January 31 2013, her frail frame rises and falls softly along with the spotted white hospital gown. Her lips in a pleasant smile. Her eyes closed, unaware of the world and the people waiting for her to wake up. Her diagnosis, a coma due to an aneurysm. My mother, Lisa Thomas.

I take a deep breath the strong stench of cleaner and disinfectant burns my nostrils. The tip tap of the shoes of scurrying nurses can be heard outside in the hallway, always. I sit on the rock hard cold chair, clutching my mother’s weak, frail, dainty hand lying at her side. Her eyes remain closed without even a twitch and I am left wondering what’s going to happen to me if she doesn’t…make it.
My little brother, Mason sits in the corner, spastically jumps up and down and repeatedly asks, “Can we leave yet?”
He’s only five; he doesn’t understand what’s happening to our mom or what’s going to happen to us once she’s…gone. The heart monitor beats slowly at a constant rate, measuring my unresponsive mother’s cruelly sluggish pulse. My uncle stands in the corner of our tiny room, his dull eyes glazed over. It’s times like this I wish I had a dad, so for once I wouldn’t have to be brave. My father was a man of few words. He had a scruffy beard, he was 6 ft tall, a little chubby, and always more of a loner. He left when I was 11, jobless and a coward. I’m only sixteen almost seventeen. I shouldn’t have to deal with this, I’m only a teen. I only started driving less than a year ago, now I take care of my little brother, work three different jobs, my grades are going down as we speak, I barely have enough time to shower, I make all the meals, I pay the bills, my identity now known as Marie and mom.

The little black hand reaches the 12 as the constant tick, tick is the only sound heard in the room, time to go. I take Mason by the hand dragging him down narrow corridors, saying hi to the nurses and doctors. All of which know us by name now.

Thursday, February 7, 2013, I am still waiting for my mother to wake up. Today I went back to school. Everyone was anxious about my whereabouts, as I never miss school. I told them about the eruption of the constant gushing of blood flowing about mindlessly in my mother’s head, slowly drowning her brain. The instant they heard their eyes dropped to the ground and all they could utter out was I’m sorry or do you need a shoulder to cry on? Their eyes remained looking at the ground, unable to look at me, unable to grasp the pain I must be in. They wonder why I’m not crying or why I’m not staying home, all I have to say is one word Mason. I’m being strong for my brother. I begin to focus on my mother’s pale gray face, her blond curly hair, just like mine. Her pasty white hand rests limply in my sun kissed palm.
This is her fault, I think to myself. She lied, to me, to Mason, to everyone. She said she had been taking her blood pressure medicine, but she stopped six months ago. She said she had quit smoking a year ago, but she never did. Now she lays in her hospital bed, unaware of the punishment she caused herself.
Although I think my mother is the cause of this issue, I still feel bad. I was never really a “mommy’s girl”. It’s all starting to come back the curses, insults, and threats….
“WHY CAN’T YOU DO ANYTHING RIGHT!?” my mother spouts at me.
“WELL I DO MORE THAN YOU DO!” I yell back.
“WELL YOU’RE AN IDIOT!” my mother yells with a big vein popping out of her forehead.
“OH YOU WANNA GO!” my fists clench up my face flushed red.
My mother bunches her fists up and yells “WELL, TAKE A SWING!”
I ran out of the house making sure I slammed our front door loud and clear. What I wouldn’t give to go back to last Sunday and live in the moment where my life was perfect, where I was just Marie. When my mom was my caretaker, when I thought my mother having an aneurysm wasn’t possible, take me back when I could’ve apologized for all the things I did and said, back when I had a mother to hug me when I was sad. I noticed that there were wet drops on my jeans and I felt my face it was wet. I realized all the things my mother would miss, my graduation, my wedding, Mason’s 13th birthday, the events never end. My whole body begins to heave and shake. My crystal blue eyes are like an over flowing river. I am done being brave. I want my mother.
February 14, 2013 it’s been a month since my mother first went into the hospital. My hand rests on the cold bed frame. I longingly gaze at my mother’s peaceful face for any movement, anything at all. Valentine’s Day and I’m at the hospital. Our little cold room seems somewhat bright today with all the vibrant shades of pink and deep red streamers aligning the walls. The big red construction paper hearts are everywhere, all over the walls, floors, door, anywhere where there is space all thanks to the children’s unit on the other side of the hospital. Loud choruses of jubilant laughter, kazoos, and cheers can been heard down the hall. How can anyone be happy when they’re in a hospital?
A doctor soon scampers in, he leans against the wall his eyes to the ground. “Marie, I need to speak with you.”
I sigh, “Alright I’m coming.”
He pulls me out into the hallway. “Marie your mother is not doing well, as you already know but we think today may be her last day. Her pulse keeps getting slower and slower.”
I take a deep breath and sigh I knew this was coming someday but I was hoping that day was far off. “I understand.”
I slowly stumble back into the hospital room and gaze at my mother resting quietly in her hospital bed. This may be the last time I ever see her. I sit down in the rock hard chair that’s been in the same crooked position facing my mother for over a month. It’s been here every step of the way. Through all the surgeries, the endless nights of waiting, it will always be here.
Suddenly, the heart monitor begins to scream and shriek. Doctors and nurses rush into our room. They run about like squawking birds after a great storm trying to find the paddles. They push on her chest and quickly pull away as if they are expecting her to wake up. After 3 times they give up. My mother lies in her cold metal bed gray faced and dead. In the chair, I begin to sob. Nothing seems to matter anymore my mother’s dead. I get up and amble to the door, to make an escape from reality. When suddenly, a small voice like that of a mouse sounds from behind me “Marie?!”
“Mother?!” I optimistically exclaimed.