Hospital

An afternoon came on which I arrived home from school as I would any average day. My phone rang. It was rare that Dyer, my stepfather, would call me, especially at that time in the afternoon, so I answered. He spoke slower than usual, with more seriousness than I’d been accustomed to from him. When the initial words disclosed in a conversation include “stay calm” and “don’t worry”, there is most often motive for concern. He then informed me that my mom was in the hospital.

I’d always known that she had terrible asthma and more recently she had been complaining of it worsening. He told me not to be alarmed, but that she was there undergoing tests. He explained that she was unable to breathe and that the passageways to her lungs had tightened, or swelled, or some medical term that I can‘t remember or don‘t understand. I would assume that I wasn't really listening to that part, all that I heard was that my mom was in the hospital and that she couldn’t breathe.

I was afraid, but no one else would have known so. Although I felt that my mom had been deficient in showing me love, I still loved her. My grip on the steering wheel was tighter than usual and my hands began to sweat as I drove. I arrived, parked, took a breath and the doors parted as I entered the poorly decorated, uninviting corridor. I walked into her room, emotionless on the outside, terrified within, stopping just inside the doorway. I looked across at her as my stepfather stood over her. She surely didn't look robust, but she did look well enough for me to continue to hold in my anxiety. She told me that she was okay, and repeated it. She said that I hadn’t needed to come. I wondered to myself, what then, was I supposed to have done, if I wasn’t supposed to be at the hospital with my mother. She assured me again that she was fine, although I hadn’t asked and I stood there blankly for a few minutes more.

I listened but didn’t say anything in response. I didn’t hug her. I didn’t cross the room to her bed. I didn’t tell her that I loved her or that I was petrified. I just looked. I spoke sparse words, probably only an excuse as to why I needed to leave so promptly. And then I left.

She shifted in and out of the hospital for the weeks following. I didn’t visit her again and I didn’t take the time to ask how she was doing.

I went home to my bed that night and cried. Alone, just as I’d done as a child so many times before. I questioned myself. What kind of daughter is incapable of hugging her mother as she lays in a hospital bed? What kind of daughter finds it impossible tell her mother that she loves her, even with the threat of death looming above? How could I be so heartless? At just eighteen, I was entirely unable to show emotion to anyone. I speculate as to whether I felt anything at all.