A TRIP DOWN MEMORY LANE

23rd March 20??

A trip down memory lane.

Dear Dia,

I don't feel so good, and it has nothing to do with my latest predicament, being hospitalized and all. It hadn't occurred to me when I had awoken yesterday. Perhaps, it was because the effects of my allergic reaction still lay heavily inside my system. Or maybe it was because the sun had been setting, and I didn't get a proper survey of my surroundings. Maybe I had been too eager to tell you how my birthday went and after my writing I had been too tired to care, but the truth is that the realization of what where I was meant didn't dawn on me.

It was today that I felt it… that shocking and startling realization that mom had died in a room just like this though hers had been very different even in a different ward - the intensive care unit, but it had felt the same.

I remember waking up slowly, drowsily fluttering my eyelids. I had been laying on my back, face tipped up as was typical of those hospitalized. With my line of vision, I had first laid eyes on the square white ceilings above me. In my drowsiness it had flickered in and out of my sight. Slowly my head turned to my right and the steady humming of the heart rate monitor dulled in my ears like it was far away and in my flicking vision, I barely made out the green rhythmic peaks representing my systole in the monitor. To my left, an IV infusion pump stood administering an intravenous drip. If my mind wasn't as murky, I would have been able to feel the drops in my veins.

Sluggishly, my body and mind yet again registered other elements of my surroundings, the pale green coat I wore, the metallic headboard that stung my neck as I tried to sit, the pale white walls, but what had roused me fully awake was the sterile scent of antiseptic that filled the air. The stench hit me like a blow to my nostrils and I sat up ignoring the groans of disapproval my body made.

Fully awake and aware of my surroundings, including the bustle of movement and cacophony in the corridor, faded a bit by the walls and closed doors of my ward, the memory came flooding back—a memory I had tried to bury deep within the recesses of my mind.

The day mom had passed, it was on a beautiful autumn day. I remember the dry brown leaves that crunched underneath my boots as I paced to and fro under the shade of the trees that lined the hospital's walk. I had been reading the previous day's entry when mom had started bleeding again. I had tried to get her some of her anthracyclines, but I couldn't. My hands just froze as I watched mom wringle and clutch firmly at her spreadsheets. One moment she had been laughing, even though the sound was an echo of what it used to sound like. I had read to her about my fight with Randy Floss, our class bully. He had made fun of her, and that wasn't the first time that week. It had been like that after my class had visited mom in her ward. Mom had been very friendly with everyone, she would always send packages for my class– muffins, chocolate bars, candies etc so it was only right that they would come to visit one of their favorite persons.

Her room wasn't even like a hospital ward, gifts, flowers, get-well-soon cards, balloons, even confectionaries packed most of the space. People liked mom, she was always good and kind, perhaps too good for this world, like Mrs Helen, my 6th grade teacher had said.

People feared Randy Floss and I used to but when he kept making fun of mom, how hollow she had looked as opposed to the vibrant and classic "Georgia Miller" personality they were used to. How shallow her voice sounded, he had even taken to mimicking the wheezing and barely audible sound of her voice and I just couldn't take it anymore.

I had been rushing to go visit mom after school that day when Randy played this cruel joke about how my mom was going to die. I had been inches away from the door handle. My hands had made to push the doors open, but I stopped, unable to contain the fury rising in my depths as laughter echoed in the halls. My lunge at Randy took even me by surprise. No one saw it coming, one moment they had all been laughing, the next they were hailing me as I pinned Randy to the ground, slapping, punching and clawing at his face. I was yelling and crying at the same time and Randy's face was the sole recipient of my fury. On a normal day, I would never have toppled Randy with his size, but with rage and a sudden burst of adrenaline, it's amazing how strong one can be.

Randy had been too busy trying to protect his face to do anything and my rage gave me an advantage he didn't have. I should have stopped, but I couldn't, I was mad– so pissed at everything, my shitty-ass life, mom's illness, dad for not giving a fuck like he is supposed to, school, pain-in-the-ass-nosy-dumb-ass dudes like Randy, the bitch-cancer for slowly making mom unrecognizable, the fact that there was no cure, the denial to accept that she was dying, life for being a cruel son of a bitch, the medical field for not trying their hardest in developing a cure… I was just pissed at everything.

