Page 68 of Lift Me Up

I wake to the gentle brush of a hand on my forehead, pushing my damp hair off my face. It's cool to the touch of my still hot skin, and I let out a sigh that must let the person know I'm coming back to reality. I have no idea what time or day it is, and it takes a few moments for my mind to remember what happened. The baby shower, Noah's face. The pain. God—the pain.

I groan and open my eyes, the god-awful bright light blinding me. I move to cover them and in doing so, pain erupts down my leg.. The pounding in my chest slowly returns, and it brings tears to my covered eyes.

"It's okay, love. Let me turn the lights off for you." I'm still in a curtained room, likely still in the ER, but I'm covered in warm blankets, and I can feel the IV in the crease of my arm when I try to bend it. I know that warm voice, and it makes me even more upset.

"Mama," I try not to sound pathetic, but I fail miserably. Once the lights flick off above my small, curtained room, I'm able to open my eyes and look at her.

My mother has aged gracefully, her hair only greying at the roots, black tendrils that frame her face, her high cheekbones and button nose a spitting image of mine. But she looks older somehow today. Maybe it's the way she twists her dress between her fingertips. The way she glances out of the room nervously for doctors to come in, the way her cheeks pull in because she purses her lips, or the wrinkles of worry and stress on her forehead. Me. I caused that. Those lines are from years of worry from me.

"You were very close this time, Georgie." Her tone isn't admonishing or angry, just stating the simple facts.

"I know. It just comes on so fast and then⁠—"

"Noah said you were at a baby shower all afternoon and didn't look well for most of it." Again, not giving me trouble, stating the facts.

"You talked to him?"

"I had to know what to tell the doctors. He's the only one able to keep tabs lately. He wants to come and see you."

"No." I choke out, wincing at my quick movement.

"Georgia." This time, there is admonishment in her voice as she takes my hand in hers, "You can't just push him away when things go wrong. He wants to be there for you."

"I—"

How do I explain the absolute pit in my stomach telling me that Noah doesn’t deserve to have to be with someone like me? How do I tell her that even though I have accepted my life as it is and not for all that I’m missing out on, that I don’t want others to be subjected to it too?

I move to sit up more to talk to her more about it, but it ends in hissing and crying out in pain. The constant burn in my skin has stopped, but the moment I move it erupts a fire across my now damaged skin and through every nerve ending. It makes it hard to catch my breath.

Mom jumps, brushing my hair off my face again, "It's okay. Stay. I'll get the doctor to bring you something."

I watch her leave the room in search of a doctor with medicine that will likely send me back to sleep and comfort and pain free. At this point, I welcome that silence like an old friend.

"They're coming, love," Mom tells me, but I can't focus. I just hold my eyes shut, holding my breath and willing away the burning sensation.

The machines beep behind me, and I hear footsteps of what I assume is a doctor or nurse. Their voice has a tone of concern, "Her blood pressure is elevated again."

"Is that bad?" Mom asks.

"It's better than it was before. She was moderately hypertensive when she came in, 150/100. Now it's 130/80, which is a bit high, but it's having trouble reading her oxygen." The nurse touches my arm, "Georgia, you need to breathe, honey. You can't hold your breath, or the machines are going to think you stopped breathing."

"I can't. It hurts again. So much. 10/10." I choke out.

The nurse must leave to get a doctor, or pain meds—hopefully that option.

Mom sits back down and takes my hand, "Georgie, what can I do to help? What do you need?"

What do I need? I need to not be in pain. I need to not feel like throwing up. I need to feel like my heart isn't racing out of my chest. I hate to dwell, but it’s my current reality and there’s no escaping it. I know that Mom doesn't mean it literally, she knows there's really nothing to help at this point. She's a typical mom, scared for her daughter and wants to do anything she can to make her feel better. So, I do what I can to make her feel helpful.

"A drink? I'm really thirsty." This is true. My mouth is like the Sahara, and though my stomach hurts and feels sick, it's because I am probably overly dehydrated and hungry. I barely ate at the baby shower after all.

"Sure, baby. I'll be right back." She kisses my forehead and sets out on her motherly mission. I love her so much, it hurts.

I stare up at the ceiling, the cracked tile that reminds me of the ugly dotted stucco ceilings in elementary school, cracking down the middle. The curtains are a sad green yellow. The gown they put me in is an ugly pale blue. Every colour in this hospital screams 'be sad because you're sick'. I don't have the energy to be sad, let alone check my phone. But I do it anyway, because Mom has put my phone right beside my hand in case of an emergency, as if the doctors wouldn't call her first. But I pick it up and slowly raise my good arm without the IV up so I can see the screen. It's just as blinding as the lights above that we shut off, but it's filled with messages from Franny and Noah.

Franny:

Georgie