Seventeen-year-old Hazel never saw having a sick mom in her future. And the last thing she expected was for her new next-door neighbor to give her a checklist that would change everything.
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After Hazel Winter's mom got sick, all emotion vanishe...
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I HATE THIS time of year. The colder it gets, and the closer the holidays are, the more I tend to stay in my room and never come out.
From Christmas caroling to home-cooked meals, to family time, it's something I can't relate to. Ever since my dad left, I haven't felt that home feeling that only a family can give. Plus, Thanksgiving is an unlucky holiday for my mom and me.
Every Thanksgiving for the past four years, she's been in the hospital, and every year we eat the crappy Turkey together that the kitchen staff tries to pass off as freshly made, even though I imagine it's a lousy frozen meal.
It seems like nothing is changing because here I sit, three days away from Thanksgiving, in the same horrible plastic chair next to her hospital bed as I have for years. She's staying longer than usual this time, the cycle seeming to bend slightly from the norm.
I still don't know much other than the fact that she has a septic infection. To dumb it down, as the doctor said, something got into her bloodstream that wasn't supposed to, now affecting all her major organs. Her kidneys were starting to fail, so her oxygen tanked even lower than normal.
They've been trying to find the right antibiotic to try and cure the infection, but that process took time. They had to take blood cultures to try and figure out what type of infection it was in order to provide the right antibiotic. In the meantime of waiting for the results to come back, they've just been giving her random ones in hopes that it's right. Apparently, she's in a situation where they can't wait for the cultures to come back. They have to act fast.
Margie knocks gently on the door, poking her head in before entering. "Is she awake?"
"Yes," my mom replies for me. "You can come in."
Margie enters with ice cream for me, placing it on the table beside the chair. "I snatched one from the freezer for you. Mr. Lewinsky wanted it, but I said it was for someone special."
I open the lid on the ice cream and take out the little wooden spoon, pleased and content that I've gotten my favorite flavor for two days in a row. Margie loves me. "Thanks," I say.
Doing the usual routine, she hangs another bag of antibiotics to connect to her IV and sends her a tiny smile. "You look better today."
My mom rolls her eyes. "I still don't get to go home, though, do I?"
"Well, no, but progress is good, right?"
My mom purses her lips together in a thin line just as my heart drops into my stomach. A couple of years ago, she'd jump at the chance to say yes. She'd say that life was beautiful, and as long as she was alive, she was grateful, but over time I saw her spirit diminish. She isn't hopeful anymore. At this point, she seems like she's...waiting.
Waiting for death to come. She imagines she's right on its doorstep. While she's never actually told me this, I just somehow know that's how she feels. It's written in her eyes. It's in the bags under them from how tired she is. It's in how she looks silently out the window, a distant expression etched onto her face.
