by M. Leighton
“I love you.”
“I love you, too, Brinkley.”
And with that, they shoo me out and wheel my mother away to cut her chest open and repair her heart. If they can.
The hours pass slowly. So slowly. The volunteer brings us messages periodically to let us know what’s going on. They’ve begun the procedure. They’ve gotten her on the bypass machine. The surgery is going well. They’ve completed the procedure.
I pace. And between pacing I sit with Dane and my daughter until Celina starts to show her fatigue and I make Dane take her home. Then it’s just me, taking laps through the waiting room. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.
Thoughts tumble through my head. Regrets. Things I wish I’d done differently, things I wish I’d said before I let them wheel her away. I hope she knew them all. I pray she did. But that doesn’t bring me any comfort. Only seeing her again, alive and well, will do that.
I get another message from the volunteer. They’re going to restart her heart. I would sigh in relief, but I know from my research that this step is crucial, and it’s the step where so many things can go wrong. I pray as I walk the circuit I’ve developed. In my mind, there’s a worn spot in the rug now, the trail I’ve carved in the name of Katherine Peterson.
Fifteen minutes go by. Then thirty. I go to the volunteer. “Any other word about Katherine Peterson?”
She flips through her messages and shakes her head. “No, I’m sorry.”
I smile as best I can and hope that no news is good news.
Then an hour passes. Then an hour and a half. My heart rate is edging up and I feel constantly on the verge of tears. Something is wrong. She should be out by now.
I cover my trembling mouth with my hands and I pace, harder, faster, more furiously. I can’t lose her now, not when I’ve just gotten her back. We were supposed to have more time after this. Good years. Together. As a family. With Celina. And Dane. God, please don’t take her now. Not yet.
“Ms. Sommers?” the volunteer calls my name. I walk over to the desk, waiting with lungs full of air I can’t quite release.
“The doctor would like to speak with the family in conference room number three. Go through the main doors and it’s the third door on the left.”
“Is…is something wrong?” I can hardly get the words out.
The older woman smiles a sad smile. “I don’t know. That’s just what he wanted me to tell you. I’m sorry.”
I can’t swallow. Not at all. My mouth is dry and a sadness so big I can’t move past it is stuck in my throat.
I proceed to the conference room and there I wait. I wait for what seems like an age before a man in green surgical scrubs, the man I know to be the cardiothoracic surgeon, comes walking into the room. He closes the door behind him and I have to turn away. I can feel my face crumbling.
“So, she’s out. In her room. She did really well.”
I spin to face him. The surgeon goes on to talk about how he was able to use her mammary artery for the graft, but I don’t hear much of it. All I heard was the first part. She’s out. In her room. Did well.
I still burst into tears, but for a completely different reason. These are tears of joy, of relief, of a second chance, one I don’t intend to waste.
Chapter 32
“Momma, one more week isn’t going to make a difference. I told you I talked to Celina’s doctor and he said—”
“Brinkley, I’m fine. I don’t know what I have to do to convince you that I’m okay.”
“You had open heart surgery two weeks ago. You are the very definition of not okay.”
“I’m healing perfectly. I know you heard Dr. Sage tell me that. I don’t know why you won’t believe him.”
“I believe him. And I think it’s great that you’re healing so well, but healing well and being well enough to be left alone for at least a month are two completely different things.”
“A home health nurse will be coming to check on me and—”
“Not good enough.”
“Let me finish. And I’ve had a…friend offer to stay with me.”
I frown. This sounds like a big fat lie to manipulate me into doing what she wants me to do. “Who is this friend?”
My mother blushes. At least I think it’s a blush. Her cheeks turn a pretty, pale pink. “His name is John. We’ve known each other for years and he’s been awfully nice since Alton passed. He’s offered to come and stay. You know, just to keep an eye on me. And keep me company, of course. So I don’t get lonely here all by myself.”
I narrow my eyes on her. “I can’t tell how much of this is total bullshit.”
“Brinkley! Language!” I cross my arms over my chest, ignoring her. “And it’s all true, for your information. I’m a widow. Is it wrong for me to eventually enjoy the company of another man?”
She looks appropriately addled, which actually makes me lean a little bit toward this being true. “No, nothing wrong with that at all. But you’re deciding this now? You understand how suspicious that sounds, right?”
“Only if you’re a cynical person, but I suppose I can see where you’d think that. But let me assure you, daughter, this is not…B.S. God forbid you ever have to have your chest cut open and your heart operated on. It makes you rethink everything, including how you want to spend the next years of your life, however many you might have left.”
At that I soften. “So, this is real?”
“Yes, it’s real. I’m not going to lie to you to get you to leave. I shouldn’t have to, for one, but I wouldn’t do that.”
“I just want to make sure you’re okay. You know that, right? That I’m just looking out for you.”
“I know.”
“Because I love you. That’s what people who love each other do.”
She smiles a surprisingly maternal smile. “I know that. And that’s precisely why I want you to go on and get Celina taken care of. I love both of you, and I want what’s best for you. And this is best for you. For both of you. So go. I’ll be fine.”
