I'm Glad My Mom Died(51)

“Hello?”

“Net! Net! Help me!”

“Whoa whoa, slow down, what’s the matter?”

“Help! I’m scared.”

“What are you scared of?”

“They’re taking me back for my surgery.”

Mom’s been set to have this surgery for a while. The breast implant from her mastectomy recently started leaking, so the doctor needs to go in there, clean up the leakage, and repair the implant—supposedly a fairly easy procedure.

“It’s gonna be fine. It’s just a minor surgery.”

“Something’s not right, Net. Something’s not right.”

I hear a nurse in the background. “Ma’am, no phones are allowed here.”

“Please, Net! Do something!”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know! I need you!”

She sounds panic-stricken. There’s a trembling to her voice that I’ve never heard before. It terrifies me. Dad takes the phone.

“Hey, Jennette?”

“Yeah?”

“She’s just emotional right now. She’s on the hospital bed, they’re rolling her to the room for her surgery now. I’m with her. Everything’s fine.”

“Should I come?”

Mom shouts “Yes!” Dad says “No.”

I ask again. “Should I come?”

“No, it’s fine,” Dad says. “They’d be done by the time you got here. It’s gonna be quick—totally harmless. The doctors are great. I’ll call you afterward.”

Cool. I turn up “Roar.” Miranda keeps driving.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah. It’s nothing.”

She doesn’t press. We drive in silence for a few minutes and then we start talking again, about whatever. Something’s off, I can feel it in my gut. We stop for gas, then keep driving. My phone rings again. Dad.

“How’d it go?”

“Hey. Mom’s not okay.”

“What?”

“Apparently her body couldn’t withstand the surgery.”

“Wait, what? I thought it was gonna be harmless—”

“She’s in a coma.”

“But you said the doctors were great—”

“She’s not doing well. You need to get to the hospital right away.”

I hang up the phone, numb. I tell Miranda what’s happened. She offers to drive me to the hospital. I say okay. I stare out the window. Miranda stops at a red light.

“It’s Sigh-Fred,” Miranda says plainly. “I looked it up.”





52.


“MOMMY. DID YOU HEAR ME? I said I’m so skinny right now. I’m finally down to eighty-nine pounds.”

I uncross my legs. I lean forward, desperate.

“Eighty-nine!”

I’m grateful that since Mom’s been in a coma I’ve stopped binging. In fact, I’ve eaten almost nothing. I’ve been losing weight rapidly.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

As the hospital machines keep beeping, I slowly settle into the fact that my big news isn’t gonna wake Mom up. I wipe the tears from my eyes just as the boys come back up from the cafeteria. We don’t say anything to one another. We don’t need to. They sit around Mom’s body and we all just stare at her.

I glance at the clock. It’s two thirty, two hours since we were told Mom has less than forty-eight to live. I wonder how much time she has left. Where her lifetime falls within those forty-eight hours. Does she have forty-four hours left? Ten? Two? Every moment feels so slow and so heavy. I’m trying to hold on to each moment but they just keep ticking on. I’ve never felt worse.

“Cam ooda dieeeee.”

All of us whip our heads to Mom. What the fuck. She spoke. She feebly, barely, inaudibly spoke, but still, she spoke.

“Cam oooooda dieeeeeee,” she says again.

Marcus leans forward. “No, Mom, don’t say that. You’re not gonna die.”

“CAM OODA DIE,” she says with a hint of anger. There she is.

Dustin snaps his fingers. “Canada Dry!”

Mom’s eyes widen with confirmation. We all crack up around her, harder than we would have if she wasn’t dying. There’s something about these life-or-death moments that just beg for some levity. They’re too difficult otherwise. Too excruciating.

Marcus runs to the hallway to get a Canada Dry from a vending machine. He comes back, pops it open, and tilts it to Mom’s mouth. We all share a smile. This is good, right? This is a good sign. Mom’s speaking some version of words and slurping down Canada Dry. This means she’s gonna be okay. This means she’s gonna make it. Right?

I’m desperate, I know. I’m clinging, I know. But I’ll cling if I have to. I can’t let her go.



* * *



Mom was moved out of the ICU wing a week and a half ago and has been in a regular wing since. So much for forty-eight hours. Take that, Dr. Wiessman. That’s what I think sometimes. Until he assures me and the boys—which he does often—that this does not mean she will have some sort of a miraculous recovery. He doesn’t want us to get our hopes up. As much as I wish I could argue with him, I know I can’t. I see it. She shits in a bag and breathes from a machine. This isn’t gonna turn around.