The Things I Couldn't Say #wattys2016

Part III

The sharp buzz from my alarm clock penetrated my quiet room and I jack-knifed into a seated position. Heart pounding. Jesus. There had to be a better way to wake up in the morning.

Though it was after ten o'clock in the morning, I was exhausted. My sleep was sporadic, sloppy. I either slept fourteen hours or two. The only constant was the nightmares. Dreamt I was looking for my Dad. Of being chased. Falling. Darkness. They often startled me awake, shivering and sweating. Panting hard and heavy. My stomach roiling from the onslaught. Where was I? What time was it?

I shook my head, trying to clear the cobwebs. I took an inventory of how I felt. Terrible. What a fucking surprise.

Regardless, it was time to wake up. I had a doctor's appointment at one o'clock.

I called downstairs to Christine, to let her know I was awake. She came upstairs, a dish towel over her arm and a cup of decaffeinated tea in each hand.

She passed me a cup. "Good morning," she smiled.

We had hired Christine three weeks earlier. John had to go back to work and I still couldn't be alone.

She cooked meals, cleaned, drove the kids to their activities, helped me move from the only two rooms I spent time in -- bedroom and living room.

We often sat and talked in the mornings, drinking tea; me, propped up on pillows and her on the big, plush ottoman at the end the bed.

I sipped my tea, trying to steady my hand with nothing but willpower, and we discussed the game plan for the day.

A noticeable tremor, in my left hand, had started a few days earlier. Doctor Internet provided the appropriate diagnosis – late stage ALS. Great. Between that and his previous diagnosis of bowel obstruction, cervical cancer and brain tumor...I was a ticking time bomb.

Obsessed with my health, I wasn't opposed to scouring the internet looking for Shaman's and Exorcists to heal me. Ordered books online. Even dug out my old, dusty medical texts from my days studying at school. Those books were a hell of a lot scarier than anything you could find on the internet. I needed answers. At eighty-seven days post hospital, western medicine was no closer to fixing me and I was running out of doctors to see.

Christine gathered the empty mugs, and the previous night's dishes, off the bedside table. While she took everything downstairs to the kitchen, I hoisted myself up and pushed my legs over the side of the bed. God, I needed to shave.

I massaged my quadriceps and calves, and twisted my feet in circles. Stretched my neck and shoulders. Stood up. The room spun 180 degrees, then stopped. I didn't panic. Progress. I took one step over to my walker and held on.

Christine came around the corner. "Do you need a hand?"

"No, I think I've got it." I made my way to the bathroom. "I'm just going to brush my teeth and wash my face."

"Okay, I'll be back in ten minutes to check on you."

In the mirror stood a thin, weak woman...one I didn't want recognize. It was me though, no matter how hard I wished it wasn't. Pale skin, made my freckles more prominent. Dark, unwashed hair, fell limp, to my lower back. Dull, green eyes lacked any sort of light. Hollow cheeks. My teeth, though straight, had a small gap between the front two. A bitter, metallic taste in my mouth like I'd been chewing on tinfoil in my sleep. My gums, dark pink and swollen.