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All the good intentions in the world can’t fix this. Wanting to care for my mother isn’t enough.
“Cal, even if we could afford in-home care or you took her to an adult daycare center while you were at work, you’d still be sacrificing so much of your life. All your nonwork hours would be spent caring for her. Every minute. No overnight protection gigs for overtime. No going out with friends. Nothing. And that includes booty calls or dating. She doesn’t want you to sacrifice that much. And let’s be honest.” She pauses for some type of dramatic effect. “Your poor right hand would be so damn chapped from all the self-loving.”
I groan, barely holding off a laugh.
Every last one of Caroline’s points are valid— except the chapped hand part because of a little invention called lotion.
My mother is the most giving, selfless, and compassionate person. She’d never want me to give up everything for her.
And yet, I can’t seem to make myself give up on her.
Squeezing the bridge of my nose, I try to stave off the beginning of a tension headache that’s barreling toward me.
Serious again, Caroline continues, “You deserve happiness and a life of your own. This disease will take her from us one day, but it could be months, years, or a decade. We just don’t know. If we knew it was imminent, then I get how you’d sacrifice that much— especially since you’re always putting others above yourself. But what if this isn’t a quick…ending?” Her voice quakes. “If you’re taking care of her day in and day out, you’re never going to date. You’ll never get married or have kids. All the things you’ve wanted and deserve. And if you do have kids one day, it’ll be when you’re old and crusty. You won’t enjoy your little sperm goblins if you’ve got an aching back and bad knees.”
I chuckle softly at her attempt to lift the vibe, but her words hit the bullseye with the precision of a sharpshooter.
How could I date knowing I need to rush home to her? What if I wanted to bring a woman home? How can I devote myself to a family of my own when the woman I’ve loved all my life is suffering in a haze of darkness?
Caroline’s tone grows more compassionate, warmth coating her words. “I love you so much, Cal. You’ve already sacrificed so much for others. For your country. For your friends at Redleg. For your clients. You’ve put your life on the line for most of your adult life. Dad was so proud of you before he—”
Her sobs choke off her words, and it gives me a chance to interrupt her monologue. “I’m not doing this to make anyone proud. This isn’t for me. It’s for her. She deserves to live out her days, lucid or not, cared for by the people who love her the most. I will figure out a way to afford it. Or I’ll work from home. I don’t know yet. But I’ll request a vacation from work for next week so I can get everything handled.”
I’m grasping at straws.
When Caroline speaks again, her tone is determined and resolute. “I talked to her about this the other day.”
A rock lodges in my throat. “What do you mean?” I ask in a clipped tone.
“Promise you won’t get mad.”
“I’m already mad. What did you do?”
“She called me and was extremely clearheaded. Hell, she initiated avideocall; that’s how lucid she was. She needed to talk to me. About you.”
“About me? Why?”
“She’s worried about you, and she wanted to make sure I was going to do what was necessary when the time came.”
My hand starts to tremble, so I make a fist to stop it. “What’s that supposed to mean? What’s necessary?”
“She knows you’ve been sleeping over lately and assumes it’s because she’s gotten worse. She says she can feel everything slipping away. She’s still her on the inside, but it’s like she’s in a haze most of the time. During our video call, her thoughts were crisp and clear. For those few moments, she was her. Like she used to be.” She sobs, crying more now. “And she knew it had to be said before the fog returned.”
I put the phone on speaker and set it on the coffee table in front of me, then lean forward to brace my head with my hands.
Digging my fingertips into my scalp, I wish for the millionth time I could stop this from happening.
But I can’t stop it. I can’t stop time.
“Whathad to be said, Caroline?”
“She sent me a letter a few weeks after she was diagnosed. On our call, she asked if I still had it.”
“What letter?”
“She didn’t want to tell you back then because she knew you’d freak out. After explaining her decision to me, she sent me the letter outlining her wishes so you’d have it. Written by her own hand. And if you refuse to follow her requests, I’m supposed to make it happen somehow. Not sure how. Titty twisters, maybe?”
Her joke doesn’t register because of how frantically my heart pounds. My pulse strums all over like a thousand tiny hammers pounding my body.