Randy got a heavy dose of all that rage, his face was bloody and unrecognizable by the time our teachers came running. Even as strong arms constrained me, I wasn't ready to let Randy go just yet, even as he wept like a baby– I still wasn't pacified. Unable to physically hurt him, I hurled hateful rage-laced words at him, the one I remembered most because it had made mom laugh was,

"How do you like that, you slimy ass motherfucker, now who is unrecognizable, my mom or you piece of shit"

Mom had always hated hearing such language and I never used them until she had become sick. I knew about them but never said them out loud. Only with you, Dia did I feel free to use them. With mom's diagnosis, I had started writing these words in my diary until that wasn't enough, and I started saying them.

Mom had wanted to know everything I confided in you, Dia. The good. The bad. The ugly. Everything. So I read to her exactly as it was, word by word. She had sternly scolded me for letting my anger and rage get the better of me by saying such words out loud, as opposed to how cool she was with me using them in my entries. She had said that it makes my experiences more real and original. That using them in my entries was a way to deal with my hurt and pain, but I was never allowed to say them out loud.

That was also the day she made me promise to keep writing, to keep talking to you, to use it as an outlet for the emotions I feel inside. She had said that it was therapeutic and that she admired the matured way I handled my emotions by writing them out exactly as they are, though I had let her down by reducing myself to Randy's standards.

I didn't want to promise her anything, not when she said it like she wasn't going to be here long. Not when the promise was like a dying wish, but she made me swear when she grabbed my hands a bit tightly, raising her head from her pillows to stare into my eyes even as she winced at the effort. I had been willing to do anything for her– anything that would keep her happy, as dad and the hospital staff keep reminding me as if I could bear to see her in any other mood. They had lied that her happiness would aid in her healing, but I knew the healing part was bull. Mom was dying, and I knew, but it never stopped me from praying and believing for a miracle.

To see her happy, I sweared to keep writing. Like I hadn't just agreed to her dying wish, she had requested for me to continue our reading but with a recap from the part where I had cursed out Randy's stupid ass. Even when I had repeated it with my voice quivering, she still laughed until her bleeding had started.

I was still unable to help her when the doctors rushed in, and I was practically dragged out of the room. The lobby was already packed with sorrowful souls and I didn't need that energy. I ran out of the building, dad's shouts of protest echoing behind me. The walk with trees lined by the sides had been welcoming, the breeze, the scent of dying decaying leaves, it helped slow down my tears and breathing.

I had paced to and fro, with my hands clasped together on my head, murmuring prayers to God. We aren't exactly religious, we were Christians, but we hardly went to church until mom had fallen sick. My grannys had made sure to take me to church every Sunday and from the little time I spent in the holy place, I knew someone was up there. Always ready to listen to our requests and grant them.

Except whoever was up there didn't grant my request, making me wonder if anyone was really up there. A few minutes from my pacing, dad had come to share the news. For minutes, he just stood there unable to utter a word, but I knew– without telling me, I knew from the tears that streaked down his cheeks, the way he stood with his hands on his knees unable to hold my gaze, the way he shook… I fucking knew.

I didn't even know when I stopped pacing, when my body suddenly grew rigid or when my eyes formed tears. It was only when I tasted it… it's saltiness that I even noticed. Not giving a damn about how dusty the cobblestones were, I sagged right in the middle of the walk. That was when dad came running, and I threw myself at him. Together we sat there not caring, not giving a fuck and cried. I can't remember how long we stayed there, people watched, they offered words of consolation, but none of that mattered– none of that could bring her back. It was a great long time before dad carried me back to the lobby. He had understood how exhausted I was, how broken I was by the news, he didn't even bother to bring me down when we entered the hospital.

He had only set me on my feet when I requested to see mom, even if it was for the last time. When we got to her ward, a white spread draped over her, totally shielding her features from view. Dad had asked everyone to exit the room, rather rudely. But when he tried to uncover the spread, his hands just couldn't do it. I watched him try again and again, his fingers closing to a fist each time it neared the edges of the spread like a mimosa closing away from touch.

The hospital staff had rushed in when dad threw a fit after trying for what was the hundredth time. He had kept punching the wall, screaming "Fuck! Fuck!! Fuck!!!"

Each louder than the last. By the time they came in, dad's knuckles and the wall he had been punching were both coated in scarlet. He didn't even meet my gaze as they restrained him like a wild animal. It took time before dad's screams reduced to sobs, and he stood from where he had been pinned on the floor.

He stood on the right side of her bed while I was on the left, as one of the doctors or was it a morgue attendant lifted the spread to unveil the face that had once held so much color, now pale and blanched.

