I woke up one Thursday morning, feeling like I had just run a mile. It took a good ten minutes before I could work my way out of bed. My knees were shaking, my left arm was still waking up. By the time I got up to my feet, my heart was pounding. It took all the energy I had to get down the stairs and into the kitchen. My mother was at the sink, fussing over a dirty pan and humming a song to herself. I cleared my throat, trying to let her know I was awake without scaring her. The noise came out as a soft grumble that even I could barely hear. "Mom?" I asked in a half-whisper.

She turned around, her hazel eyes intensely focused on me. "Blaine? I'm surprised you're awake this early."

I shrugged. "I couldn't really sleep."

"Are you feeling okay?" She shuffled over to feel my forehead with the back of her hand. "You feel cool."

"Just the meds, I think." I mumbled.

"Are you at least feeling less nervous?" She held the sides of my face, looking me directly in the eyes. Something in her eyes looked like worry, maybe even pain. Mom wasn't exactly one to show too much emotion... her tenure in the corporate world had knocked that out of her. But, every so often, she would have little moments where I could see how much she cared for me. It was in the food she made, the way she was holding my face, how her thick eyebrows wrinkled together in the middle when something was wrong. It was times like these that I really cherished with her. So, when my heart started to race, I was understandably perturbed. The worry in my face must have shown, since she immediately asked me, "What's wrong?"

"Just freaking out." I gasped, my throat tightening. Tears were starting to well up behind my eyes. I hated this. I hated everything. I just wanted to go back upstairs and go back to sleep.

"Blainers?" She said. The nickname she used to use when I was a kid. My eyes spilled over and I started crying into her shoulder. She tapped my upper back, insecurity in every pat. I was trying to explain to her everything I was feeling, everything I wanted to say, but my throat was too tight to talk, and my tongue felt like it was taking over my mouth.

I managed to slow my sobs down enough to utter out a few half-sentences. "Scared... I don't want... so terrified that you will... please don't go."

Mom shushed me. "You're not making sense, Blainers. Just tell me what's wrong."

"I can't explain." I sighed, leaning my forehead into her shoulder. "Do you ever get an overwhelming sense that something is about to go terribly wrong?"

"Not really, but I know what you mean."

I smiled. It was just like my mother to be brutally honest about a question that was mostly rhetorical. Her hand was still slowly patting my back, and the rhythm was lulling me back into a sense of security. "I just worry a lot. I love you, Mom, and I just want to have you in my life forever."

"Well, that's not likely, Blainers." She mumbled.

"Don't say that."

"Why are you so worried about my mortality?" She pulled my face back up into her palms, looking me in the eyes. "Is there something you need to tell me?"

"No, I just. I can't explain it, Mom."

"Try."

I took a deep breath. "I love you so much and I care about you. Every time I think about losing you, and how it could happen at any time, I just want to break down in tears."

Mom shook her head. "I love you, too, Blainers, but I just don't get why you're so upset. Death is a part of life. Your father and I have had our cemetery plots picked out for years-"

I cut her off, putting my fingers in my ears and singing "Teenage Dream" at the top of my lungs. I didn't want to think about her and dad's cemetery plots or their funeral arrangements. The thought made my blood run cold. I wanted to disappear. I want to hold her. I wanted to do six thousand things to calm myself at once, but I couldn't. So, I kept singing until Mom pulled my hands off my ears. Her face was growing red with frustration, and I could see a vein in her temple beginning to pulse.

"Blaine. You're being absolutely ridiculous." She pushed a strand of blond hair behind her ear. "Your father and I are fine. I'm not going to have this conversation with you if you're going to be irrational."

"I'm not being irrational. It just freaks me out to think about it." I threw my arms into the air and started pacing.

She sighed. "I don't even know you anymore. You used to be so level-headed. Now you get upset at the drop of a hat. I thought this problem would get solved as soon as you saw the doctor, but it seems to have gotten worse. I just... I don't know anymore, Blainers."

We stared at each other for a few moments, trying to decide the best thing to say. Neither of us said anything.

Mom finally broke the silence. "Do you want breakfast?"