LITR 3731 Creative Writing 2006

Melissa Jones

This Place

People say “Home is where the heart is” – but what if your heart is dead?  How can you feel at home when your loved ones are gone and you are a prisoner in your own body?  I began to lose my heart the same day I lost my mother.

            I remember that Thursday and could recall every factual detail about what happened – except for how I felt.  It was May 23^rd 1996, and I was celebrating the end of another school year with some friends at the mall when I got a phone call from my dad. 

“Hi, Sweetie” he said.  “I had to take your mother to the hospital today because she started feeling worse and couldn’t get out of bed.  It looks like her condition isn’t improving, and I’d like you to come up here and see her.”

“Ok.  I’ll leave right now…” I said with thoughts running through my head.  I told my friends I had to leave, and focused on the task at hand: get to the hospital.  Upon entering the hospital’s ICU, the sterile smell and eerie calmness cleared my mind of everything except my mother’s condition.  I found my father in the waiting room along with several other close friends and relatives.

My father confronted me, explaining the seriousness of my mother’s situation.  He said my mother had been diagnosed with Toxic Shock Syndrome, and that her organs were shutting down one by one.  The doctors had my mother on life support, but it was only sustaining her body at a vegetable state.  I broke down.  A river of tears flowed from my eyes, only drying up slightly when my father asked if I would like to say goodbye to her.  “Say goodbye?  I thought she was on life support?”

“Yes, but this is not how your mother would want to live.  She and I have discussed our feelings about being kept alive, and she and I both agreed that we wouldn’t want to put each other through that.  I kept her on the machines this long so that you and the rest of the family could say goodbye to her.”

“What do I say?  Just goodbye?  I walk in there, say goodbye, and leave – knowing that I will never see her again?”  The river returned.

My aunt interjected, saying, “People need to have some sort of closure in their life.  I’m sure that you will look back on this some day and be glad that you had the opportunity to hold your mother’s hand one last time and tell her how much you love her.  When my father passed, it was difficult to say goodbye, but looking back I was glad that I did it.”

My father brought me into my mother’s room and sat down in a chair.  I approached her bedside and picked up her swollen hand.  This was not my mother.  She had already left, and I was holding the lifeless shell that had been left behind.  As I kissed her cold face, one of my tears fell down her face and it looked as though she was crying as I said goodbye.  The last mental picture I have of my mother is of my tears that we shared in that hospital room. 

Part of my heart died that day along with my mother.  She had been my best friend, and we had shared everything up to that day – even a tear.  I didn’t shed a single tear at her funeral, or display the slightest emotion because I felt I needed to be strong for my dad.  I locked up what was left of my heart, and tried to move on.

After my mother’s death, my father and I became each other’s support system.  We did everything together.  But one late October evening, on his way home from work, my father was in a fatal car accident.  I remember getting a call from the hospital around 7pm and feeling… nothing.  I drove up to the hospital and walked into the ICU which felt all too familiar.  My father was unconscious and breathing with the help of a machine – much like the way I last saw my mother.  Shortly after I got to my dad’s room the doctor came to speak with me. 

“Ms. Jones, my name is Dr. Chang.  Your father has sustained severe head and torso injuries, and is currently stable.  We need you to fill out some paperwork, and then I’d like to talk to you about your options.”

I filled out the paperwork and started a phone chain to tell my family about my father’s situation.  As I hung up the phone, I heard alarms going off in the distance.  I rushed to my father’s room and stood outside watching the doctor and nurses try to revive my father.  When my father stabilized again, the doctor came out to speak with me.

“Your father is in a coma right now, and is being kept alive by the machines.  He has a collapsed left lung, and his brain has undergone severe trauma. If you are ready, I would like to discuss your options.”

“Yes, I’m ready now.” I said.

“We can keep your father here on life support and wait to see if he comes out of the coma, but even if he does come out he will remain in a vegetative state for the rest of his life.  Comas are never predictable, so it could take anywhere from hours to years before he comes out of it.  Another option is to take him off the life support and hope that his body takes over and breathes by itself – which will tell us how strong his body is.

“So, would it be a good sign if my dad’s body could breathe on its own?  Would that decrease the chances of him living in a vegetative state?”

“Yes and no.  It would be good if your father could breathe on his own – this would show that his lungs are strong enough, and we could think about releasing him sooner.  But the tests conclusively tell us that he will always remain in a vegetative state.”

I knew how my father felt about being sustained on life support and living out life as an empty shell of a person, and knew what I had to do.  I waited until my family came up to the hospital before I told the doctor my decision.  After everyone had had a chance to say goodbye, I went in to his room and sat down.  There were no tears this time because my heart had been locked up ever since my mother passed away in this very same hospital.  I approached his bedside and kissed his cheek one last time, and then said goodbye.  The doctor came in a few minutes later and I watched as my dad’s heartbeat slowed down to a stop.  Although I hadn’t used it in quite a while, I felt a little more of my own heart slip away with his.

Once again, my family came into town to pay their respects, but this time, when they left, I was truly alone.  I was 18 years old and considered capable of taking care of myself – an “adult.”  I arranged for my father to be buried next to my mother, but I could never bring myself to visit their graves. 

That May, I graduated from high school and moved away to college in Oklahoma.  I sold the house because I couldn’t bear living there any longer.  In an attempt to feel something, I started hanging out with “fun” people and began smoking and drinking.  My parents had made sure that I was financially taken care of, but since I was so young I foolishly squandered away the money.  Even though I tried to convince myself that I was having fun, I knew that it was all a show for those around me and myself.  I needed to get my life back in order, and so I decided to move back home near some family.

During the move into my new apartment, I began to feel chest pains.  I ignored the pain and just kept moving.  A few weeks later, when I was visiting my new doctor for a check up, he told me that I had had a heart attack.  The doctor warned me against the health risks of smoking and the damage it did to my body.  He strongly suggested that I cut down or quit smoking and I sincerely agreed, but it was a promise that was too hard to keep.  Pretty soon I was back up to two packs a day. 

Not caring about the risks, I carried on with the smoking and drinking habits that I picked up in Oklahoma.  Then, one day at work, my heart started pounding and hurting, and I passed out.  I woke up in the hospital and the doctor told me that I had sustained a serious heart attack.  Was my heart trying to tell me something?  Here I am in the same hospital where I had to say goodbye to the two dearest people in my life.  The last time I felt my heart was in this place.  At that moment I decided it was time to open the rusty doors of my heart and start living again.  I knew that if I kept my heart locked up any longer this place would soon be the where I took my final breathes.  Reaching out for support from my family, I was finally able to feel at home with myself. 

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