Lauren81

The phone rang at 10:30 at night, it was my sister. My stomach dropped and I knew something was wrong. She never called that late. I answered and I heard her sob, I ran out of my apartment, I ran into the front yard. My sister never cried. "What happened? What happened?".

The next night I stood at my mother's side in the hospital. I struggled to smile for her, "Just rest, don't try to talk, no big deal, it's okay!". She looked so small, like a child. How could that be my mom. This isn't happening. This isn't happening. She doesn't look right. She looks very sick. What is happening? She went to sleep.

One week later the Doctor stood staring at us. 'She's not waking up'. My sister, father and me. No one could speak. My dad cried like a little boy. My big sister could not protect me. And we all agreed what needed to be done. I want to die too. I was terrified. We were with her that night. I looked at the clock and it was 1:30AM. I held her hand. I talked to her. I hoped she could hear me. We all stood with her. I told her to go, to find her peace. Her last breath.

That was alittle under two years ago. It was that week that haunts me still, the memory and images still linger and occassionaly jump out like a punch to the stomach. I can't write the details. Writing such a simplistic narrative as that was enough to get me crying again. But the pain becomes less sharp as time goes on. I'm living my life again. I cry, and I accept that as something that I'll always do. I can't change what happened. Life keeps coming. Sink or swim. Maybe we'll do a little of both.