0123: She was Supposed to Go Home on Monday


Content warning: The following story contains references to someone losing a parent to cancer, which may be triggering for some readers.

"She was Supposed to Go Home on Monday," Nathanial Garrod

As I entered the convalescent hospital for the umpteenth time, I leave the crisp March Friday morning outside and I am welcomed momentarily by the smell of popcorn before the scent of piss mingled aggressively. Putting the popcorn maker near the front of the hospital was a noble effort, but not quite enough. After over a year of treatment, recovery and relapse, my mom has been in the convalescent hospital since Thanksgiving. 

I visit my mom every day. She is insistent that I stay homeschooled, my family finds a middle ground by signing me up at a local high school for ninth grade independent study. So every day, I come to the hospital. I do my work. I spend the afternoon at the library. I go back to my aunt and uncles house. And repeat.

I turned my CD player off as I headed down the hall towards my mom’s room, watching the Tupac CD slowly stop spinning. 

The friendly nurse, Mary, was on shift as I passed the nurses station.

“How’s she doin’?” I asked Mary.
“Why don’t you go in and find out for yourself?” she said.
“You’re answering a question with a question. It must be pretty bad,” I said.

Mary smiled cryptically.    
“Inspiring,” I said sarcastically, while walking away.

When I walk in to my mom’s room, I think about how she has visibly aged several years in the last few days.

“How was breakfast?” I asked.
“It was good…I guess.” She paused. “It was just the usual pancakes. Hey, can you wipe up the syrup that’s dripping off the table? It’s right there on the corner.”

I pulled the table away slowly, and grabbed a napkin. I was looking for the dripping syrup, but couldn’t find it. Strange.

"It’s right there by your hand,” she said her voice showing a little desperation. I looked again, but still did not see it.

Mary walked in.

“Can I talk to you for a minute, kiddo?” She asked me.
“Yeah, sure. What’s up?” 

She motioned for me to follow her as she headed towards the nurses station.

“I’ll be right back mom,” I said, but she was already zoning out. I shook my head and followed the nurse over to her station.
“What’s up?” I repeated.
“She’s been like that since late last night,” she said.
“Like what? Delusional?”
“That’s what the reports say.”
“Is it bad?” I asked.
“That depends on your definition of bad.”
“You know what I mean,” I said. I was getting tired of people skirting the truth. Not that that had really been an issue. More like people being over-honest. I brought myself back to the moment, where the nurse had just finished letting out a big long sigh.

“She probably won’t be alive next month.”
“Oh! I’ve heard that one before!” I exclaimed, a sardonic smile breaking across my face.
“Yeah, but this time it’s serious.”
“Oh? As serious as it was at Thanksgiving? What about Christmas? Valentines day?” I started yelling: “So what is it now? My mother isn’t going to live to see another April Fool’s day? What?”
"Chill out, kiddo,” Mary said in a stern voice.

“Chill out? Chill out? How can you expect me to chill out when I’ve heard people tell me my mother is going to die every month since November?”

“Relax. Just go for a walk.”
“A walk?”
“Yes. A walk.”
“Now?” I questioned.
“Yes, now. Leave”
“Let me tell my mom.”
“Okay,” she said, turning back to her paperwork.

I walked back into my mom’s room. She was sleeping again. I walked over to her side and shook her.

“I’m gonna go for a walk, mom. I’ll be back a little bit later.”
“Okay,” she said.

--

It started raining lightly as I left the hospital. I walked and watched the rain fall. I ended up by the creek, walking along a recently developed paved path. I stared at the creek and thought about how powerful the water was. There was so much of it, and it moved so quickly. The rain fell around me, increasing in steadiness. I kept walking.

An overpass crossed the path. I sat against a rock, rain falling around me but not on me. Bicyclists pass by, but for the first time in my life, I feel truly, completely alone.

Mom was doing worse. It was obvious. The Cancer was getting to her. The Cancer was… The Cancer was taking her.

I stand and run to the railing between the path and the creek.

“WHY?!” I scream into the rain and wind.
“Why?” I mutter to myself, sobbing.

I kept walking, pushing the hospital out of my mind. I put one foot in front of another. I kept moving forward. I find myself, after many steps, at the apartment my mom and I once lived in. I miss it. All it has been for months is storage. I kept walking. One foot moves. Then the other. Repeat. I sit at the mall for a few minutes, or maybe a few hours. Time is a blur. I walk to the library. I try to put the hospital out of my mind, but it is the only thing on my mind.

