by Shafer, Gina
I whine against his mouth because he’s right. It’s too much and never enough. “It’s okay Whitley. I’m with you here too.” Nick says, holding his palm over my chest, telling me what I already know. Nick has invaded my heart and conquered my soul. And I have no idea how to pry him out.
I fall through endless pleasure and float on waves that rival the ocean behind us. I shake when I come. He releases a deep growl when he peaks too, riding every last wave with me.
There’s something very intimate about sex during heartbreak between two people. It’s like my heart is torn in half and someone is decent enough to handle the pieces with love and tenderness. It still fucking hurts, but would I do it again to see that look of pure adoration on Nick’s face? Yes, and I know how wrong that is.
“Everything will be okay,” he murmurs after tucking himself back into his jeans and standing.
Everything will be okay? Really Nick? Everything?
I adjust my clothes before leaning back and spitting venom. “Nothing about this is okay. It’ll never be okay.”
“I know, I’m sorry. I just meant—”
“How can you just sit there like it is? Like this is acceptable?”
“It’s not, baby. There’s nothing even remotely okay about losing your mother. But it’s life, and we have no control over it. The only thing I can do is see your beautiful face next to mine everyday, and somehow hope that even though none of us are fine, we will survive it. You will survive, because you’re strong.”
“But she won’t.”
“No, she won’t. None of us live forever.”
I turn away. “I know that. I just wish it wasn’t so hard. It’s awful to say, but sometimes I wish we could end her suffering. Anything to spare her from the agony. I know that’s terrible.”
“It’s not terrible. It’s misguided. You want that for her, sure, but you want it for yourself more. You want it all to go away so you are spared the pain of losing your mom to Alzheimer’s. No one could fault you for that. Losing someone you love…. I’m not sure a single sane person in the world would run toward that.”
He’s right. Losing someone you love is life’s greatest middle finger to human kind. I’m in the midst of the biggest “fuck you” of my life.
“I can’t do it.” I say, almost pleading. Like I’m begging Nick to take it back. Like he can control it. I realize how much I rely on him to get me through this.
How can I put this on him? How can I expect him to carry a weight I’m afraid to carry alone?
“I’ll be with you every step of the way. “ He engulfs me in a hug that is clearly meant to hold me together but instead breaks me into a thousand tiny pieces.
I remember what Nick said when he described losing his parents. “I regret how I handled things after.”
If I’m not strong enough to get through this, I shouldn’t bring anyone else down with me. I drift, swaying… considering. Then I pull away from him.
“No.” I say.
“What?”
“I said no. I can’t go down this path with you any longer. It’s not fair to either of us.”
He moves toward me but I back up, keeping my distance. “You don’t have to do this. It doesn’t have to be one or the other,” he says.
“But I do. I can’t have both. I can’t be all in with you and all in at home. One of you becomes collateral damage, and I couldn’t bear it.”
Understanding dawns, and he attempts to hide his devastation. “I lied to you earlier. When I said I had to leave your house.”
“I know.”
“Do you know why?”
I don’t.
After a minute or two, he says, “I felt you pulling away from me, so I gave you space. I didn’t think you’d talk yourself all the way to this place in that amount of time. I would have stayed had I known. I would never have gone home.”
For the first time on my life, I have nothing to say. I can’t make anything better, and I can’t take the pain away. It grows colder and darker, and we stare at each other and then turn to the ocean, black under the dark night sky.
Finally, Nick speaks. “You’re not alone in this. I’ll be here if you need me.”
I don’t kiss him. I want to, even if it hurts me, even if it kills me. But it wouldn’t be fair. It would be selfish. I don’t actually do anything at all, even though my heart beats like it demands to leap from my body and torture me just like I’m torturing it. Instead, I walk away.
I walk away because I can’t continue to insist that everyone around me help shoulder the pain I’m carrying. It’s time to grow up.
The distance between us is like a tightly wound rubber band, and all at once, it snaps.
