Stay Strong

As I, Marie Delfayer, stood over John, my dying son, I could feel life fading from me as well. I looked into his cloudy gray eyes, that had been once so bright. He seemed to be staring at the ceiling, though why I wasn't so sure. Perhaps he knew that his life had started in this Hospital, and that it would end here as well. His facial expression, I loathed the way it screamed pain and distress. His eyebrows were cottoned together, and his forehead was stained with sweat. His arm was muscular yet strained. When I placed my weary hand on his chest, I could sense his heartbeat faltering. Shakily, I took his cold hands into mine.

My past hadn't been an easy one. My parents had been alcoholics and they both died when I was twelve. I was taken in by my Aunt Charlene. At fifteen years old, I was raped and I found myself with a child I never asked for. When John was three, I got married to another man named Carter Delfayer. He promised me things no man had ever promised before. And I, having been quite a fool, believed him. Ten years after that, he took a flight to Germany to visit his brother and never returned. Some said it was a storm that ruptured his ship. Others said he'd left on purpose to escape me. I chose not to listen to the second hypothesis, even though I knew it was probably the correct one.

And I'd been husbandless, broke and scarred ever since.

Yet, my life as a mother had been a gift. A gift of chances and surprises. A bundle of warmth and joy and love. But as I choked in my own sorrow, I knew that happiness came with consequences. And John's cancer had hurt me more mentally than it hurt him physically.

I remembered him at three years old, flinging a spoon at the wall because he didn't want his vegetables. I remembered him at nine years old, coming home in tears because he'd been bullied. I remembered him at fifteen years old, going on his first date. I remembered him at twenty-one years old, getting married and then three years after that holding his newborn son. And finally, I remembered him at thirty-five years old, discovering that he had a very serious lung cancer and that he wasn't going to make it through the year.

In that moment, while reality seemed to slash at my breath and my son's hazy pulse seemed to burn holes in my heart, I knew that all those moments were gone.

There wasn't much time left, and I knew that John was going to die the way he was born, right beside me.

I told myself that I would stay strong. I would smile in the morning as if I hadn't been crying the previous night. I would prove to the world that John had been my love, my heart, my everything. I would prove to the world that I had courage. I would understand that this wasn't my fault and that it wasn't his. I would understand that it was all part of God's plan. I would fight through the pain and make John proud. I would be the mother I wished my mother would've been.

But when John stood a deep, staggering breath I forgot all about my promise. The heart monitor started to howl and nurses dashed inside the small hospital room to attempt restarting his heartbeat. They failed twice. Tears burned my eyes and my vision blurred. I crumbled to my knees, my shoulders heaving. It felt as though I was on fire. I wished that I was on fire. I wanted to be distracted from the pain. I imagine knives piercing through my stomach, teeth tearing at my skin. But none of it could compare to the pain I was feeling at the moment. Then I eventually crumbled to the floor, and I stayed there until I ran out of tears, which was nine hours later.

And so I wasn't a strong woman. I was a weak one. And I, along with every quality I ever owned was destroyed by the consequence of knowledge.

And the consequence of love.