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“I am so, so sorry, my baby. A child should never have to do all this for a parent.”
"But this is what you sent me to school to do, Mama. If I get to do it for strangers, why would I not want to do it for you . . . the most important person in my life. Shh, Mama, I've got you," I murmur, adjusting the pillows behind her with one hand whilemy other strokes her arm in an attempt to comfort her. The heat radiating from her skin tells me her fever is back—another battle in a war we're losing.
"Let's try this," I say, reaching for the bottle of amber liquid given to us by the Chinese herbal doctor. It's supposed to ease the pain, maybe even soothe the relentless nausea. I pour out the prescribed amount, watching the thick fluid pool in the spoon. She grimaces at the scent but accepts it, her trust in me outweighing her dread of the taste.
"Better?" I ask after a moment.
"A bit," she lies, attempting a brave smile that doesn't reach her eyes. Her features are drawn tight; pain still etched deep into the creases of her forehead.
I nod, knowing better than to press. My hands find their way to the second remedy—a gentle massage near her swollen abdomen, trying to coax some relief into the relentless cramping. She closes her eyes, leaning back into the cushions I've fluffed to make a throne against the disease ravaging her body.
"Thank you, baby." Her voice is a thread of sound, barely there.
"Anything for you, Mom," I blink back tears, swallowing the lump in my throat. I am her soldier, fighting an enemy who has me licked, yet I won’t give up. It will win in the end, I know, but I am going to fight it with everything I’ve got, even if it means crossing to the dark side.
The room is now silent except for our breathing and the soft ticking of the clock on the wall. Time, our most precious commodity, slips away with every second that passes. In moments like these, where hope and despair run together, I can’t help but feel time’s weight heavy on my shoulders.
“Mama, would you like me to read you the Bible, or are you too tired?
"Why don’t you go to church," she says weakly, her eyes still closed. "Pray for us, my child."
"Okay, Mama. I will." I say, kissing her on the forehead, using the words as a whisper, a promise. I feel the heat of her fever against my lips, and I know we are soon approaching the danger zone.
With a final look at my mother resting in the care of the hospice aid, I slip out of the house. The drive to Father O'Malley's church is short, but today, it feels like a pilgrimage. Each mile is laden with the gravity of what I'm about to do. Even though I have not been a devoted believer, I am going to ask for favors . . . favors I am not entitled to.May God hear my prayers.
Today is Monday, Father O’Malley’s “day off,” though that is just on paper. Father O'Malley is a true servant of God, and when I say he works 365 days a year, that is no exaggeration. Today is his day off, but if you reach out to him in need, his door is always open.
"Father," I call softly as I enter the dimly lit sanctuary. The musty smell of old wood and incense greets me, mingling with the faint floral scent from the arrangement on the altar.
"Tony!!! Come on in." Father O’Malley responds, his voice a balm, a familiar comfort. He's sitting in one of the pews, his collar crisp against the soft fabric of his shirt.
"Thank you for this, Father,” I say, my voice cracking with emotion. "Will you pray with me?"
"Of course, my child." He says, scooting on the bench to make room for me.
With my head bowed and my hands clasped in front of me, I start to pray, my words internal, fervent whispers of my soul.
“Dear God. I know I haven’t paid you much attention, and when things are going well, I hardly ever remember to pray, let alone acknowledge You. I know I don’t have a right to ask, but I will. I'm not asking for miracles, just . . . just time. A little more time with her, but if you have one more miracle left, I won’t say no to that either. My mother is a true believer . . . Isn't faith about miracles?”
I can feel my anger and frustration seep into my bargaining, my fingers digging into the wooden back of the pew in front of me. I hold onto it like a lifeline as sobs threaten to break through, but I bite my lip to keep them in check. I fail.
“Please, Father,” I plead out loud, the tears finally escaping despite my best efforts. “She's all I have.”
"Tony . . . " Father O'Malley's voice breaks through my prayer, gentle yet urgent. "Someone's here to see me. I told them to come back later, but—"
" It's fine, Father. Let them in," I say, wiping my cheeks with the back of my hand. I can't monopolize God's nor the priest's time.
"Are you sure?" He hesitates, studying my face for signs of reluctance.
"Yes," I insist, standing up to let him go by, then settle back down ready to resume my bargaining, wondering if God ever takes offense to people like me . . . fair-weather-friends. People who only remember He exists when they want something.
"Please, Father. Give me my mom, and I promise to do better." I murmur again, the word more breath than sound.
As the echoes of Father O’Malley’s footsteps come to a stop, a different creaky sound echoes through the vast emptiness, the sound of the heavy door protesting as it opens.
I can vaguely make out Father O'Malley's voice, hushed yet firm, drifting over to where I kneel, fractured by the lofty arches above.
"I'm sorry, son. You'll have to come back later. I have a parishioner in crisis in here today," he says, and I flinch at the unintentional eavesdropping; at the thought that someone else's needs are being pushed aside because of me.
