they sent me.”

There was still that glaze, that disconnection with what was around her. She saw, she heard, but she wasn’t listening. He leaned forward, and his face hardened.

“You didn’t see this coming and you can’t get a grip on it, can you? That they’re gone?”

There, she’s starting to comprehend. This is happening. A stranger is looking inside of her. Survival instinct should pull her out some now. Good. Things should move along now. He was right in the middle when this came up.

“Listen, we’re going to have to work together on this, bringing me up to speed. I didn’t have any notice. I was just in the neighborhood a few blocks away and she reached out to me, your Grandmother I think it was.”

Her lips pursed slowly as if to whistle, and eyebrows moved together in a frown. This was too much for her, and her strength of spirit was coming to the front.

“Who am I? I told you my name is Kevin. No idea what yours is but I figured at some point you would tell me as long as I arrived beforehand.”

“I’m S…Sarah. What beforehand…who are you……Grandmoms…. what?” Confusion led to tears again, and mucus from her nose but this time embarrassment and her sleeve to wipe it. He handed her a rag from his pocket.

“Before you stopped your life, ended your story, killed yourself. In about two more stops I think Grandma was saying.”

Now a reddening and anger crossed her which didn’t really surprise him. To know one’s self is to be well aware of one’s shitty bedside manner. He excused it with the urgency of the matter at hand.

“Kevin or whoever you are my Grandmoms has been dead for a year.”, the anger turns to a brood turns back to controlled tears,” Everyone I love…depend on….dies.”

Delicately now boyo, he thought. You can’t stop her physically, those are the rules. She must make the decision or in this case not make the decision. Yours is just to make sure she makes the right one. You’re never going to make it as a politician. Pull your head out of your ass. This one is self-assured, strong, even if she’s about give up her oxygen rights and you have a nasty habit of spitting out truth a little too bluntly. Smooth this one out.

“Okay listen. Grandmoms…..,” his eyes look up and to the right, “Rachel…. screamed at my higher self a few minutes ago that I had to save you and practically punted me here Astrally which would have been quite a feat as I’ve never been into Astral travel and not sure what I would have done had I been sent here that way. Heh”

His humor only funny to himself, he gathered his thoughts for another try. Focus, asshole. This kid’s been through it and you’re being a dick.

“Yes, I know by that look…just trust me. Your Grandmother came in like a jet landing at full speed, full protection of the loved one mode. I didn’t get to speak with her, I just went the direction I was shoved and saw a few flashes, a few bits of what I needed to do.”

“Are you a medium?”, she asked.

“I’m not sure what you’d call me, but for now I’m your guardian’s bitch….no, that doesn’t sound right. It’s hard to explain.”, deep breath for a pause, “When you take steps forward, spiritually, you take on responsibilities. The same beings who give to you also require from you. It’s like a pact with the universe.” He could see he was wandering too far away. Maybe this was good but getting their mind off it always left the door open for later. He pulled another rag from the pocket of his flak jacket.

“I’ve been a lot of things like a soldier and a cop and I served people. But I was rigid, believed in God and all that. Was married for a few years which was a story unto itself but after that was over I met a girl, Erin, my soulmate. I lost her and coping with it led me into spiritual matters. I couldn’t move on with the tools I had inside me, so I investigated other ways. Zen. Law of Attraction. That shit.” Wrap it up. This documentary of self-discovery is taking too long, and your personal life is stupid anyway.

“I found I had gifts that others had as well and used them. No, Erin never came back to me, but I grew inside and accepted it. Then I learned there’s a cost. But those of us in the game pay it willingly. Now, about time you tell me what you are feeling.”

Anger.

“Feeling? Isn’t it obvious? My life turned to shit not an hour ago then some stranger on the subway is telling me he spoke with my Grandmoms who is gone. I thought empathic people could tell how somebody felt just by...feeling..I guess.”

“I’m not trying to find out how you are feeling, Sarah. I know how you are feeling, or how I would feel if I just found my three closest friends…..” BRAKES DIPSHIT! “Listen. I guess what I’m asking is do you know? Do you know what is going on inside your heart this very moment?” softly, draw her out.