Her eyes were firmly closed, her once rosy cheeks– void of color, her red lips– faded between dull pink and fuchsia yet spread thinly in a smile. I had expected that, mom was a cheerful soul, of course, she would smile in the face of death but couldn't she have put up more of a fight. She shouldn't have given up that easily. I stood where dad had dropped me. I couldn't move closer… couldn't bear to closely examine the features that were no longer hers.

I think I turned away after seconds, no longer able to keep staring. My eyes had remained tightly shut as dad led me out of there.

She was laid to rest a few days after that. The whole thing had passed like a blur. Like I was there but really wasn't, like I viewed it all from a distance. I could barely control my rage as her dark rouge gleaming coffin was laid into the ground, I had tried to stop them by frantically hurling myself on the coffin. Dad had held me back, his arms, a strong grip holding me in place. He hadn't cried at the cemetery even when his wife was forever shut off from him. His expression had been stoic, betraying no emotion, his stance strong and proud like the man he was, but his eyes… they held all the emotions he had to tuck away from the world.

I had always had a temper, obviously I got that from dad, but after mom's death it had taken a turn for the worst. At home where we attended to guests who came for the burial rites, I snapped and kept all at arms length. Not even Rose, mom's sister, could keep me in check. I remember cutting my hair that day after an old neighbor had told me:

"Oh you poor thing, it is indeed a tragedy, but never worry. You have her in you, her eyes, her lips, her face and though the color is different, the hair texture is exactly the same".

The old hag had touched my hair after saying that. I knew she was trying to console me, but I didn't care. I wanted no reminder of mom, I wanted mom in the flesh, not in the fragments she had left behind. Does that even make sense, Dia? Anyways, I had destroyed my lengthy hair after that, everyone had shrieked after the transformation.

As days went by, my rage kept getting worse. I broke things, I shredded clothes, refused to eat, kept mute amongst other stupid things I did to process the void that no one else could fill. Dad had to send me away to live with the Grannys and enroll me in therapy.

Gladys, the therapist, had given up after a week. According to her, I was the most hotheaded, foul-mouthed client she had ever dealt with. When others gave a similar comment, dad had to give up, although he tried to get me to speaking to you again. No wonder he didn't hesitate to get you when I had made the request.

He's here now looking at me with that sorrowful expression on his face. He had tried apologizing yesterday for not being present at my birthday, but I hadn't given him an audience. I had faced the left wall, saying nothing, not even giving him a glance as he rattled on about how sorry he was. Felicia was nowhere in sight, dad was still pissed at her for my situation even though she still claims not to be at fault.

Henry had brought me some flowers and a get-well-soon card, but I wasn't buying that his dutiful brother bullshit. Even as I suspected that Felicia, his mom wasn't at fault, I still couldn't just become welcoming to these strangers that had barged into our lives.

As the doctor examined me, checking my pulse, peering at my eyelids and flashing a torch at my pupils, I wasn't really there. I was trapped in the memories of my eleven-year old self, remembering how many times I watched them do the same exact thing to mom, recalling every detail that led to her demise.

How I had lost her in a place like this and now, years later, the pain of losing her still feels as raw and fresh as it did on that fateful day.

As the memory washed over me, I felt a wave of grief and sorrow engulf me, threatening to drown me in its depths. I remembered the sound of her voice, the warmth of her embrace, and the love that radiated from her like a beacon of light in my life. And yet, despite the passage of time, the pain of her absence still cuts me to the core.

At that moment, lying in my hospital bed, I felt utterly alone and vulnerable, grappling with the trauma of my past while facing an uncertain future. But as the tears streamed down my cheeks, I tried to find solace in the knowledge that she's in a better place, resting. In the fact, that she had taken time to write me a letter for my 16th birthday which I haven't read but had requested that dad bring it to me when he went back to the house. He had smiled eagerly as I made that request, thinking it a start towards gaining my favor and forgiveness. But we know what we're doing…right, Dia?

So, as I will navigate the challenges that lie ahead, I will hold onto the memories of my mother—the laughter we shared, the lessons she taught me, and the love that will always bind us together. And though she may no longer be by my side in body, I know that her spirit lives on within me, guiding me and giving me strength when I need it most.

With each passing day, I will honor her memory by embracing the bitch– life with courage and resilience, knowing that she is watching over me from above or wherever she is, cheering me on every step of the way.

I will have to stop our chat here, Dia for I must grief once again the loss of my mom, my best friend and a part of my soul. I don't know how people heal with time, because I can't seem to do that, not when the memory still feels as fresh as today and may probably be for the rest of my life.

I wonder what she wrote in her letter, but I doubt I will be able to read it today. I'm already so soaked in my emotions as it is. Till later, bye Dia.