Reflections: A Final Countdown

Reflections: A Final Countdown

10 minutes. That is all I have. 10 minutes before they take me off life support. Do they even know that I can feel how hard this is for them? Can’t they understand that this is what I want? I’ve lived in this wicked world for much too long. This battle has been out of my hands for a while a now. I can’t remember the moment when I realized that I knew I would lose. I think it is something I came to gradually. After each test result came back positive. After each scan came back riddled with new tumors. After each new experimental drug failed. Those are the moments that I slowly began to realize that I no longer had power over my own life. I knew exactly what I was doing when I decided to stop the treatments. I am ready for this to end. I know they want to understand, but their grief is clouding the joy that they should be feeling.

9 family members gathered around me. At least from what I can hear. I can’t see them, but I hear a melody of the sweet voices that have supported me. These loved ones extend to more than just this journey, but through all 24 years of my life. I can feel my mother caress my hair just as she did throughout my whole childhood. Whether I was 4 years old or 14 years old she was always there with her loving touch. She is such a natural source of comfort. I can feel my dad standing behind her. He was never one for physical touch. Even though I can’t physically feel him, his stalwart presence is tangible in the air. He has always been the silent supporter of my mother and our family. I know that he’ll support them and comfort them once I’m gone. I can hear my brothers cracking jokes and my sister bursts into tears. She never did appreciate their humor has a coping method like I did, but that could be because I usually use humor to escape the awful pain as well. I wish they could see me laughing now. I don’t want this fragile brittle version of who I once was to be how they remember me.

8 surgeries and I’m still in this coma, trapped in my own thoughts. That means I wasn’t strong enough to pull through. It’s proof that I’ve finally lost. I’m still trying to decide what broke first, my body or my spirit. The pain is dulling now. I can’t show them that my struggling body is racked with pain. It’s been worn down from fighting an endless war with itself. The pain isn’t even the worst part. The worst part is that I can hear every word and feel every touch. I can feel their pain, and yet because of my own pain, I am rendered completely useless. How do I tell them that everything will be okay?

7 months pregnant, but now my baby girl is gone. Where is she? Is she alive? I haven’t heard any news since my last surgery. She is such a miracle in our lives. I always wanted to be a mother, but after being diagnosed I never thought I would have that opportunity. After two years of relentless cycles of treatments with little success, I decided to live my life free of the drugs that were killing me just as much as they were trying to save me. I wanted to live as long as possible in my greatest capacity. I was only off the drugs for a few months when we found out that we were expecting our sweet little girl. It took me months to overcome the guilt that I felt bringing a baby into the world under these circumstances. It didn’t take long for us to realize that this was the compromise that we were going to have to make to have a child in our family. My life for hers. It was an exchange. Some people said it was the ultimate sacrifice of a mother, and I may not have had a choice, but if I did I would have chosen this every time. I quickly showed signs that I would not be able to withstand the grueling effects of pregnancy in my weakened state. I know that he’ll take care of her. I know that’ll he’ll be the best father. Maybe he’ll even find a nice mom for our little miracle that will love and support them like I wish I could. I’ll have to see if I can work some magic from the other side. I’m not sure how that works, but if at all possible I’m going to help them in any way that I can.

6 nurses, taking care of me day in and day out for weeks. Their words of encouragement and love urging me to fight for a life I didn’t want. I feel like I know them. Some days they were bright and cheery, and I could feel their hope and some days they wore the wait of their occupation and their almost constant state of grief like a weight around their neck. I never knew that it was possible to be this observant without my sight, but I can feel people now in a way that I never was able to before. I’ve felt their sincerity as they wished me and my little one well. I felt their genuine concern when they encouraged my husband to go home and sleep after days of stoic support by my bedside. These caring individuals have shown me what it means to truly love and serve.

5 smells drawing me back to reality for this short time I have left. Will these be the last things that I ever smell? Fresh flowers, generic hospital hand soap, a waft of perfume, too familiar aftershave, and peppermint. The flowers are in a vase of fresh water on my windowsill. My sister brought them earlier this week to cheer me up. She told me that she brought all the prettiest flowers she could think of. Daffodils, tulips, roses, carnations, peonies, and who knows what else. I can’t even image what it might look like, but the smell is going to be ingrained in my senses forever. If I can even remember smells after I’m gone, that is. The aftershave lets me know that my husband is near right before I feel him kiss my forehead for the final time. He intertwines his fingers with mine squeezing me with a fierce yet gentle grip.

4 reasons that they would be better off without me. My family doesn’t deserve this. They are such good people. I’ve been the cause of so much pain and hurt to them. I may be leaving them under the crushing weight of medical bills, but at least they won’t be trapped in the world of constant fear that comes with being terminally ill. They will finally be able to live without constant worry. They will be able to live their lives without trying to find me an at home caretaker when they need to leave the house and can’t take me with them. They will get to live every day with a purpose greater than they had before we all embarked on this journey together. My daughter will never have to see me in agony. That is truly something to die for.

3 years I’ve battled with this cancer. 3 years it has chipped away at my resolve to fight and to live. 3 years of hardship and heartache. While other people in their twenties were partying and drinking and living life like there was no tomorrow, I was truly living with the assumption that I may not get another day. This has given me the opportunity to embrace the highs and lows of life with the wisdom of a 90-year-old woman. Each moment has such powerful context and meaning. I’ve had 3 years of pure refinement and growth. I’ve hit rock bottom and I’ve found the meaning of my life.

2 people I leave behind. They’ve become my meaning, my motive, and my memories. At least they have each other. My sweet baby girl, if she survives, will have no option but to be a Daddy’s girls. I have a feeling she would have been anyway. I feel his hand slide away from mine. I’m confused. I know I want to die, but not without him to support me. I need him. If it were physically possible for me to hyperventilate right now, I would. I need his warmth. Why did he leave me now? 2 minutes left, and he’s gone? This can’t be happening. Heat? I feel heat across my chest.  Shallow breath grazes the skin of my neck. It’s my miracle. My baby girl. She’s so tiny, so fragile, just like I am. The love that I feel is taking my breath away. Well figuratively, since my lungs are being pumped full of oxygen with a steady rhythm. I can feel the tubes that help give her life. I know the feelings of those tubes. I know exactly how she feels. Whatever time I may have given up having this child has once again proven to be the best outcome imaginable. A little piece of me to live on. I feel stronger and more alive than I have in years.  I’m leaving behind this wretch disease with a sense of fulfillment.

1 final breath forced into my body through the ventilator tube snaked down my throat. I hear the doctor approach and explain some things to those in the room. I’m not listening though. I’m soaking up every sweet second that I have with my daughter and my husband. Our little family complete and together for the first and last time on this earth. I barely recognize the sound of my monitors being turned off. It’s almost too late when I realize that it’s finally happening, that I am finally free. They are finally free. It’s over.