by Emily Abrams
Everything felt colder, as if someone had cruelly thrust open the sliding windows, wanting to steal all the warmth and comfort from the room. A shiver ran through Anna’s body and her eyes flashed open. She looked in every direction of the room, trying to make sense of it. A sort of mental checklist was forming: a clock on the wall indicated 6:38am; thermometer on the wall read a toasty 73 degrees; a menagerie of “Get Well Soon” cards on the table across the room; and tubes, so many tubes. Then, she felt a movement beside her in the bed, and remembered where she was. Curled up sleeping by her side, hooked up to all those tubes and IVs, was her little man: five-year-old Max. Anna gently touched his face and let out a heavy sigh.
Yes, Anna knew exactly where they were: St. Jude. No, Anna hadn’t forgotten, but she had allowed herself to escape it when sleeping, which was rare, if ever. She would frequently assure Max, “Everything is going to be alright,” but nowadays, she felt that these words of comfort were more for her than they were for him. Eight months of in-and-out of hospitals was taking a toll on the both of them. They were bundled up in a various assortment of fuzzy blankets, Max in his Superman pajamas that were just a size too large. Nothing—no gifts from family and friends, no toys or photos from home—could disguise the room’s truth: a hospital room.
Hanging on the wall, the hum of the television caught Anna’s attention. The headline running across the screen read, “The Royal Wedding!” Anna watched as Britain roared in celebration and joy, welcoming the new marriage. Granted, the couple was stunning, but when Anna looked over at sleeping Max she felt an unexpected anger rise within her. Images of smiles and cheers flashed across the screen. She thought, how could these people be so happy? How could they care so much about a wedding when her baby and so many like him were hurting? She wanted to scream. When Barbara Walters exclaimed, “It is estimated that this wedding will cost upwards of $30 million dollars!” Anna snapped. Thirty-fucking-million dollars!? If they cared as much as finding a cure, instead of who designed the bride’s dress, we’d have a cure today! Jesus, imagine the difference that money could make for cancer research….
Anna angrily turned the television off. She imagined chucking the remote across the room and watching it shatter on impact. It would make that satisfying loud bang, Anna reasoned to herself. The nurses would hear, the whole goddamn hospital would hear! One… two… Anna stopped herself, though, knowing that Max was still sleeping at her side. She took a deep breath. Then she took another, and then another. This was the method her therapist had prescribed for her in times of stress. More like an overpaid yoga instructor, Anna grumbled, not feeling any better. With her one free hand, Anna gently placed the remote on the bedside table.
Yes, Anna knew that the world kept on turning even though everything—her life, her son’s life—seemed to have been put on pause. He deserves so much more than this, Anna cried internally. Why him? Why us? Max is perfect. He’s just five-years-old! What did I do wrong? He doesn’t deserve this. He needs more time! I… need more time… We need to leave this place. Get us out of here! Frantic, Anna’s hand shot out to the bed’s electronic railing, rigged with the call button for nurses in emergencies. She slammed down, but she instantly regretted it. Her movements had shaken Max, and he had been jolted awake. Guilt replaced her panic.
“Ma’am, what’s the matter? Is everything okay?” said the nurse, running in seconds later.
“No, no. I’m sorry! We’re fine here,” whispered Anna.
“Are you sure?” she asked again.
“Uh, yes…. I… I must’ve pushed it by accident. Thank you, though,” Anna replied.
As a precaution the nurse checked Max’s vitals, wrote down in his chart the new readings, and quietly left. Anna felt terrible, feeling as though she had somehow inconvenienced the nurse even though she hadn’t.
“Mom, what’s happening?” asked Max, rubbing his sleep-heavy eyes.
“Nothing, baby, it’s okay. Shhh, go back to sleep.”
“Mom?” asked Max.
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
“I love you more, baby,” replied Anna.
She rubbed Max’s back and hummed to him. Soon enough Max was back asleep. Her attention wandered to Max’s heart monitor. Each note echoed in her mind. She began thinking about the past, allowing warm memories ease her panic. She remembered how Max’s eyes brightly stared back at her the day he was born—how happy the small five-pound bundle was in her arms. She remembered how Max would come into the kitchen, hands sticky with glue, holding up a macaroni masterpiece on construction paper. She then thought of the rainy days when they both would make pillow and blanket forts in the living room, Max playing Peter and her Tinker Bell. In these memories, Max was truly and utterly happy. His infectious smile and laughter said everything Anna ever needed to know about love.
Yes, Anna knew that this experience, in and out of the hospital for months, was the hardest thing she had ever faced. They made her want to scream that Max deserved everything and more. He deserved forever. It was far from fair, but for now, Anna would continue to remind Max that every ounce of her loved him. They had each other, and that’s all that really mattered.
Anna took Max’s hand in hers and reminded herself: deep breaths, deep breaths.
