Recovery

8

Two days left in my mothers presence. Absolute hell. The things she wanted to do were no longer possible. The life she had always hoped of living was never going to happen. It was sad. It was good. It was life.

It's the times like this that make you realise that you should take what you have while you have the chance. My mother had her eyes closed, soft snores falling from her lips. I was mentally preparing myself for her crossing.

The line went flat. Her breathing stopped. She was supposed to have time! "She was supposed to have time!" I yelled to no one.

The doctors and nurses came in and tried to help her. Poking. Proding. She reminded me of a hepless little girl. Only she was only little due to her lack of eating.

"There is nothing we can do."

Tears sprung in my eyes and I leaned against her bed. "Someone call Harry," I pleaded.

"Someone call Harry, " I pleaded once more. In a matter of time strong arms wrapped around me as they wheeled my mother away. Her white bed sheet covering her face.

"Shh." I looked up and saw Harry. I wrapped my arms around him and cried. "The rest of us are here. If you want them." He knew all too well that I wanted them here.

The fact that this was real was pure torture.

"What can't I say about my mother." I read from the notecards in my hands. "She was a psychotic bitch. But I sure as hell loved her. I always resented her. That's what children do, and all I am is a teenager. She may rest in peace, but life goes on. Who are we to say she isn't sitting in one of these chairs, life after death if you will, watching everything. Everyone.Wondering why she'll never get to live the life she had, and why we are all mourning her while she is sitting right beside us. Without our knowledge. I guess what I am trying to say is life goes on. Even with out my life giver I am here today. Even without another trace of family left I'll be the one to carry out what is left. There is life after death and each and every one of us will eventually experience it. "

I went home to an empty house. My apartment was bland. My crazy neighbors still on tour. The image of my mother laying in her casket fresh in my mind. I had the thought placed in my head that she was still here.

She wasn't.

I had to accept that she died painfully. Slowly. Viscously. There was absolutely nothing more to say than death. With life comes death.

And if we are living to die and dying to live what's the point of living if it just contradicts?

Recovery is hard. Breathing is harder.