--

The weekend passes. Saturday is not notable. Sunday, I go to church with my aunt and uncle. Everyone wants to know about mom. We visit the hospital, but my mom is asleep the whole time.

It’s Monday morning. I wake up. I wake up on my own, not with an alarm, or my aunt playing a grating hymn CD at full volume. It is silent, save for the sound of my uncle eating Grape Nuts. I pour my own Grape Nuts. We sit together in silence. My aunt is usually still home at this time.

She is not home. And then…

A key is in the front door lock. The dead-bolt turns. The key moves out. Aunt Catherine is home? I am confused. The key goes into the knob lock, which pops quietly. The door opens. I feel a gust of cold air. This is weird. Weird. She comes over and hugs me. I know what it is. I think. Aunt Catherine kneels by my chair. I know. My Uncle Bob is quiet. I know. I want another bite of cereal. I know.

“Sweetie,” she grabs my hand. “Your mother is dead.”

“I know” is what I say in my head. “Oh,” is what I say out loud. Funny how that always turns out different. She hugs me again. It is a strong hug. Like you would hug someone who lost the only person who raised them, and you are next in line to care.

“Finish your breakfast, and we’ll go down to the hospital.”
Things are moving quickly. I talk to people. Hug people. Move stuff. I am here. I am there. It blurs by. By the end of the day, we have emptied the room of my moms stuff. It seemed like a monumental accomplishment, yet the entire apartment was next. So much stuff.

It is night, and I am alone in my room. My mother is now gone. One by one, the tears start rolling down my face. 

It does not feel like it, but my mother is gone. I turn the light off, and pull my blankets close. The tears still roll down my face. They quantity multiplies, and the speed increases. I will never be able to hug her again. Or talk to her. I will never be able to listen to her advice or lectures again. I can’t argue with her. Or read to her. Or listen to her reading to me. I will never be able to watch a movie with her, or make dinner for her or go on a walk to the library with her. That part of my life is over.

So I cry.
Before I know it, I am asleep.


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About the art:

I was lucky enough to meet Nathaniel a couple years ago in Oregon, and the dude has such a lively personality. It's so heartwarming. We mostly interact on the internet these days, but he's always full of positivity and support, which is in credible for today's pretty cynical culture (myself included).

Nathaniel's story stands out to me a lot because I know I felt a lot of these emotions when I lost my dad to cancer not long ago. So as I read his wonderful narrative, I felt myself aligning perfectly with much of the circumstances he explained.

When it came to making the art, Nathaniel didn't have a direction. So I wanted to make something that was bright, flowy, and had black contrasting letters. The quote comes from the Saul Williams song, "Tao of Now," which is a constant reminder that we don't necessarily lose people when they die. We keep their memories in our lives even after they are gone. The defiance of the statement has always stood out to me and its oddly comforting, so I hope it has the same impact on Nathaniel.

I'm thankful that we had Nathaniel's story to close out our March stories because it's a beautiful narrative for a heartbreaking story, but one that reminds us to keep those we love and lost close to us in both physical form and in memory.

- Craig. 

081: The Choices You Make Affect More Than You


Content warning: The following story references an incidence of drunk driving, and associated loss, and the grief thereafter, which may be triggering to some survivors.

"The Choices You Make Affect More Than You," Amanda Myers

There is one specific day in my life where absolutely everything changed. I don’t mean in a poetic sense where I had an epiphany, or in a reflective looking back, what I know now way. But in a truly life shattering way that caused a schism between my old self and who I am now that runs incredibly deep.

On July 10, 2008, I had gone to bed somewhat early after a day of running errands. A phone call on our apartment phone rang in the distance, and my husband came into the bedroom, and told me my dad was on the phone. It didn’t alarm me immediately- this was far from normal, but I was sleepy. After I said hello to my father, he told me my sister was dead. After a stunned moment of disbelief, he told me she had been killed in a car accident. That she was hit by a drunk driver, head-on, about two miles from my parent’s home, and was killed instantly. I told him I was coming home as soon as I could, and hung up the phone. And then I started screaming.

I had read the word “keening” before as a way to explain a profound grieving cry, and I realized in that moment that I understood what keening really meant. It was heartbreak leaving my body through my voice.

We left almost immediately, and drove for 15 hours to get back to my parents. Once the sun arose above the horizon, somewhere on the far side of Nebraska, I had to start making phone calls. I called friends. I called family connections. I called neighbors. And I listened as I broke their hearts, one by one. As they started crying and didn’t know what to say. I listened to their shock. And I hurt.

