When Angels Bleed
by Melissa
"Hey Momma," I say softly as I take my usual seat next to her bed. I haven't called her that in a long time. From the time I turned seven, it has been either 'Mom' or 'Mother.' I'm twenty years old now, a grown man, so it may seem a little silly for me to call her 'Momma.' I can't help it though. I feel so scared right now that I might as well be that little boy once again.
My best friend, and love, stood against the adjacent wall and watched me with sad eyes.
"Can she hear you?" Hikari asked quietly.
"I think she can," I reply without taking my eyes off of her.
"When will it be time?"
"In a couple of hours." My responses were short and clipped. I couldn't bring myself to continue talking, because I knew I would not be able to hold my composure.
She left her spot from the wall and wrapped her arms around be from behind. She rested her chin upon the top of my head.
"I'm gonna go," she said, "to give you some time with her. I'll be back in a little while."
I nodded numbly. She gave me a kiss on the cheek and left the room.
All I could do was stare at the woman lying in the bed. This wasn't really my mom, it was just her body being kept alive by machines. My mom was trapped somewhere inside, unable to get out.
There was so much I wanted to tell her, but I didn't know where to begin. My mind began to drift as I remembered how it all happened.
It had started nearly a year and a half ago. I had just started my freshman year at the university on a full scholarship. I had gotten a call at school from the hospital. My mother was there, she had broken her leg. I got there as quickly as I could, because my father had been out of the country on business.
***
"Mom? Are you all right? They wouldn't tell me anything over the phone."
She smiled at me, lying on the bed with her left leg now in a cast. "I'm okay, sweetie. It's the oddest thing really. I was just walking along and my leg just gave right out from under me."
Just then, the doctor came in. His mouth was set in a determined thin line. He didn't look very happy.
"Mrs. Ichijouji? My name is Dr. Tokita. I need to talk to you about your leg."
My mother just folded her hands in her lap and looked at him expectantly. "I don't understand. It's just broken. I must have taken a wrong step or something."
"I'm afraid it's a bit more serious than that."
I stared at the doctor. He began to squirm under the intensity of my gaze.
"What do you mean?" she asked, her voice beginning to fill with worry.
"It is the manner of the break that is of most concern. You see, it did not just a simple break. Your tibia bone was completely shattered."
"How is that possible?" I asked, finally finding my voice.
"That's what we trying to determine. It is an extremely unusual break, which leads me to believe that something else may be the cause of the injury. I came here to ask you if I could perform some more tests?"
I glanced at my mother, who was now wringing her hands. That was something she always did when she was nervous.
"I guess so....," she said, meekly.
"Okay. The nurse will be back shortly to take some more of your blood. Hopefully it can provide us with some answers as to what is going on." The doctor then turned around and left.
I walked over and laced her fingers with mine. "I'm sure it's just a precaution." I was trying my best to reassure her.
She didn't reply, only gripped my hand tighter.
***
It wasn't a precaution though. My mother stayed overnight in the hospital. When the results came back the next morning, the news was devastating. My mother had cancer.
To be more precise, she had what is known as Rhabdomyosarcoma. These malignant tumors resemble developing skeletal muscle. These tumors most commonly grow in the arms or legs, but can also develop in the head or neck area, as well as the urinary and reproductive organs.
The doctor suggested several course of treatments, but the one he most recommended was amputation. He was afraid that the cancer cells would go into other parts of her body. After discussing it with both myself and my father, she decided that removing her leg would be the best course of action. I remember the day we brought her home after the procedure, three weeks after the initial diagnosis.
***
My father held my mother in his arms as he passed through the door. She was very tired, not that I blame her. I don't know how she remains so strong all the time. I doubt that I would have been able to deal with this.
He gently laid her on the couch and went to get the rest of the things out of the car, including a wheelchair and a set of crutches. I watched her for a moment. They had removed the lower part of her left leg, just below the knee. She kept staring at the large white bandage.
"Are you okay, Mom?"
She raised her gaze to look at me. "I'll be all right. It's just going to take a little getting used to."
