01/12/23

The first thing I said after you asked me why I was born was, “to write”.

It’s how I experience the world. How I heal. How I process.

We’ve talked about so much in these letters, you and I, but we haven’t talked about Mother’s Day.

I bought sunflowers at the deli, hopeful they might make you smile. I didn’t visit the day before, needed to recharge my batteries after a week of watching you deteriorate.

When I entered the apartment, something was off. Dad was sitting on the sofa, computer on his knees. He looked up and smiled sadly, held a finger to his lips. You were napping in Lucas’ room. You hadn’t been able to sleep all night, the pain was too much. Not even the combination of Codeine and Klonopin could quell it.

It was 1pm and you hadn’t eaten. There was a croissant from your favorite bakery waiting for you – I’d never seen you turn one down. At brunch, you would sometimes ignore the frittatas your sister made and sit down with pain au chocolat instead, pairing it with an almond croissant for some variety. But that Sunday, you could only manage half of the soft pastry. Bites taken after we had resorted to begging. You had to psych yourself up to get each flaky morsel down - the fluid in your lungs had made eating a Herculean feat.

I sat on the edge of the bed, and you flashed me a sleepy smile. You could barely move, but you managed to let me know how much my crappy flowers meant to you with the warmth of your half-closed eyes.

Your friend was next to you, sitting vigil for what we had yet to realize was inevitable. Gloria was at your side, already grieving. She knew something was wrong – usually all she had to do was lay her paw on your lap to heal you. Just days before she had run circles around what had become your sofa, confused as to why you weren’t playing with her. But that day, she seemed to understand there was nothing she could do.

Your sister came and implored you to get down more of the croissant. Your friend went out to buy Ensures and vanilla ice cream, whatever might prove easier to swallow. Back then, we hoped food and sleep might make it all better, that perhaps you had some sort of say in what was happening to you.

How innocent we were. How foolish.

You asked me to bathe you, and it took 2 hours to get you from your son’s bed to your bathroom. After 20 steps, you had to rest for 20 minutes. You kept apologizing, as though this were somehow your fault.

I placed a ladder in your shower. You sat on the top step, and I made sure the water was warm before lathering your thighs with soap. I massaged shampoo into your scalp, combed conditioner through each strand of your jet black hair. We toweled you off on the edge of your bathtub, placing your feet in the holes of your pajama pants. You stumbled into bed and I lay next to you, editing my screenplay as I tried to pretend everything wasn’t broken.

Lucas made you a smoothie, and as he watched you lethargically ingest spoonfuls, I talked to Dad in the kitchen. Shouldn’t we take you to a hospital? This was bad, and the Codeine was making you worse, despite the doctor’s suggestion to keep swallowing pill after pill as living became more unbearable. Dad told me that same doctor had cautioned that no hospital would admit you, a declaration that would prove to be woefully ignorant less than 24 hours later.

I was micromanaging your eating, focusing all my energy on the only element of this I could control. I served you rice and edamame and as I reminded you for the hundredth time how desperately you needed calories, frustration flashed into your dark brown irises.

“Dome, back off.”

Tears jumped into my eyes, and I stormed off, taking my phone and hiding in my closet. Dad pleaded with me to please come out, that my absence had left you feeling guilty, that you were beating yourself up for letting me see you like this. I stubbornly stayed put, dialing your psychiatrist as soon as he left. I burst into tears when she answered, running the tap to camouflage my howls.

Something was wrong.

I tucked you into bed after dinner, placed a kiss on your still damp hair. It would be your last night at home, your final evening free of tubes and bruises. The next time I would see you, you would be lying in a hospital bed, an IV hooked up to your arm as you watched Paw Patrol. By then, cancer would be all but confirmed, and you would run your fingers through my hair as I cried into your blanketed legs. You were certain the hospital would cure you, didn’t understand why we were so sad.

“Why is everyone acting like I’m dying?”