“I don’t know. Lost, I guess. Alone. Lisa and the rest baked with me a few times, but they started getting into other stuff I wasn’t ready for. We drifted. But I was alone too much after that and today I just went back to see if we could patch things and…”

The sobs started in her stomach and rose through her throat. A scream waited inside but refused to come out.

“Why is this happening to me?” Gotcha. She’s opened the door.

Stern face. “It’s not happening to you, Sarah. It happened to them. Or they did it to themselves. However you want to look at it. They’re gone, and nothing will change that. But you’re still here. Which means you still have something left to do in this lifetime or you would be there with them. There’s a reason for that. Your job is to find it. Ask them to help you, talk to them and no, you won’t hear them, before you ask. But ask them even so.”

“You gotta be open to where they point you. See signs, get feelings. It takes a long time to tune yourself into those on the other side, but you can start now. Find out what you came to life for and do it. Whether that be pursue your dreams, run for governor, or open a bar. I can’t tell and that’s not what I’m here for. But find it, dearheart. Then hit it like a freight train.” Oops. Don’t notice that.

The tears stopped. A look of resignation then a frown with strength behind it. He thinks he’s won. Good. Regardless of the path I have her where she needs to be.

In a hoarse whisper, “I’m going to find the motherfucker that sold poison to the people I love.”

Shit. The worst part of these things is you don’t know whether you got it right or not and nobody tells you. Just have to go on faith here.

“That’s one way to take it I guess, but are you ready for that? You’re talking about a quest to find what I would consider dangerous people. Maybe you could point them in the right direction and let the cops do that kind of heavy lifting?”

“The cops won’t give a shit about a couple of dead, strung out kids. I’m going to find him. I don’t know what I’ll do after that, but I will find him.”

A deep sigh. Well, at least you have her thinking thoughts reserved for the living. Grandma will be pissed. I’m not sure, but I think I scored here.

As the subway stopped, he got up and turned to the door.

“You’re just going to leave? That’s it?”

“My task here is done, I think. Let it hurt. Let the tears come out. In time the pain will become lighter. Stay strong, baby girl. There are a lot of people that love you dearly, even if you can’t see them, or even knew them, in this lifetime.” And he’s gone.

 I should stop and get the mail. Be a lot of bills in there but you never know. Erin is still alive and so am I. Could be there, you never need close a book if you loved the words on the pages.

An alley. Garbage. Movement, fast movement. A whisper, hollow with an echo. Not a sound from the around him. More a thought inside his thoughts. And then, urgency. Sarah! His feet quickening to a run before he realizes he’s running. One block, two. He’d gone a mile and the sweat was beading down his face when he saw the police cars. He slows down wondering why he had been drawn here but not questioning that he was drawn. Then he knows.

There. A black Sergeant. He’s got the touch, I think. He’ll listen to me.

“Hey, uh, sir. What..”

“Dead girl. All cut up. In the alley covered with garbage. Somebody called for the screaming. Caught the motherfucker after he dumped her and started running. Her dealer I guess. Alley is too crooked and the Coroner is too fat to get in there. He’ll be askin’ for us to do his job in a minute. You the press? You all the way back here to get a story?”

“No. She called me.”

A frown. Slowly.  “Didn’t find a cel on her.”

“Sarah.” His voice starting to crack. “She called me. She wanted me to come take her out of there.”

Maybe it was the look on his face or maybe the others are whispering to this cop or maybe he just understood. The sergeant steps aside. He looks almost like he feels something.

“Go get her.” A whisper.” She’s just a little girl. Wrong for her to be one more minute in there.”

You get to meet a lot of people, doing this stuff. Some briefly and others you keep a feeling for. The feeling reaches his eyes as he lifts her. Turning sideways he shuffles out of the alley. There’s a gurney ready and nobody questions as this stranger lays her on it, moves her hair out of her eyes.

“Good bye baby girl. I’ll see you someday and maybe you can tell me what else I could have done.”

@victoria-writes-sometimes