I’ve never missed my hospital friends. I’ve learned to let them go, to treasure the moments because the future was too uncertain. Letting us drift apart was easier than finding out someone else died. Caitlin refused to become a statistic in my life, forcing herself in at every possible moment. There is something in how we helped each other through difficult times, but the constant reminder of that fight is just too much.
I’m home. I have my friends. Jack—I think. I’ll be able to go to Brooke’s party.
Why do I still feel so lost?
Mom and I are just slightly misaligned and it makes us bump into each other. She’s hesitant and it makes me want to reach out and say something. She fought for me. I can’t remember the last time I truly believed Mom was on my side. This thought wedges itself into my chest, refusing to budge even when I list the numerous times she failed me. Mom cared about me beyond what she could do for my illness.
I wish I could talk to Caitlin about this. Several times I pick up my phone to text her, only to remember we’re done. Still, I try to force my way back into Caitlin’s life, unable to let the hospital take her from me.
Ellie
Made it home.
Miss you.
Hope everything is okay!
There’s no instant reply or even a read receipt. I know because I stay there, huddled under the blanket that Veronica helped me get from the Family Care Home, and stare at my phone, willing Caitlin to respond.
She doesn’t.
Social media gives me only a small window into the lives of any of my hospital friends, and Ryan went to private. A Patient Life is updated regularly and now includes a whole series with Luis and the different experiences of BIPOC people as patients.
I’m curled up with Tok’ra trying to catch up on my homework when Mom knocks on my door. I’ve been in bed most of the day, being tortured by a book for English. Mom leans there in the jamb just like she used to, her head cocked to the side, a small smile in place. Casual, like we’re okay. An ache forms in my chest for what we once had.
“Dad’s going to be late tonight.”
I nod.
Mom seems to hold her breath, as if waiting for me to go on and invite her in. But I’m afraid of opening my mouth because who knows what might come out of it.
She starts to back out of the room, but she stops, and instead of leaving, she crosses the demarcation line. With quick, practiced movements, she stacks my stray books and sits on the edge of my bed.
Anger flashes in my chest, but it’s old and dying like a security blanket I’ve held on to for too long. Let it go, I tell myself. My feelings knot themselves up and I’m not sure which to trust. “What?” I ask. The word comes out harsher than I mean it to and I flinch.
Mom gives me a warning look. I can be angry, I can be cross, but she is still my mom and that position demands respect.
And she fought for you.
She presses her lips into a thin line and takes a deep breath. I know this routine; it’s the same one she uses right before I go into surgery. The same grim determination that everything is going to be okay—if only by the sheer force of her will.
“When you were born—”
“Mom,” I start; I do not want to go through this with her.
“Please. When you were born, I would have given anything to keep you safe. To give you a life that you deserved. And yes, there have been hard choices that your father and I have made for you.”
The weight of their lives presses down on me. “Mom, you don’t need to explain this to me.” I struggle to get out of my blanket nest. Distance: I need physical distance from this, from her.
“I think I do—what you said—”
“Mom.” Now it’s my turn to make a warning. I don’t want to discuss this.
“I know it may not always make sense, but I would do anything for you. I love you,” she says. Mom kisses me on the head and I accept it because I’m trapped in a straitjacket of blankets of my own making.
She pulls back and stands up, nodding. This is not the time, and yet I want to reach out and say yes, it is. She pulls her phone out of her pocket and closes the door to my room.
A few seconds later my phone dings with a link.
VATERs Like Water
[Private Post]
This is for my daughter.
I push myself into a seated position, wincing as the movement stretches the incisions on my side. At least that’s better than the itching. Nothing worse than when a scar or stitches itch. I click open the message, trying to prep myself for whatever comes next.
Dear Ellie,
Welcome to my last post. This one’s entirely for you.
When you were born, another mother told me that I would dream new dreams for you. That I had to let go of the dreams I had for my child. I laughed and thought, No, I will not find new dreams for my child; I will fight for her dreams.
All I ever wanted was for you was to find your dreams, to help you achieve them, to make sure that your disability didn’t stand in your way. As a mother, the scariest thing is when your children are sick and you feel helpless. I found the best doctors, your father and I fretted over every surgery, what would be best for you, what would give you the ability to reach your dreams? That’s all I ever saw the divorce as. It changed nothing about my life or your father’s. It only meant that we could get you the best medical care.