My sister was 18 years old when she died; it was just over two weeks before her 19th birthday. She had been out for dinner with her fiancee, and was killed on a Friday night by someone I vaguely knew from high school, who was incredibly drunk by 9 p.m. It was the other woman’s birthday, and she did not have a designated driver. She was leaving one bar and heading to another when she crossed the center lines, and hit my sister. The other woman died shortly after the accident and left behind a young son.

Emily and I at an early morning family breakfast. This was the last time I saw her.

Emily and I at an early morning family breakfast. This was the last time I saw her.

Emily was my only sibling, and was truly one of my best friends. We were very close throughout my time in high school and college, and I was lucky that we spent most weekends together my junior and senior years of college. Even though I had spent the last year in Denver, Colorado, quite a distance from home, we still talked regularly and saw each other as much as we could. I cannot fully describe the pain and grief the loss of my sister caused in my life. It changed everything. I no longer had my best friend. I was an only child. I was heartbroken. And it was someone else’s fault. Someone made the choice to drink and drive, and it didn’t only kill that person, but also killed my innocent sister who was trying to get home.

Emily’s death was also the first death I really experienced. I was too young to remember the loss of my grandfather or my infant cousin. I had no experience with death, and this was life altering change. Most of the first year after Emily died is foggy; I don’t have many memories. I know I felt disconnected, aloof, and overwhelmingly alone. I considered my own death, however, I never took any action toward it. I thought about how nice it would be if I was killed in an accident myself. I was so broken.

To cope with her death, I did find several things that worked for me. I wrote in a journal, and in the journal I not only wrote about my feelings and thoughts each day, but I also wrote down as many memories as I could think of about Emily. All the details about what she liked, adventures we had, music we sang to in the car, and what made us laugh together. Having that journal is a huge comfort to me now, as time marches on and I sometimes forget the details about certain events or things she liked. I go back and read about memories I have forgotten, and it makes my heart happy instead of sad.

My other major source for coping with Emily’s death was learning how to knit. I read a book about loss where a woman learned to knit after the death of her child (Comfort: A journey through grief by Ann Hood), and I signed up for a knitting class. I truly think that knitting saved my life. It was calming, and it gave me something to do that didn’t require a lot of energy or intense thought. I could just knit. In the book, it said that with knitting, “every stitch is a way to say I love you.” I would meditate on that as I knit, and would find some sanctuary in the repetitive motion as I created something from yarn.

It has been a little more than eight years since my sister was killed by a drunk driver. I am still passionate about driving sober. A choice to drink and drive doesn’t just impact you. It can potentially impact hundreds of others in profound ways that can never be repaired.

So I have two main messages:
1) Take an Uber. Call a cab. Get a friend to drive. Drink at home. I don’t care, just don’t drink and drive.
2) If you’re grieving, find what gives you some small semblance of peace. Write, read, knit, sing, write music, travel, get a tattoo, join a group, cry.

Take each day knowing that some days will better, and some will be impossibly hard. Eventually the hard days are fewer and further in between, although they never go away completely. Find a way to say ‘I love you.’

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About the art:

Emily was my best friend in high school. Losing her was also a very huge shift for me, one that really affected the way I would live the rest of my life. She was literally the coolest person I have ever met, and had such a big heart for bettering the lives of others.

I met Amanda my senior year of high school, but we didn't become close until after losing Emily. We both found our own ways to cope, and eventually found a new normal together, years later. Amanda is now my closest friend, confidant, dance partner, inspiration, and most of all, my Skister - a title that had been held between Amanda and Emily growing up.

I've become a part of Amanda's family, but I always think about how things would be if Emily were still with us. I think about how much fun Emily would have with her nephew. I think about how much closer Amanda and Emily would have gotten over the years. I think about how I would fit into that picture.

With this piece, I wanted to be able to give Amanda a slice of that life by creating an image of Amanda, her son, and Emily were walking down a street together. I looked through old and new photos to make sure I created an accurate enough image that would make Amanda so happy she might cry (which she did). 

Although 'what ifs' can become a painful part of losing a loved one, sometimes imagining them as a part of your current life years later can be a rewarding experience. Thinking about how proud they would be of you, or how much they would love you regardless of where your life has gone, can be one of the most comforting things.

I like to think that Emily would be extremely proud of me, and I know with certainty, that she would be so proud of Amanda, thankful for her friendship and advice, supportive of the challenges she faces, and how much of a fun, loving aunt she would be to Amanda's son. 

I miss Emily every day, and I'm so thankful for Amanda. This project was really soothing to me in sort of a therapeutic way, and I'm so happy Amanda chose me to do this piece.

- Katy