Page 43 of I’m Already Gone

“Alright, stubborn,” Sam says with a small smile in her voice.

She readjusts her grip, and we start the slow journey to the stairwell. Each step takes great effort, my muscles protesting, but I don’t give up.

We finally make it to my bedroom, and I want to cry out in relief.

“Do you want me to grab you some water? Or maybe some ginger ale?” she asks.

“Ice water, please,” I rasp, collapsing onto the mattress. I sigh as my head hits the familiar, soft, squishy pillow.

Sam pulls the fleece blanket up and tucks it around me.

“Thanks, Sam.”

“Anytime, sis,” she says, brushing my hair back from my forehead. “Get some rest. I’ll be right back with your water.” She gives my shoulder a light squeeze before turning to leave, but I’m already halfway asleep.

Oh, good God.

I’m dying.

This must be what dying feels like. If this is it, if this is the end, I want off this train!

My head pounds as if a jackhammer is relentlessly assaulting my skull.

“Hey, are you okay?” Sam’s voice cuts through the haze, but it feels distant, as if I am underwater.

Before I can formulate a response, another surge of queasiness hits me. Sam helps me to the bathroom. Leaning over the toilet, I gag, my stomach heaving violently. I’m struggling to breathe, my face covered in sweat that’s trickling down my skin.

Each time I gag, my throat is being shredded, raw, and stinging from the immense pain. My body aches, every muscle screaming in agony, as I grip the cold porcelain, feeling utterly defeated.

The impact is more than physical. The thought of enduring weeks of this torment drowns me in despair. How can I show strength to my children when I am broken? I can’t bear the thought of them seeing me in this condition, given how lively and vibrant I once was.

“Come on, sis. Let’s get you in the shower,” Sam says softly as she helps me undress and guides me to the shower chair she bought before I started chemo.

“We wouldn’t want you breaking that bony ass of yours,” she adds with a teasing smile.

As the warm water cascades over me, I close my eyes, the soothing liquid washing away some of the tension in my aching bones. Yet, in a cruel twist, the warmth stings my sensitive skin, a reminder of how fragile I’ve become. Sam is meticulous as she washes my hair. Once I’m rinsed, she wraps me in a fluffy white robe and gently towels my damp hair.

After I’m dry, she guides me back to bed.

“Are you hungry?” she asks, pulling the comforter snugly around me.

“No, I can’t think of food right now,” I reply, my voice barely above a whisper, fatigue weighing heavily on my words.

“Well, you have to drink something. I’ll get you some ice water,” she insists.

When she returns, she sets the glass down on the table with a soft clink and closes the shades. Just as the quiet settles in, my phone rings.

“It’s Ethan’s mom,” Sam announces, her brows furrowed.

All I can manage is a faint “Mm-hm” before the world fades away and darkness takes over.

Ethan

Ilift my head, feeling a dull throbbing behind my eyes. I’ve been fighting a migraine since the kids have been staying with me three days longer than normal. Marcus ambles in through the door, juggling two sub sandwiches.

Is it really lunchtime already?

“Hey, man. You look a little rough. Everything alright?” He sets one sub on the desk, then sits in the chair, the other sub resting on his lap.