You’re not alone in this.
Oh, but I am, Nick. I’m more alone than ever.
My parents love each other. That’s the way it’s always been. I grew up their understanding and determination to get through anything life threw their way. I didn’t have to hide in my room during arguments. I had a great example of a full and healthy relationship.
Maybe that’s why I’m afraid my love will never measure up.
I haven’t seen Nick in seventeen days. It’s crazy how empty my days feel when I know they wont begin or end with him. I miss him fiercely. But I don’t go down that path because I know how it ends. He deserves better.
I couldn’t bear to see his lifeless face next to mine everyday and know I was the one who drained him of everything I love about him. He is strong, but I’m not going to be the one to test that strength. If I broke the man I love because I wasn’t tough enough to let him go, I would never forgive myself.
Someone knocks on my bedroom door. I minimize the window on my computer. I’ve been checking the merits on the care home for Mom and comparing them to other places in our area.
Dad pokes his head in. “The home care place just called. Her room is ready and they’ve got time to fit us in to see it if we can make it there in thirty minutes.”
“I didn’t think they’d be able to get us in that soon.”
“I know. They had a last-minute cancellation.”
Does that mean someone died? Jesus, that’s morbid. “Do you want to check it out first, before we bring her? I don’t think it would be a good idea to rush around, getting Mama ready in such a hurry,” I say.
“That would probably be best. You call me right away if you need me, okay? I don’t like leaving you two here alone.”
“It’ll be fine, Dad.”
“I’ll be back soon, after I get the room set up. I just gave her the morning medication, but she may be getting hungry soon.”
I nod. “Let me finish what I’m doing here and then I’ll go sit with her.”
“Sounds good. I’m headed out now. Thanks, Whitley.” He gives me a little salute, then he’s gone.
I pull up the webpage again and scroll. I’ve already poured over every possible shred of information I can find, and I’ve yet to find anything bad about the place. Well, okay, there was that little thing I found, a public Facebook post where someone said the food there made them sick while they were visiting their grandma. But when I looked through the comments, I noticed someone called them out for eating a Big Mac earlier that day, and maybe that had something to do with it.
So far this place gets the gold seal of approval pretty much everywhere. Is it bad that I’m disappointed? I shove that thought away and turn off the computer.
A shadow passes my window, and I freeze. My heart hangs inside my chest by one very taught string. If I listen closely enough, it’s almost like I can hear it, plucked like a harp whenever Nick crosses my mind. I’ve gone weeks without bumping into him, which hasn’t been easy, and I’m fucking terrified that if I see him, I’ll fall apart all over again.
You can’t put everything you have into providing care for someone if your heart is ripped to shreds. I slither up to the window and move one slat in the blind.
Why the hell did I look? Why do I torture myself?
Nick is the
re. Of course he his. I knew he was going to be. But I looked anyway. He’s kneeling next to his house, digging in the dirt.
And that’s when I notice the row of sunflowers he’s planted for me. Right in my line of sight. Reminding me of life and love. I can’t hold my eyes open. I fight back a sob.
I let go of the blind and leave the room, not giving myself the chance to turn around and go back, even though every step hurts worse than the last. I make it to Mama’s bedroom.
She can hardly walk now, and if you’ve never seen a grown woman lose the ability to move, it’s fucking miserable.
Sometimes I can convince myself she’s still in there somewhere, trapped inside a body that betrayed her. But I know that it’s more likely she’s lost herself. The things that made her who she was have rotted away, replaced with abnormal protein deposits and nothingness. She doesn’t know who we are anymore; the only thing she understands is that Dad and I are safe people and she loves us.
I pull her covers back to see if she’s wet the adult diaper she wears now, and thankfully she hasn’t. There’s no way to tell when she has to go anymore, because she can’t communicate. In fact, I think the last word she said to me was salt. I don’t even remember why. I hear the word, plain as day, spoken in her voice.
God, I miss it. I miss her, and she’s lying right here.