When you were small, people would ask about you. They meant to be supportive, but the question came up after every surgery. Well-meaning but exhausting. Giving them the rundown of your surgeries felt like a chore. Perhaps because they weren’t asking about you, but they wanted to know a piece of you. Not the brave, funny girl you were growing into but the intricacies of your surgical life. I put up walls against them, unable to cut them completely out, but forcing them behind a blog. Writing everything that happened, trying to show them who you were. Chronicling your life for them became a balm for me after long days at Coffman.
When you said stop—I was scared. I’ve hidden behind this for so long that to reengage with people, well, it terrifies me. But that is for me to figure out. You should have a say in your life, and I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like you didn’t. There are excuses I could make, but please know I have only ever wanted the best for you.
When Dr. Darlington came out and explained what was going on, I took a step back. Before you asked me to stop, before we fought, maybe I would have said do the thoracotomy. This would have crossed out another issue for us not to face again. But I thought about you, how determined you were to get home, to get back to Jack and your friends.
Your father and I made a call that we thought you would agree with. If you are angry at it, that is your choice. I am still your mother and I want what’s best for you, but I am ready to listen to your voice. It is your life and they are your dreams.
As to what you read on this blog, it makes me sick to think for a moment that you think you ruined my life. This blog is no longer public and I will delete it after this post. I wish there was more I could do to take back what you saw. I love you.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have disagreed with the other mother for asking me to dream new dreams for you, but because she thought they were my dreams in the first place.
I no longer need to be the general in this fight. It is time for me to take a step back and for you to tell me where I can fight. For you, Ellie, I will move mountains.
Tears well up and I tilt my head back to keep them from falling. So many things were messed up in the hospital. One of them was my relationship with my mom. But as much as it broke us, it brought us back together stronger than before. Suddenly I don’t want to be alone, and struggle to get out of my blankets.
Mom sits in the family room, lit only by the glow of the TV program she’s watching. It’s a show we used to watch when I couldn’t sleep. There are, like, a million seasons and the plot has doubled back on itself so much that even I can’t keep the mythology straight anymore.
“Hey,” I say, my voice surprising in how quiet it is. Mom reacts to it like a nuclear bomb just went off. My face is wet from crying.
“Ellie,” she says, starting to get up. But I beat her to it. I walk forward and don’t think about it, I just wrap my arms around her. The vanilla in her shampoo is a comfort I didn’t know I was missing. I hold her tight even though I should be too old for this. Too grown. But I don’t mind being a child again.
She’s stiff at first, unsure how to respond.
“Thank you,” I say.
Her arms come around me and she holds me in a hug. Strange how much I’ve missed this.
She pulls back first and there are tears in her eyes. “Ellie…” She brushes a strand of hair out of my face. “I’m so sorry.”
“Mom,” I say, “I think I messed up.”
“What—what happened?” she asks, pulling back so she can look at me.
Trust people, be a team player. Ryan’s words come back to me.
“With Caitlin, Veronica, and … them,” I say, my throat closing up around Ryan’s name. “I just … the hospital ruins everything.” Mom said she would fight for me. I need her to tell me how to fix this. All of this. So I tell her everything.
“Kiddo…” Mom’s voice is a comfort, but there’s also an edge of a lesson in it. I brace for what she’s about to tell me. “The hospital cannot break or fix everything—that is entirely up to you.”
Her words are heavy and take time to sink in. I don’t know how to ask what she hit on—what if it is me? What if I’m the one too broken to be fixed?
“Have you talked to them?”
“Caitlin won’t answer my texts.”
“Have you tried again?”
I play with the tassels on the throw pillows. No, because I thought once might even be too much.
“How many times did she reach out to you?”
Just go in for the kill, Mom. Sheesh. Caitlin texted me a lot. Every week, sometimes more if she just wanted to talk. Message after message that would pile up until I responded. That girl doesn’t know how to give up.
I fish out my phone and turn the camera on, take a selfie, and then send it to Caitlin.
Ellie
I’m not going anywhere.