“You won’t be alone? At all, right?”
“Not for one minute. Except for maybe my shower. I hope no one insists I must shower with help. That just won’t work.”
I stifle a snigger. My momma. Some things really just don’t change. Even after a coronary bypass, she’s still worried about propriety, God love her.
“Okay, Momma. If this is what you want and you’re okay with it, and you’ll let someone stay with you at all times…”
“It’s a done deal. All that remains is for you to get yourself and your daughter to Duke.”
I sigh, part in relief and part as I brace myself for the next big hurdle. The biggest hurdle—getting my daughter cured. As much as I love my mother, there is nothing more important than that. That’s why I know that once we get the process going, I won’t leave her side until she’s ready to come home with me.
“All right then. I’ll get the ball rolling.”
Most of the arrangements have already been made. We just needed a clear start time. These types of procedures are planned down to the day.
A few days after Momma was discharged from the hospital, Dane asked if he could tell Celina he wanted to be her donor. Of course, I said yes. My heart was in my throat the whole time.
He was grilling chicken for all of us at Momma’s. Celina and I were sitting out on the porch with him, me sipping tea, her reading.
Dane was nervous. I could tell. He poked and turned the chicken about a thousand times more than it needed poking or turning. He was stalling, preparing himself for the conversation ahead, which I thought was adorable. Finally, when he finished tending the meat that was more than adequately tended, he walked to Celina and squatted down in front of her, putting him eye level with her.
He just blurted it out, which was kind of comical. “Celina, I’d like to be your donor. If I’m a good enough match, that is. How would you feel about that?”
His tone was so gentle, so kind, so caring, I was almost crush
ed with it. If I’d ever had a doubt that Dane was what, was who my baby deserved to have in her life, those doubts were eradicated on that day.
I watched as his words sank in. I watched my daughter’s eyes fill with tears. I watched her cover her mouth. And I watched her nod her acceptance of her father’s proposal. She bowed her head then and her thin shoulders began to shake with her sobs. I watched Dane pull her tenderly into his arms. I sat quietly across from them, tears streaming down my cheeks.
Dane already gave his sample and has already been determined to be a half-match. He has a couple more characteristics in common with her than even I have, which is good.
Once I tell him and Celina that we are okay to leave Grandma and get this show on the road, my life becomes a whirlwind.
Within forty-eight hours of telling Dane, calls have been made, appointments have been scheduled, and, after goodbyes to my mother, we are on our way to the house that Dane rented near the hospital to be our base. Celina will stay with us as long as she can, but it was made clear that at a certain point, she would have to be hospitalized. We’ll be close enough, however, that we can spend as much time with her as possible, while still maintaining basic hygiene and having a real bed to alternate sleeping in.
We check in at the hospital and her doctor, Dr. Napier, goes over one last time all that we can expect once the countdown officially begins. That will be day minus eight, the day she’s admitted to the hospital to begin her preparative treatments. They call it day minus eight because each day counts down toward day zero, which is the transplant, and every day after that will begin with a plus one, two, three, etc.
Dr. Napier was very up front about everything we could expect, so we were all well-versed about the process and what it entailed. And I thought I was prepared. Well, as prepared as a mother can be for something like this, but nothing could’ve prepared me for what it would be like to watch my little girl go through hell.
Day minus eight she began her chemo treatments. Celina did really well. They gave her plenty of medication for nausea, but the steroids given with it kept her from sleeping. Dane and I sat up with her all night, playing cards and making plans for a big vacation next summer hoping that she’d forget about this summer altogether.
Day minus seven she began a little less agreeably because she was tired. Day minus six, even more so. But it was on day minus five that the sores in her mouth arrived and that the first of her hair started to fall out.
Celina turned over on her pillow and then sat up. Left behind her was a thick chunk of long blonde hair. When I saw it, my first inclination was to hide it from her. Whether that would’ve been smart or not, I don’t know, but I just knew I wanted to spare her the pain of seeing it. Because I knew it would hurt.
Celina turned back to adjust her pillow and she just stopped. I knew she’d seen it. I watched her pale fingers reach out and take the lock from the whitest white pillowcase and she turned to me, her heart and a floodgate of tears in her eyes.
That’s when the real distress on her part started. And her health deteriorated from that point as well.
Her nausea became harder to control, her fatigue was beyond helping, the sores in her mouth prevented her from eating and drinking, despite the wash they gave her to use, and so additional fluids had to be given because she was becoming dangerously dehydrated.
On day minus three, they added radiation to her regimen, and day by day, I saw my little girl shrivel right before my eyes. Her skin got paler every day. The dark circles under her eyes became more pronounced. The loss of her hair became more evident.
Her refusal to eat or drink made her look like skin and bone, and by day zero, she was hardly talking to us.
I kneel by her bedside, praying as she lies on her back, staring silently at the ceiling.
I take her hand in mine. It’s cold and bony and so frail. So very, very frail. As long as I live, I’ll never forget what it feels like to touch her this way. It’s like she’s a wax figure of my daughter, cool and emotionless. Like there is no life in her, or that what’s there is on its way out.