“Do you want something to eat?” I ask. I have to keep my sentences short or she gets confused. She gives an almost imperceptible head shake, and I frown. She’s normally hungry around this time.
“I’m going to make you something.” Maybe she doesn’t understand me, but I’ll feel better if I have something on hand.
I pull up the monitor on my phone so I can keep an eye on her and go to the kitchen. We don’t have to do this so much, now that she isn’t mobile, because there are usually two sets of eyes on her.
I get a peach from the fruit bowl and slice it. She hasn’t had any issues with choking, so we’re able to feed her most things. She especially likes fruit, and the sweeter the better. I arrange it on a plate and bring it to her.
I help her sit up. She feels warm and a bit clammy, so I pull off the covers and open a window. I put the plate beside us and hand her a piece. She’s weak, which is concerning but not out of the ordinary. I raise the peach to her lips. She takes a bite and chews. I remind her to swallow by mimicking the motion in exaggerated form and brush my hands down my throat. She follows my direction.
I offer her more, but she refuses. A strand of hair hangs in her face, and I brush it away. When I skim her forehead, I stop.
She’s so hot, it sends a chill through me. I feel her forehead. I panic a little but stay calm outwardly. I run for the thermometer and take her temperature. My heart sinks. It’s high, really high.
I rush to the kitchen, where I left my phone, and call Dad. I fly back to Mama’s room because I’m afraid to leave her alone.
He answers after the second ring. “Hey Whit—”
“She’s got a really high fever.”
“What do you mean? I was there not fifteen minutes ago.”
“ I’m not sure. I fed her a snack, and she felt hot. I think I need to call an ambulance. I can’t get her into the car myself, and she could need immediate treatment.”
“Of course. I’m turning off the highway now. Call me when they get there so I know where to meet you.” He hangs up.
I quickly dial 911. My hands are shaking, and my mouth is dry.
I give the operator a rundown of what’s going on and give her our address. I stay on the phone with her, putting it on speaker. I climb in next to my mother. I wrap my arms around her. I can tell she’s in pain now, though I couldn’t see it earlier.
“I love you, Mama. I’m thankful for everything you’ve done for me. I love you.” I’m afraid. More afraid than I ever imagined a person could be.
The paramedics arrive. I left the door open for them, remembering from last time that it was something that helped. They ease Mama out of bed and immediately strap her onto the stretcher. She whimpers, and I tell her again and again that everything will be okay. At this point I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince, her or me.
I follow them outside and stand back while they load her into the back of the ambulance. Nick and Rose stand on the lawn, watching as my world spins out of control. He starts to step toward me, but I stop him with a shake of my head. The look in his eyes tells me he knows the gravity of the situation. A tear falls down his cheek, and I realize I still love him deeply. I get into the back of the ambulance, silently thanking him for lending me a little bit more of his strength.
Autopilot kicks in. I send Dad a text, telling him to meet us at the hospital. The ambulance is especially fast, considering the time of day. We’re rushed into the ER, and doctors begin their assessment. I’m asked to have a seat in the waiting room.
I sit in the uncomfortable plastic chair, wondering how many before me waited to hear of a loved one? How many people’s lives changes in an instant while they occupied one of them. I rip a loose thread from the bottom cushion and twirl it in my fingers.
“Whitley?”
I look up and see Dad at the entrance. I lift my hand, and he joins me. I wish he didn’t have to sit in one of these chairs. He takes the one next to me, pulling me into a fierce hug.
“What’s happening?” he asks.
“Nothing so far. I’ve been waiting to hear.”
Two hours pass, and finally someone comes to escort us into a different waiting room. Not soon after, a doctor joins us. I know she’s a doctor because of the lab coat she’s wearing that reads Dr. Wrigley. Like the gum.
She introduces herself to us, and I’m struck with the reality of what’s about to happen. It feels like a thick fog has lifted. This is where they take families to hear bad news.