That was Mom, always being optimistic.
"I'm going to miss being able to wiggle my toes." As an after thought she added. "And touching your father with both of my cold feet."
I laughed and she laughed with me. While she would have to go back for continual tests, everything seemed okay for the moment.
***
Truth be told, everything was fine for a time. The tests showed nothing, and there was even talk of fitting mom for a prosthetic leg. The doctor told her to use the wheel chair, but that lasted for a grand total of one day. She became a real terror on those crutches. You had to be careful what you said or it could earn you a hit in the shin.
After about six months, I began to notice a change. Even though I lived at the university, I came home quite frequently. It was little things at first. Mom started spending more and more time sleeping. She was always weary and had no appetite.
***
One Friday, I came home, but I didn't immediately see my mom. That was odd, considering she spent most of her time on the couch now.
I went through the house, looking in each room. It wasn't until I reached the back of the house, that I heard a soft noise. It sounded like someone was crying. I stopped outside the bathroom door, which was cracked open. I tapped on the door.
"Mom?"
The only response was some sniffling and more crying. I was starting to get worried.
"Can I come in?"
"Y-yes," came the shaky reply.
I opened the door and saw my mom leaning on the crutches, in front of the sink. Her eyes were red and puffy, and had obviously been crying for awhile. I went and stood beside her, slipping my arm around her waist for support.
I looked at her with worried eyes.
"I was just standing here, trying to fix my hair, and...."
"And?" I prodded.
"I felt something."
"Something?" I tried to keep the panic out of my voice.
She took my hand and put it to the side of her neck. There was no question, I could definitely feel a lump there. My mother's cancer was back.
***
That was the only time I saw her cry through all of this.
We went back to the doctor's where my mother underwent another battery of tests. Her cancer had indeed returned. She had a tumor in her neck, and after an x-ray, there was also one found in her head. It was slowly growing in size and would begin to push against her brain if something wasn't done about it.
After seeing a specialist, it was determined that the tumor in my mother's head was inoperable. The next course of action was was to combat it with chemotherapy and radiation. It's not easy to watch someone you love undergo these things. It's one case where the treatment can be worse than the disease.
She lost all of her hair, and was becoming a skeleton before my eyes. It hurt me to look at her, to think about how much pain she was in.
Every time we would bring her home after the treatments, she would barely be able to move. I would often spend the nights in a chair, just watching her toss and turn in an unrestful sleep.
Even the times between the treatments were difficult.
I remember watching her. One moment she would be fine and the next moment she would have a hemorrhage either in her mouth or nose. It could have been from the medications, or the radiation treatments, not that it really mattered. She looked so scared, as I held a cloth to her face and tried to staunch the flow of blood.
All I could think of was that she was my angel, the one who watched over me and loved me. My angel was bleeding.
My angel was dying.
Of course I wouldn't admit that to myself, let alone anyone else. She was a source of strength when all else seemed lost. I couldn't conceive of the fact that she wouldn't be long for this world.
***
She was getting worse. The treatments weren't working and the cancer had progressed into her other limbs. This was to be the last night she would spend at home. Tomorrow we were going to the hospital and admitting her.
I had withdrew from the university for the semester. She was just more important than my school work.
As she would lie there, looking so small and helpless, I couldn't help but be angry. She didn't deserve this. Why were the higher powers punishing her? If anyone deserved to be punished, it was me.
I had spent the better part of the evening in my room, sitting at my computer. My fingers raced furiously over the key board. Writing is sort of a form of therapy for me, and I was in desperate need of some. Every once in awhile I would tear my eyes away from the screen and glance at a picture on my desk. It was one of my parents, my brother and I. Every time I looked at it, I had to bite my lip to keep from crying.
I heard my mother's soft voice calling for me. Getting up slowly, I went to see her.
I walked into the living room and stood by her. She lay on the couch, covered in blankets. A cap covered her head since the radiation had killed all of her hair. Her eyes were sunken and her skin was a ghostly shade.
"Ken, what's wrong?"
