A Wilted Rose

     Roses tend to symbolize beauty, hope, and love.

     My mother, Rose, matches her name perfectly. She is the brightest member of our family, always hopeful and optimistic. When someone is upset, she is the first person to comfort them and give them the light they need. She loves everyone unconditionally. She has always been our friends’ favorite mom. She is the kindest person I know.

     But most importantly, she is a fighter.

     I didn’t completely realize this until she was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. The doctors had said that the tumor was already too far along to cure, and she would most likely not make it past five months.

     Yet here I am, seven months later, stretching my arms with a yawn, getting out of bed to get dressed to visit her in the hospital. As I rise out of bed, I squint into the sunlight filtering through my blinds. With a huff, I snap them shut.

     After I finish getting ready, I trudge down the stairs, preparing myself for the day ahead. No matter how much I love my mother, I can’t stand going to the hospital. The scent of chemicals and disinfectants, the sick faces of patients, the grim faces of their family and friends. It’s all so distressing.

     I shudder as I enter the kitchen to find my dad drinking coffee on the counter, Naomi, my twin sister, scrambling eggs, and my older brother, Aaron, munching on cereal.

     “It’s about time, sleepyhead,” Naomi grumbles. “There’s eggs on that plate for you, Nick.”

     “I’m not hungry,” I mumble, slouching into a counter stool.

     “I already made them, so eat.” She shoves a plate in front of me with a glare.

     Recently, mom has been staying at the hospital for days at a time, so Naomi has decided to step into her position. She tries to be the same enthusiastic and caring person mom is, no matter how hard it is not having her home. I think it’s her way of coping with the situation.

     “Ok, kids, mom woke up a while ago. Let’s go?” Dad gets up, placing his mug into the sink.  A few minutes later, we climb into the car and drive in the direction of the hospital.

-------

     As we walk down the white halls of the hospital, Aaron tries to make witty medical jokes to lighten up the mood.

     “I once heard a joke about amnesia, but I forgot how it goes,” Aaron says with a smirk, then bursts into laughter. Naomi giggles, and my dad tries to hide his smile.

     “That was so bad, stop,” I groan, which makes them all let out a laugh.

     Finally, we reach our mom’s room, and Dad pushes open the door. I sigh, closing my eyes, preparing myself to see my mother, sick and tired, and walk into the room last, letting it shut behind me.

     She is sitting on the bed with a tray of breakfast in front of her. Whenever she feels really sick, she has no appetite, so seeing the untouched plates makes me frown in worry.

     “Hi!” she greets us all enthusiastically, giving each of us a long hug. We ask her how she is, she asks us about school; all the usual small talk. Throughout the conversation, I notice she’s slouching, she looks awfully pale, and she keeps coughing. Every time I hear her raspy cough, my heart stops. She has passed the time for a cure, which means she could die at any time. The clock is ticking, but we pretend that everything is fine, that everything is going to be ok. We constantly give each other false hope.

     After our conversation dies, Mom says, “I just remembered! They put an ice cream machine in the cafeteria and it’s delicious. You guys should get some.”