Rachel

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Breathe I. Don’t Leave Me, Mommy! On the first day you dropped me off at kinderschool; I held onto your leg—screaming, crying—I couldn’t catch my breath. For weeks the teacher pried me from your leg, as you walked out the door.

II. In the Back of the Station Wagon Crisp autumn nights leading into winter. I huddled with my sisters in the back of the station wagon—seats pressed down. We drove around looking at Christmas lights and spotlighting for deer. Our breaths fogging up the cold windows. As night pressed on, I huddled under a blanket and laid my eyes to rest. You and dad in the front seat. Windows cracked with smoke billowing out. I saw baby Jesus and the manger in the sky, but he was just your cigarette butts reflecting from where I lie. III. Awakened by the Whispers I awoke by dad’s whispers in the hallway. You said something about not being able to catch your breath. He said he could carry you. You insisted on an ambulance. As they wheeled you out the door, I noticed your skin had greyed.

IV. Following the Cord One day when I came home from school, I called out your name. You didn’t reply. I followed the cord from your oxygen machine through the hall. At the end, you puffed on another cigarette. You saw the disappointment in my eyes. And promised that was your last.

V. I Have No Mother I used to look forward to Fridays. I knew I could escape from our home for days. I could pretend nothing was happening. I stayed at my friend’s house most weekends. I told her mom that I felt like I had no mother. I wished she was my mother. My friendship didn’t last. A few years later, my friend’s mother found her son lying on the floor with a syringe in his arm. I felt betrayed because she wasn’t the mother I imagined her to be. I had my own mother, a shell of a mother.

VI. Awakened by the Whispers I awoke by dad’s whispers in the hallway. He knew he could not carry you. The ambulance was on its way. As they wheeled you out the door, I noticed the boniness of your fingers.

VII. Saying Goodbye I became accustomed to the hospital, though I generally arrived at night. I remember the stillness of summer and a rush of air as I opened the doors. When I walked into your room, you and dad were praying. Dad told me to join you. We should take the chance to say goodbye. Your room lingered of spinach from your dinner tray, and antiseptic, and tubes. Cigarette smoke hung in the air from your discharged roommate, as we prayed “Through the Blood of Jesus Christ.”

A friend of mine died that night. Kneeling at his coffin, I prayed to God for you.

VIII. Forced Existence You were released. Placed on the organ donor waiting list. But you needed to be healthy. You needed to be strong. But the life had already been sucked out of you. We knew the clock was ticking. There would be only one chance. The lungs had to be a match. Had to be the right size. We put you through endless hours of strength building. Lifting each leg—up and down. Up and down. We needed to build your strength up. We needed to have the blood circulate. When we were done, we put you on your bipap machine to pull the carbon dioxide from your lungs. The deep, dull hum. Hours of pulsating.

IX. Routine of Illness Life was a routine. You woke up, we lifted your limbs, your blood circulated. You did lung treatments. We put you on your machine—pulsating, pulsating. The smell of rubber tubing. The sound of gurgling—bubbles of water from your oxygen machine. We sat down to dinner. I hoped you had an appetite. As you sat down, you called for the trash can. Vomiting. Sweating. Shivering. At the end—a hollow exultation, your body heaving forward. I pulled the bag of trash, wiped up the floor. We continued to eat our dinners.

X. Restrained I visited you in the intensive care unit. You were placed at the end of the hall. A respirator breathed each breath in and out, in and out, in and out. You didn’t know what was happening. There was a look in your eye that was foreign to me. That was vacant, yet full of carnal fear. You ripped at the plastic tubing. You tried to pull it out. Gagging. Gagging. They had to restrain you. Had to bind your arms to the bed.

One night after visiting hours, I visited you all alone. I held your bony fingers. I stood along your bedside. You knew who I was that day. When it came time for me to leave you, you gasped for me to help you. You begged for me to take you away. I told you everything would be okay. You refused to leave me. You were getting more and more upset, and I didn’t know what to do—I needed my mom to tell me, but my mom was begging for rescue. You came out of your restraints and started pulling at the tubing. I had to call the nurse to sedate you. The last words you said were “don’t leave me.” A tear rolled from your eye. The nurse asked me to leave you. And I walked out the door.

XI. Coming Home to Emptiness As I pulled up to the house around 11, I saw your car was gone. My sister sat in the kitchen and told me you got the call.

XII. Selflessness Sometimes you say it’s a miracle, but I know that is untrue. An eighteen-year old boy died when a drunk driver his car. He died, but he didn’t die for you. Someone took him away from his family. They took him and left them with the hollowness from your breath. But I am thankful for your donor. I am thankful for his understanding, for his compassion, for his ability, at such a young age, to realize that his life was meaningful and that he could lend meaning to us.

XIII. Afterward Mom, it’s nine o’clock, did you take your medicine?

"A Pencil is the Best of Eyes"