It’s regret, regret that I’m missing out on so much of these last days with my family.
Even though it’s beyond my control, I have no idea what I’m saying or doing half of the time. I can’t remember all the times I’ve held my child or kissed my husband. I can’t remember if I’ve told them I love them today. I can only hope I’ve done it all.
A lot.
Gathering what little strength I can manage to garner these days, I flip through my phone’s directory and find Dr. Taffer’s contact information. I click on the number and leave word with her secretary that I’ll be contacting hospice.
I’ve been on the ordering end of hospice care enough times to know that all my oncologist will have to do is forward some paperwork and a diagnosis and I’ll be in.
My condition permits it.
My love for my husband dictates it.
My next call is to Wendy, the coordinator of my favorite hospice center. I listen as Wendy sniffs discreetly, as though she might be holding the receiver away from her mouth. She wouldn’t want me to know she’s crying for me as she puts in the last request I’ll make of her.
The last hospice request of my life.
********
When I wake to Nate sitting on the edge of the bed, I’m not even aware that I’d been asleep. “Hi there, beautiful,” he says, love permeating both his voice and his gentle smile.
“Well, hello, handsome,” I reply, returning his smile despite the disorientation I feel. I have no idea what to expect from one moment to the next, and it’s very disconcerting. I feel like I’m always playing catch-up, like I’m always a step or a moment or a day behind.
I’m always questioning things. What have I missed? How long have I slept? What have I been told that I no longer remember?
I search my memory for evidence of coming into the bedroom, of lying down, of drifting off to sleep, but I find nothing. Not a single reference point to which I might cling.
The last thing I remember is pretending not to notice Wendy’s soft crying. And then…nothing.
Just a blank.
“I’ve got a surprise for you. Come see.”
It’s getting harder and harder to mount much enthusiasm for anything really. I’m just so tired all the time, I feel like I only have the energy to do the basics, like walk and breathe and hold a bottle to my baby’s mouth. The change has been swift and sudden.
At least I think it has.
“Great,” I exclaim with as much eagerness as I can muster. I don’t argue when Nate helps me to sit and then to stand. I don’t argue when he helps me down the hall, walking so close that I can literally lean on him. I don’t argue because I know I need the support. My legs don’t always want to cooperate anymore, and I feel dizzy fairly often.
Or at least I think I do.
As far as I can recall.
Guiding me slowly into the living room, Nate stops in the doorway, his arm slipping nearly unnoticed around my waist. Maybe he knows how tired I am. Maybe he thought I’d need the extra reinforcement when I saw the “surprise”. Or maybe his arm has been there all along and I haven’t even been aware of it.
I’m certain of very little these days.
Leaning harder against my husband, I catch my breath as my eyes take in the unfamiliar and unexpected sight before me. On the couch, in my home, looking as uncomfortable as I feel, is my mother. She’s feeding Grace, a bottle propped expertly in her hand, with an unreadable expression on her face.
“Momma?” I mutter before I can stop myself.
My mother raises her head, bringing sad eyes almost the exact color brown as my own up to my face.
“This is why.”
This is why.
Those are Patricia Holmes’s only words, enigmatic as they are.
I watch as she begins to rock against the cushion at her back. One might think that she’s rocking Grace, that it’s merely a grandmother soothing her granddaughter, but I know better. I’ve seen my mother do this before when she’s upset. I just can’t figure out what’s happened to upset her.
I know I couldn’t have said anything to distress her. It seems I’ve been asleep for quite some time. But I have no way of knowing what transpired before I came into the room. Did Nate say something to her? Have they fought? Did my mother make some out-of-the-way comment about Grace?
I don’t know.
What I do know, however, is that I don’t want my mother holding my child if she’s going to have a fit. Because, at this rate, that’s what will come next.
Like a bolt of lightning snapped at my heels, I streak across the room. Obviously, Nate wasn’t expecting it and he loses his hold on me. He lunges, grabbing at me, but only catches the tail of my shirt and the breeze I left behind.
I’m reaching for my daughter before my husband can stop me.