I can’t bear to think of it.
“You’ll make it through this, Celina.” Please don’t give up. “I promise you will.” I’ll die if you don’t.
She says nothing. She never does. She seems to just…exist, but only just. Like she’s hanging on by a thread.
A thread that’s steadily unraveling.
My eyes burn with unshed tears. I’ve cried so much that I can’t cry anymore. My eyes haven’t completely figured that out yet, though. They burn like they’re trying to cry, but tears never come. I’ve shed them all. And what might’ve been left, I’ve worried away. Watching my child go through this has stolen every last tear I had left to cry.
I may never cry again.
I may never feel again.
I can’t remember the last time I slept. I can’t remember the last time I felt like life was normal. The last eight days has been a torturous eternity that I wouldn’t wish on my very worst enemy. If there were more days like these, I’m not sure any of us could survive them.
But it’s almost over.
She’s almost done.
If she can just make it through the this next part…
I feel a warm hand on my shoulder and I turn to find Dane standing behind me. His eyes are dark and hollow and I know he’s hurting as much as I am. He wasn’t prepared for this. Neither of us was.
“It’s time.”
He’s already done his part, donated his marrow so they could do what they needed to do to it in order that Celina’s body would have the greatest chance of accepting it. Now he’s like me, watching, hurting, and waiting. Waiting for this to be over and for her to be okay.
I sniff and stand, leaning over Celina. “Did you hear that? You’re about to get the good stuff. This is the last step. You ready?”
At that, she turns her sparsely covered head on her pillow and looks up at me with her huge, glassy green eyes. She nods.
That’s it.
She nods.
I don’t know if she’s as much accepting of it as it is that she’s just too tired and too sick to fight it.
Burn! Oh, God, my eyes burn so badly, but I smile at her as I rub her cheek with the back of my hand. “It’ll be over soon, baby girl. You’re in the home stretch. Just hang on, okay?”
Please hang on, baby girl. Please don’t give up.
Again, she nods, and behind me nurses are bustling in with equipment and bags and the chaos that they always bring when they arrive.
The transplant is set up much like a blood transfusion and they make us leave the room while it’s in progress. Dane and I pace the waiting room, neither speaking as we pass, until we’re called back to Celina’s room.
We enter quietly, and I wonder if Dane was expecting to see a dramatic change in her as I was. I know it makes no sense at all, but I’d hoped that the relief of having it done would show on her face, in her eyes, in the way she looks like she’s too tired to fight anymore.
That scares me more than anything.
She looks like she’s done. Like she’s already given up.
It’s as I’m approaching the bed that I see the odd expression come over her face. It’s almost like confusion and it happens just seconds before her body tenses. Then she begins to tremble. From her head to her toes, she twitches. It starts out like a shiver, but then, like the flip of a switch, all hell breaks loose.
Celina jerks once, so violently, her back arching so sharply, that I wonder that her spine doesn’t snap in two. I gasp, but before I can take a step in her direction, she begins to buck. I watch in slow motion as the nurse starts toward her, but she’s not fast enough. None of us are. No one is there to protect her when, with one wild flail, Celina’s head slams into the bedrail with a sickening crack.
More chaos happens as the nurse turns Celina on her side and pulls her pillow around to protect her head. She yells things out toward the hall and other people file qui
ckly into and out of the room. I stand, dumbfounded, watching as they surround my daughter like buzzing bees.
My heart is in my throat and my mind is spinning with disbelief, and the only thought I can really think is that I just want everyone to move out of the way so I can see her. I feel like if I can just keep my eyes on Celina, she’ll be okay.
Her body jerks and twitches with the seizure, and I hold my breath as they work to administer the drugs that will break it. I hear them chatter back and forth, certain words penetrating the helpless terror I feel.
No history of epilepsy.
Blood pressure was only slightly elevated with last reading.
No known drug allergies.
Possible transfusion reaction.
As their words drop in and out of my consciousness, I watch my daughter. In my mind, I’m praying, I’m begging, I’m talking to her and praying to God, pleading for my child’s life.
My eyes are glued to hers as she begins to settle. The violence leaves her slowly, like air leaking from a tire. Eventually, her body comes to rest on the bed once more, and as it does, one eyelid slips open. As though with purpose, one green eye seems to focus on mine.
One heartbeat.
Two heartbeats.
Three heartbeats.
And then it closes.
But not before I see the light go out.
I recognize the moment, the very instant that Celina is no longer with me. I feel the absence of her like a gunshot that leaves my chest a gaping, ragged hole. The little girl I birthed, the child I’ve known her whole life, the babe I’ve loved more than myself since the day she came into this world, is gone.
I hear someone scream. It’s a woman’s voice, and all she keeps saying is one word over and over and over again.
“Noooo!”
Chapter 33
The screaming heralded the onset of bursts of light and time and reality, like flashes of a camera capturing moments of horror.
The doctor rushing to Celina’s side.