Content Warnings: Terminal illness, parent-child role reversal, suicidal ideation, self-harm, medical trauma, cancer, chemotherapy, grief, family trauma, loss of bodily autonomy.
Exhausted, of course. I couldn’t see anything but the remote was in my hand so I turned on the TV. The sound came on first, too loud, startling me, and I hit mute. As soon as the dim glow lit the room enough, I looked at my arm; it was smooth, except the dermatitis spots. Running my other hand over the skin, it was shocking to feel no scars or cuts. It had been so real. It hadn’t made any sense; the relationship was abusive, I’d have left someone that manipulative long before. But it had made sense in the dream. I’d been… not quite me. More naive. Weird to feel that naive again. And it had felt so real.
And that father. How was I a museum director when I was taking care of the father all the time? Or was that not the same dream? My head felt so full it hurt. I had to clear my head; I needed more sleep but I couldn’t go back to whatever that was.
Feeling around in the cushions, I found my tablet, looked at the last sketch for a second… it wasn’t bad. Not as good as acrylics, not nearly as good as oil, but I didn’t have to wait for it to dry, and who had time to wait? Then I swiped it away and googled “stroke”. All that stuff in my head had to be dream nonsense, right? But as I read it turned out that it wasn’t.
It was more than deja vu, because after touching a link to check what I knew before looking at the screen, and what I thought would be there was there. Every time. I seemed I knew as much about stroke as I did about pancreatic, and I couldn’t remember ever having learned it. Maybe it was still a dream? My heart beat faster; it would be so good if it were. But I’d had that thought before.
Hadn’t I? Everything was so fuzzy. Always so fuzzy.
“Danielle?” Mom’s voice. She was coming down the stairs. “Are you okay? I heard the TV.”
“I’m fine, Mom,” I said. “Go back to bed.” I knew she wouldn’t.
“It’s time for your pills,” she said. “That’s why I was up to hear the TV.”
Was my brain synching with my pills now? Bad enough my glands betrayed me, now my dreams too? “Mom, please, not tonight? They just make me feel sicker.”
I could already hear the pill rattling as she tried to open the vial. “The chemo makes you feel sick,” she said with conviction. “These are to make you feel less sick from that.”
“They just make me a different kind of sick,” I said. Uselessly. Always.
She handed me three different kinds of pills, and started pouring water into a cup. “You have four more trips to see Judith,” she said. “Then you’ll be better.”
I closed my eyes, whether against the pills or the positivity. “Mom,” I sighed. “I don’t wanna see Judith again. I don’t wanna feel this way anymore.” (Mom, I don’t like carrots.)
“Four more trips,” she said, “and you’ll be done.”. (Just four more bites and you’ll be done.)
Maybe it was the thought that it might be a dream, but I was feeling… brave? “Mom, I don’t have much time left, I don’t want to spend it throwing up.”
“Don’t talk like that,” she said, “the doctor told you not to think like that.” It was so weird, watching her keep calm and casual outside, like she was just giving me aspirin, while her voice got that hysterical edge. Like watching a badly dubbed movie. “You’re going to be fine.”
“Stage four, Mom,” I said, surprised to hear my voice. “There is no stage five. Just the end.”
“I won’t listen to that talk,” she snapped, finally letting her voice show on her face. Then she looked regretful. Did she feel bad for snapping at me, or for losing control? Probably the snapping. “I’ll take care of you,” she said, more softly. “I always will. You don’t know what I’ll do to fight this. You’ll understand when you have kids, what you’ll do for them.”
It’s in my ovaries, Mom. The only grandkids for you are tumors. But I couldn’t say it. I took the pills with the water, hoping to get her to leave sooner, and closed my eyes. One good thing about exhaustion, I got to spend a lot of time asleep.
She waited, maybe trying not to cry. Them the TV light against my eyelids went out and I felt a kiss on my forehead and heard her walk away and up the stairs. I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t say that either; I took that as a win.
Minutes passed and I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling, still awake. Even the exhaustion was letting me down now. I didn’t realize there were tears in my eyes until felt them spill across my cheeks.
It was surprising because I didn’t feel sad. I felt… full. Too full of everything: nausea and pain and tumors and chemo and radiation and dreams. Everything was too much. Too much to sleep away. Too much to wake up to again.
I felt around for the remote; Mom had left it on the arm of the couch. I turned the TV on. Still muted, fortunately; I just needed the glow. I looked around for something. Tweezers were in my mind, but they were in the upstairs bathroom, and I didn’t feel up to navigating the stairs. The drinking cup was plastic. So were the pill vials mom had left on the coffee table. Dying people shouldn’t have to be so fucking safe. Then I remembered where I’d last touched glass.
I took out the tablet, ran my fingers over the screen. I looked at my pictures. Blue skies turning orange. Oliver curled in a ball, not knowing he was modeling for me. I’d really done some good work on that piece of glass. I was going to miss the work. I realized I was going to miss it more than anything. But I couldn’t wait any more.
It was the newest model; it would be a waste, but one way or another I wouldn’t need it much longer. I took an end in each hand and twisted. Not strong enough. Just smashing it was no good, I couldn’t use a spiderweb fracture. I slid one end into the space between the couch and end table, took the other in both hands, and twisted again. It wasn’t much but it was enough; there was a crack and the screen split into long shards sticking out, making me think of a bristlecone pine. I wiggled out the biggest piece. It was wafer thin, almost a razor. I put the point against the skin of the arm that I’d just been surprised to find whole. I’d fix that. I closed my eyes as a wave of nausea hit.
I cut myself.
I wake up.
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