That’s how Neena wants it.
My own throat starts to work overtime, swallowing uncomfortably many times over. Marcus is struggling to keep it together. His lip trembles slightly as he takes her hand and kisses it before he turns and walks out the front door without another word. I feel for him. I really do. This is not easy on any one of us. Clara follows him to make sure he’s okay while I sit on Neena’s bed and pat her leg. She’s curled up on her side, her blanket pulled up just beneath her chin. Her expression is hard to gauge as she stares at nothing. My little girl looks sad. Sad and tired. But too tired to cry. A disconsolate pang clutches at my chest. For all intents and purposes, Marcus is her best friend, and they just spent what they assume will be their last good day together. I can see how it hurts her no matter how tough she tries to act.
“I love you, kid,” I tell her. “I’m with you.” I just want her to know she’s not alone. That although I can’t carry this burden for her—no matter how much I want to—I’m here. She’s not alone.
Two days have passed since Marcus left our home in tears. He’s been silent ever since then. I don’t blame him. He was a wreck. Watching him fight back tears at times and falling apart was so damn hard. It’s odd how much hurt there is to experience through all of this. Some days, I don’t know if I can endure the agony. It’s an endless abyss. True torture. I hurt and silently pray for Neena; my beautiful little girl who lies in bed waiting for her own demise. Seeing her rapidly deteriorate, how she struggles, is an immeasurable cycle of torment. The immense pain reaches from the depths of my soul, leaving me in a constant state of utter sadness. I hurt for Paul. My heart goes out to him. He’s the father that’s only getting a taste of just how amazing she truly is. His window has been incredibly small. Having her ripped from him is his worst nightmare come true. He holds it together for my sake, but I know he’s hurting badly. And Marcus. How do I ever repay this man for what he’s done for me? For helping me raise my little girl? I hurt for him; for his kind heart. He’s the man that’s never had to love her—that didn’t have to be there for her all along—but he’s loved her like she’s his own. My heart races every time I watch her. I’d gladly lay down my own life so she could keep hers. God wouldn’t mind if there’s one more angel down here on Earth. She’s mine, and I simply don’t want to let her go.
The amount of inconsolable hurt is inconceivable.
I gaze at her now. She’s beautiful and angelic. Her porcelain exterior is accented with tiny lashes. She’s resting a lot these days. Her breathing has started to become labored, mostly when she sleeps. But even when she’s awake, with each breath she takes, she makes a raspy, almost choking sound. Her chest moves up and down wildly, like someone is pumping air into her, then sucks it right back out. Last night she was restless, moaning quietly in her sleep, mumbling gibberish. When I asked her what she needed, her sleepy gaze met mine, but her eyes seemed empty. She’s been taking pain pills, but now we’ve moved onto a schedule. It hasn’t been easy. But she needs medication every few hours to keep her somewhat comfortable.
Crawling in bed, I lie on my side beside her. I trace my finger from her forehead down the bridge of her nose and back up again. It’s something I used to do when she was little to help her sleep. Her skin is so pale it’s breaking my heart. Her eyes remain closed, but her lids flutter lightly at my touch, and her mouth quirks ever so slightly before she reaches up and takes my hand, pressing it to her chest.
Slowly, she darts her tongue out over her blueish, chapped lips, smacking them together. Her mouth is always so dry. It wasn’t always like this. I remember it like it was yesterday, her pink mouth pouting, making sleepy, cooing sounds, her dark lashes fluttering against her fair baby skin. Back when cancer was the furthest thing from my mind. Back when I dreamed a life so big and beautiful for her, full of endless happiness. She was going to rule the world as far as I was concerned.
I never would have imagined my vibrant, colorful child would be reduced to this. She’s barely eating now, some broth here and there, and only drinking little sips of water. It’s all I can get her to swallow.
As I stare at her, I’m so overwhelmingly sad I can barely breathe. I’d do anything for her. Anything. The argument Paul and I had in the hospital has been weighing heavily on me. I’ve hated that he was right. I’ve hated that I made Neena feel like she couldn’t tell me things; ask me for things. She’s been so brave through all of this; she’s accepted her fate like a soldier, brave and fearless. She’s had no control over any of this, yet she hasn’t complained once. All she wants is control in what happens when she passes.
“Neena.” I whisper her name.