"I see you eyein' me down, but you'll never know much past my name
Or how I'm runnin' this room around and that I'm still half your age
Yeah, you're lookin' at me like I'm some sweet escape
Obvious that you want me"
-Tate McRae
In which NHL star Car...
The air is sterile and dry, machines beep, and doctors rush around. I take in the chaos around me as my sister and I walk to the room my mom is in.
"How has she been doing?" I ask, my hands getting clammy as we pass by open doors, patients inside sleeping or talking to their families. What if Mom doesn't even recognize us? Don't be stupid; she just has cancer. She just has cancer...
"She's been... fine." My sister, Ella, answers.
About 3 months ago, we found out that our mom has stage 4 lung cancer with almost certain death. I've only visited about 5 or 6 times since then because I can't bear to see or talk to her. She's not the mom I'm used to. Is that selfish to say? It's just so hard to look at her, knowing that she won't be here soon. Shouldn't that make me want to be with her more?
After a couple of twists and turns, we stop in front of a door at the end of a long hallway. The door is painted a bright blue and has a wooden texture to it; a piece of paper taped to it displays her name, Sienna Hughes. Tears threaten to pour down my face, but I fight them, managing to keep them in. Mom is all we had growing up. Ella and I's dad left when she was 4, and I was 2. Mom was the one to take me to my hockey games every weekend and drive Ella to gymnastics. Mom has done everything and more for us our entire lives, and this is how she gets repaid? With fucking cancer?
Ella reaches for the doorknob and slowly turns it, letting us into the small room where our mother is kept. There's a hospital bed in the center, a small table next to it, and two chairs in the corner. A few cards and flowers are being displayed on the windowsill, basking in the fluorescent glow of the lights. I hate hospitals.
Then I see Mom; she looks small and frail compared to the strong woman I know. She has a few strands of hair tucked away in a hat, and her eyes are closed. The machines around her beep, tracking her heart and breathing patterns. Ella naturally steps closer, going to her side and stroking her hand, letting Mom know we're here. She just grunts in response. That's all my mom can do now. Grunt. I can feel a tear drip down my cheek. Oh my god, oh my god, no, I cannot cry. More tears come pouring down, and I swat at them with my hands, not wanting Mom or Ella to see that I'm crying. Thankfully, neither noticed, Ella too busy crying herself, and Mom not even being able to open her eyes. This makes me cry more.
I go over to the other side of the bed and kneel down, carefully taking Mom's hand in my own and running my thumb over it.
"Hi, Mom," I say softly. "It's me, Carter." Her eyes flutter slightly, but she doesn't open them or make a noise. "I wanted to say I love you, and I'll always be here for you. It's also my birthday, so, happy birthday to me." I can feel her hand squeezing mine slightly, letting me know she hears me. "I love you so much, Mom," I say with my voice breaking. Tears are now falling like a waterfall. I can't do this. I hug Mom gently and get up, letting Ella know it's time to leave. She slowly nods, giving Mom's hand a squeeze and letting her know she'll be back tomorrow. Every visit I have ends like this; I always leave quickly, crying.
We make it outside, the sky a messy gray and the air thick with fog. Shit. I knew we should have driven. But we didn't. I decided to leave my car at Ella's apartment because it was sunny earlier. Now, I deeply regret it, looking at the sky, which is about to rain. We walk through the crowded streets of the north end, side by side, both of our faces down, already mourning the loss of our undeceased mother.
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