“Your wife’s health has deteriorated rapidly over the past few months,” she he says. “I’ve spoken with her primary physician, Dr. Manzano. You know him well, he says.”
Dad tells her, “We do.”
“Caroline had an extremely high fever when she was brought in today, and after some testing, we’ve learned she is suffering from aspiration pneumonia.”
I think back to all the times I’ve read that pneumonia is the leading cause of death in Alzheimer’s patients.
“What does that mean?” Dad asks. He knows what that means. We’ve discussed the possibility of this with Dr. Manzano.
It means it’s over.
“Your wife has developed a type of pneumonia we often see in patients suffering from dementia. A lot of the time, the person will have difficulty chewing or swallowing. When that happens, they tend to inhale what they’re eating or drinking. Unfortunately, their body has no way to expel those bits, so they can sit in the lungs. From this, an influx of bacteria in her lungs caused her to develop pneumonia.”
“Okay,” he says. “What’s the plan of action?” I take his hand as the doctor sends him a sympathetic look. He knows the plan of action for someone with late-stage Alzheimer’s.
Dr. Wrigley musters her courage before answering. “Unfortunately, Mr. Hadfield, there isn’t a whole lot we can do for her. We can give her a strong dose of antibiotics, if you’d like, but regrettably, there isn’t any way to know for sure if they would help. If she were in an earlier stage of this disease, I would absolutely recommend it. At this point, and considering her quality of life, the best thing would be to make her as comfortable as possible.”
Let her die. That’s what she means. She’s telling us Mama’s body has met its match. I never thought this is how it would end.
“Can we see her?” Dad is crying. No, not crying… sobbing. I hold him tight. He shakes against me, and I look up. She’s crying too.. Why aren’t I?
“You can see her whenever you like. Let one of the nurses know when you’re ready. I’ll give you some time,” she says, sniffling as she leaves the room.
Dad sits up after a moment or two and wipes his face. “I’m s
orry, honey.” His lip quivers and tears flow.
“Don’t apologize, Dad. We will get through this.”
Six hours later, we’re in the room with Mom. Her breathing is loud, labored, and scratchy. I’ve been informed that this noise has a name. The Death Rattle. It’s a terrible sound that I wish my ears would forget, but somehow I know it’ll haunt me for the rest of my life.
A light rap on the door distracts me, and I sit up. When the door opens, I want to bolt. Nick’s here with a bouquet of flowers. He looks at my father first. Dad pulls him into a tight hug.
“Thanks for calling me,” Nick says.
I realize how selfish it was to force Nick to stay away from my family. We’ve all grown close, and I should have recognized that.
I stand up when he comes near. “I’m sorry,” is the first thing he says. “Rose is taking care of Coconut, so don’t worry about anything at home. I know you want to do this alone, but I’m here. I’m not leaving. If you need me, I’ll be in the waiting room.” He hugs me too, and it feels good. Too good. Something this good doesn’t belong in this room right now.
“Thank you, but please don’t. Go home, be with Rose. I’m sure she needs you right now,” I say. He kisses my forehead and then moves away. Being close to him like that hurts worse than I expected.
He walks over to Mom’s bed and leans down, whispering something in her ear. She can’t hear him, she can’t understand, but Nick wants to say goodbye. He kisses her forehead before setting the flowers on the bedside table and then walks out.
I’d love to cry and throw things. I’d love to, but I don’t. I sit back down and wait some more.
I wait for my world to come crashing down around me, dreading every moment that leads up to it.
Two days. My Dad and I been in purgatory for almost two days. There’s nothing we can do to ease her pain, or ours.
She’ll take her last breath soon. We both know this. I’m not sure if Nick is still here. I’m afraid to leave the room for too long, because I’m not sure if it’ll be the last time I see my mother.
Doctors and nurses check on us regularly. Dad had to sign the DNR, which is basically a piece of paper stating we don’t want them to try and save her life if she stops breathing. Dad’s hands shook while he wrote his name.