Chapter 50
fifty
Zeke
She’s getting weaker. They don’t think she’ll make it through the weekend. Honestly, they’re surprised she made it this long.
When she was admitted last week, I don’t think the doctors expected her to make it through the night, but she did. And then she lasted another night and another, but with each passing day, her body got weaker and weaker.
I barely recognize her.
We debated taking her home, but the amount of preparation we’d have to do wouldn’t be worth it.
Instead, we’re in her favorite place outside of the hospital.
“It’s beautiful out here,” she says. Her voice is weaker than ever like she’s whispering, but in reality, she doesn’t have the strength.
“Yeah, it is.”
My mom’s always loved this part of the hospital; surprisingly, not many people know about the garden.
It’s kind of hidden away, a little bit of a walk from the hospital.
Her favorite spot is this little bench under a gazebo.
We can see the whole garden and the little pond from there; when it rains, it’s even more beautiful. My mom loves it when it rains.
We haven’t been out here in a while, though, because she hasn’t been strong enough for it.
I guess now it doesn’t really matter.
“I wish you would’ve told me,” I add. “I feel like we missed out on so much time together and—”
“Baby, don’t do that, okay? I got a couple months of peace. I got to just be your mom again, not some charity case.”
“You weren’t a charity case.”
“You know what I mean. I know you didn’t mind spending all this time with me at the hospital, but I felt like, in some way, I was preventing you from living your life. You were so worried about me all the time. You’d drop everything in an instant if I coughed funny.”
“I just didn’t want you to go through it alone.”
“And I appreciate that, Zeke, I do. But I never wanted you to stop living because of me,” she continues.
“And last year, when I slowly started seeing this change within you, for the first time in a while, I felt whole again. Like I wasn’t holding you back because I was sick, so when I found out right before your birthday that the chemo stopped working, well, I didn’t want you to throw everything away because of me. ”
She covers her mouth with her hand as she coughs. I can see her bones through the skin. She’s lost a lot of weight in the last week. Her skin’s become frail and gray. For the first time, I can actually see the cancer slowly taking her.
“You still should’ve told me. Maybe I could’ve helped.”
“There was nothing you could do.”
I take a deep breath and look up, staring at the wooden beams. I don’t want to cry, not right now.
“Can you promise me something?” I look over at her, tears of her own covering her face.
“Talk to your dad. I don’t care if you yell at him or cry; I just want you to fix that relationship.
I know you don’t understand why he’s acted the way he has since we found out I was sick, but I do.
And I’d hate for you guys to be angry at each other forever because of me.
Because I’m okay with it. I’ve made peace with this life, Zeke. ”
“I’ll try,” I mumble.
“You better do more than try. Or I’ll come down here and haunt your ass.”
“Promise?” I laugh, and she brushes her thumb under my eye to wipe away my tears.
“My sweet boy,” she whispers. “I’m so proud of you.”
I lean into her hand.
“And I’m going to miss you so much. But I’ll always be with you, you know that, right? I’ll watch you play your first game with the Red Wings. I’ll be watching as you get married and start a family. I’ll always be right here.” She places her hand on my heart.
“I wish you could be here.” I sniffle. “I don’t know if I’m ready to say goodbye yet.”
“Never goodbye, sweet boy. Never goodbye.”
I swat the tears away, trying to stay strong. I’m not the one dying. I have no right to be angry at the world.
“Come here.” She pulls me toward her, allowing my head to rest on her lap. I feel like I’m a little kid again. Every night before I went to sleep, we’d sit like this on the living room couch, and she’d tell me stories. And we’d laugh and cry and talk about the future.
It’s crazy to think that this is her future. And her not being here with me is mine.
“You know, if you would’ve asked me last year if I was scared to die, I would’ve said yes.” She gently rubs my back. “I’m not scared anymore.”
“What changed?” I close my eyes to try and savor this moment.
“Avalon.”
“Avalon?”
“Yeah. I knew you had your friends, and I was grateful for them, but I was scared to leave this world without knowing you’d be okay without me.”
“And Avalon makes you think that?”
“I was always so afraid to leave you. I was afraid you’d spiral and shut everyone out, especially your dad.
I knew you didn’t date because of me and because you were afraid of letting anyone get too close to you, but she broke down that wall.
She brought me back my baby boy. I got to see that smile of yours that I haven’t seen since you were a teenager.
And knowing you’re happy, knowing you have someone who loves you the way she does, I’m not afraid to die,” she adds. “I’m actually ready to.”
I lick my lips, tasting the salt from my tears. If I try to say anything to her, I won’t be able to hold it together.
“I’ve lived a great life, surrounded by amazing people that I love. I wouldn’t have made it this far without you.”
“I don’t know how I’m supposed to live the rest of my life without you,” I whisper. “And I don’t think I’m ready to find out.”
“You’re stronger than you know, my sweet boy.” She leans down and presses a kiss on my head. “You’re going to be okay.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’m your mom. It’s my job to know.”
I sit up, and she smiles, taking a deep breath. She looks relieved, as if she’s said everything she needs to. Like she’s ready to let go.
And maybe it’s time that I let her let go.
“Come her.” I gesture for her to rest her head on my shoulder, and I wrap my arm around her the second she does.
“You’re my greatest accomplishment, Zeke,” she says. “I can leave this world knowing I got one thing right.”
“You got a lot of things right, Mom.”
“Maybe,” she whispers. “Maybe.”
I close my eyes, finding peace in the silence. It’s nice to be with her like this. The moment feels content.
And then I hear it, well, I smell it first. It’s always been my favorite scent, an Illinois rain.
I open my eyes, watching the light drizzle fall over the garden, and smile.
“Mom,” I begin, “it’s raining.”
I look down at her, her eyes closed, her face peaceful.
Her chest not moving.
“Mom?” I grab her hand. “Mommy?”
The tears sting my eyes as they make their slow escape. I’ve thought about this moment for years, but it doesn’t feel like I thought it would.
I feel relieved.
She got what she wanted. To go on her own terms outside of that hospital room.
She wanted to go with the rain…
And I had to let her.