I blinked a few times. "What makes you think something's wrong?"
"I'm your mother. I know these things."
I opened my mouth to speak but then abruptly shut it. My thoughts would seem so childish if said out loud.
"Please talk to me," she said with pleading eyes.
I averted my gaze. "You wouldn't understand."
"Then help me understand," she countered. She wasn't going to give up on me. She never did.
I sighed. "The Powers The Be seem content on taking away everyone that I love. First Osamu, and now you."
Her look softened. "Ken, what happened to Osamu was an accident...."
"But it wasn't," I whispered. My hands and voice were shaking.
She was confused. "What do you mean?"
I couldn't bring myself to look at her. All these years, and now it was time to tell her. I knelt beside where she lay. "I was so angry when I was younger. I thought you and Dad loved him more than me. In one stupid moment, I said something. Something that I will regret until the day I leave this world. I said that I wish he would just disappear. Then he was gone. He'd still be alive today if it weren't for me." There was nothing I could do now to stop the tears.
"Oh honey." She wrapped her thin arms around me and held me as I cried. "What happened to your brother was not your fault. It was just his time to leave this life, just as it will soon be my time. I'm sorry you've had to carry this around with you all there years. I'm also sorry if I ever made you feel like you were less loved than your brother. Forgive me, Ken. I never meant to hurt you."
This was so ironic. She was asking me for forgiveness when I should be the one begging for hers.
I'm not sure how long we stayed like that. It's comforting to be held by your mother, no matter what age you might be. It feels like nothing can harm you.
Our silence was our forgiveness of each other. No words were needed.
***
The next day came and we took Mom to the hospital. That was two weeks ago by my estimate. In the back of my mind I knew she would never leave this place.
***
It's getting worse. I heard them say that soon my mother will not be able to breathe on her own. And once she goes on a respirator, she will never come off it.
I look on silently as they put the tube down her throat.
The ever constant hissing of the machine now replaces my mother's voice. Truth be told, she hadn't been talking very much anyway. The process just took up far too much of her ever dwindling energy.
She looked at me, her eyes glassy. She wanted to be strong, for my sake if not hers. Slowly lifting her hands, she made a sign with them. She wanted something to write on, so I fished around in my bag. Finally, I produced a small assignment pad and a pen.
I watched her scratch something down on the paper, unable to focus on anything but how the color mirrored the shade of my mother's skin.
When she had finished, the pen dropped from her hand and onto the bed. I picked up the pad and looked at it.
'You will always be my little boy. I love you.' were the words written in shaky letters.
I lifted my gaze to her, but she had closed her eyes. She had fallen asleep.
***
Nine days later, which is today, she slipped into a coma. It was just too much.
My dad and I have discussed it and in accordance with my mother's wishes, we will be removing her from life support soon.
I glance at my watch. The doctor and my father will be here soon to turn off the machines that are breathing life into my mother. It's been a few hours, and yet I still can't seem to put into words what I want to say to her.
After a few moments, I decide simple is best.
"You will always be my angel, Mom. I love you." I lean over and kiss her on her forehead.
As if knowing I had finally spoke my peace, the doctor and my father entered the room. The doctor went over to the life support units and my father stood by me.
"Are you ready?" the doctor asked, breaking the silence.
'No,' I thought. 'How can anyone possibly be ready to let their mother go?'
My father nodded and through his tears managed to choke out "It's time."
I stared as he began to methodically turn off the machines. My mother's chest rose and fell one final time as the respirator ceased to function.
The heart monitor's beeps slowed, and soon stopped all together. The doctor unplugged the machine, the final evidence that my mother was truly gone.
The tears came in full force now. I cried more at the moment than I had in my previous 20 years of life. All the while, a single thought was running through my head.
When your mom dies, that's when you know everyone dies.
The End.
"Because who can describe the look that triggers the memory of loved
ones? Who can anticipate the frown, the smile, or the misplaced lock
of hair that sends a swift, undeniable signal from the past? Who
can ever estimate the power of association, which is always strongest in
moments of love and in memories of death?" - John Irving