This could be it.
The four words ring through Julie's head every day. Every day that they get ready in the morning. Pack themselves into the car. Drive the by now familiar way to the hospital.
This could be it.
She and Carlos haven't been to school this week, dad not at work. Not since mom took a turn for the worse. Julie's school books lie in her bag by her desk, untouched. At first she tries - tries to focus on linear algebra, organic chemistry, the Industrial revolution… but a continuous cycle of mom, mom, mom cuts through every will to study.
Because this could be it.
Flynn's been dropping by after school every day, either to stay the night or hang out for an hour or two. Telling Julie fun anecdotes about what's happened in school that day, distracting her with memes and jokes and pictures of the cute badgers living in her backyard and always, always being ready with a listening ear or hugs or both when the abyss threatens to swallow her whole. And Julie is so unbelievably grateful… so grateful and sorry and relieved, because without Flynn she knows she wouldn't be able to keep herself together. Wouldn't be able to stay strong for mom. For Carlos. For dad.
Dad is trying too. Trying so, so hard. But Julie can see the thought in his eyes too. That today's trip to hospital might be the last one. The last one where mom will smile back at them, the last time her eyes will spark and crinkle at the corners with laughter… the last time she will hold their hands, singing that soft, soothing melody she used to sing every time she wished each of them goodnight. The melody she now sings every time they come and visit her.
Yesterday, her voice was too weak to sing it.
Julie heard her dad through the wall that night. Heard his desperate attempts to keep it down, to not wake them up. Trying to let his heart shatter quietly. And she wasn't having that. Without hesitation she made her way to the bedroom, crawled up beside him, nestled her head against his chest. Carlos must've heard her coming down the hall, because he soon entered too, curling up between them.
They stayed there all night. Crying. Clinging to each other. And, after several hours, sleeping.
A sense of distance has taken over Julie's mind as they get ready this morning. The words feel so far away yet so close at once when she thinks to herself...
This could be it.
Mom can't sing today either. Her voice is no more than a whisper. No more than a fraction of the sure, soft one Julie has always known. But she still smiles when they arrive, still lets her eyes crinkle when she laughs, still holds their hands.
This time, however, the three of them sing the song for her.
Julie knows this could be it. Knows this could be the last time. Knows tomorrow is more uncertain than ever before. But if today is truly goodbye… she also knows she's going to make every word, every minute, every second they have together count.
And so she sings her mother's song, holds her hand tightly between her own… and dreads the moment she'll have to let go.
So I just found out my grandparents aren't doing too well. That they're going to be moving into a retirement home soon. That my family and I are most likely (if it's possible with the restrictions) going to visit and help them sell their house this summer. And since they live on the other side of the world... it could very likely be a goodbye trip too.
It made me think about Julie and her mum, how it must have been for the whole family...
I guess this is also my way to process the whole thing... that this trip could be it.
Thank you for reading (maybe an I'm sorry is in order too haha). And if you're going through something like this too: sending all the support your way.