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She just looks in at the wizened, shrunken shape my mom makes in the bed before she whispers, “Hi, Miss Angela.”
My mother doesn’t answer, of course.
But I’d like to think she can hear Nell, anyway.
The heart monitor and the respirator are the only sounds in the room.
They’re steady today, almost soothing.
Mom’s chest rises and falls smoothly without a big struggle.
I hope I’m not drunk on hope, but she actually looks a little better today.
There’s more color in her cheeks, a little more fullness, almost like her body’s finally doing something with the IV cocktail inserted in her veins. A late call with the doctor last night told me that’s what overloaded her heart.
The drugs are new and volatile, not yet widely used. It was a miracle Mom got the chance to try them as a last-ditch treatment just as they came out of trials at a prestigious institution.
I hate the thought that this unreliable savior might wind up killing her before the cancer does.
But we’re too far along to stop and give up now.
More importantly, her latest scans came back with shrinking masses. Smaller, lighter shadows around her pancreas.
Enough reason to keep holding out and crossing my fingers.
Last night, I gave my blessing to continue—a decision Ros should’ve been part of. As long as she keeps her mind and her organs don’t slip into DNR territory.
After all, it’s either this, or absolutely nothing.
I pull out two chairs, but when I settle into mine, Nell ignores the seat I got for her and just leans against it instead.
I’m cool with that.
And I settle into a familiar vigil with Nell cuddled close, one arm wrapped around my shoulder.
With the other, I reach for my mother’s frail hand.
I can feel it today.
The faint blood pulsing through her, a subtle ticking rhythm between our clasped palms.
A sign that her body’s still working, anchoring her to this world.
A promise that there’s still some fight left in her, that she’s still in there, trying to find her way back to us.
Please.
Please hang in there.
I never thought I would be answered.
Not until there’s a sudden shrill spike in the heart monitor’s soft beeps.
Not the abrupt squeal of cardiac failure or another panic-worthy event this time, but just this strengthening, quickening, before my mom’s lips move.
The oxygen tube in her nose fogs up slightly.
Her head rolls, and I suck in a sharp breath.
