I'll Be Fine

Get. Me. Out. Of. Here. Part 2

🌹*takes a deep breath* Are you ready for part two? Well, it's finally here! Get your bearings and enjoy!🌹

The doctor calls out my name and I grab my backpack and phone, heading towards him. I don't miss the envious glares coming my way. However, I also know that half of these people are relieved that it wasn't them. I've been one of those people since I first got here. Ignorance is bliss, after all.

But it's the waiting that will get you. The noisy clocks, the endless sniffling, the absolute feeling of dread and hopelessness...it can really get to you after 6 hours. And a half. But who's counting?

The doctor, evidently named Mr. Jackson, leads me out of the waiting room, down a hallway, through a door that leads to another hallway, and from there it's just a huge maze of twists and turns until we stand in front of a door. What hits me the hardest is, all these doors look the same. Identical, white, with a little placecard holder telling you what room it is. But you know nothing about what goes on inside these doors. Was the person inside stabbed? What about a mother dying from a stillborn child? The person through these doors could've suffered a gunshot, a drug overdose, relentless abuse, the list goes on and on. And yet every single door looks the same. For instance, you could pass right by the room my mother's laying in right now, without giving it a second glance. You might think, "Poor woman...poor family," even, if you just so happened to know that the patient inside was a middle-aged overworked female who almost got beat to death by her husband. You could possibly know that woman has a teenage daughter. But you don't know her. You just know about her. And those are two very different things.

I'm lost in thought, thinking about all the people that have aimlessly wandered through these halls, when Mr. Jackson clears his throat. "Sophia?" he asks, sounding concerned. Not that he's really concerned. It'd just be a shame to fill up another one of these white, ordinary rooms because some teenage girl going to visit her mom fainted. I know how doctors work.

Even so, my breath catches in my throat. He's the only one that's bothered to use my first name. I can't exactly say why that means so much to me.

Once my breathing regulates, I quickly respond, "I-uh-yes?"

The doctor gives a grim laugh and simply opens the door to my mother's room. I rush past him through the door, mentally bracing myself to see my mother. But nothing could prepare me for what I see as the sight before my eyes registers.

My mother's lying in a bed. Her lower half is covered by a blanket, but the top half of her skin is dominated by nasty, deep purple-blue-and-black bruises. I can immediately see where a chunk of hair the size of a man's fist was ripped right off her scalp. The skin there throbs, looking scabby and an awful hue of red.

She's currently asleep, and her chest rises and falls. Only now do I see the deep lines under her eyes, signaling a lack of sleep. Has she always been this thin and pale?

I try to think back to the last time I saw her tan, but draw up a blank. As far as I can remember she's been pale, most likely due to the many hours spent locked away in her office. I rememeber the pictures of her and dad from so long ago. Her skin, which once glowed healthily and tanned, now looks pasty and pale as a ghost. She's not paper thin, but I wonder how long it's been since she's had a proper meal.

She looks like she's been sick for a long time. She looks overworked and stressed, even in her sleep. She looks tired, like this world has nothing to offer her besides work. She looks like a zombie.

She looks like she's dying.

I quickly banish the thought. She can't be dying. Surely she'll heal? If she dies, I'll have no one. She can't leave me here to find a part-time job that pays enough to keep up our 2-story Suburban home on my own while still managing school. She can't leave me here to fend off Mason, to support his under-the-table business and drinking habits.

I need her. She can't leave me!

But judging from the doctor's face as he walks in behind me, I know this won't be good. I take a seat in the chair next to mom's hospital bed. My thoughts are spinning and I feel like I'm going to be sick.

The doctor begins his clearly-rehearsed speech, his voice sentimental and sympathetic. "Now, Sophia, what you have to understand is that your mother has been sick for a very long time, and-"

I can't handle his sweet-talking. I need to know.

"Cut the shit, doc." I manage, my voice unsteady and thick with emotion. "Is...is she gonna make it, or not?" I spit out, my voice threatening to break with every word I utter.

Mr. Jackson sighs and looks at his clipboard. He looks tired, like he's explaining to a 3 year old why their gold fish is sleeping upside down. "Frankly, her odds of surviving are low. We were unable to find the source of her internal bleeding. We only know the source is located somewhere in her lungs, which are filling up with blood as we speak."

I know what he's going to say next before the words ever leave his lips.

"I'd start saying my goodbyes now. She has an estimated 2 more hours to live at best."

With that, the doctor leaves the room.

The walls start spinning. I start feeling lightheaded and force myself to sit again, though at which point I stood up I'm unsure of.

Silent tears run down my face as I watch the last member of my family leave this world in such an undignified way. I grasp my mother's hand, willing myself to just walk out of the hospital, to leave this pain behind, but I know I can't leave her. I whisper goodbye repeatedly as my sniffling becomes more and more frequent.

1.3 minutes later I would start full on sobbing.

*****

An hour and a half later the cause of my sobbing would leave me.