The Beginning Of The End

The Beginning of the End

    (Image from José Luis Guerin‘s The Academy of Muses)

    Cancer. The word rolled off the doctor’s tongue as if it were ordinary, everyday conversation. Like it was something I should’ve known all along. Without even knowing what I was doing I fell into my doctor’s arms, screaming and crying. “I’m incredibly sorry Mrs. Mendoza.”      As I walked out of the doctor’s office, as I’ve done many times before, only this time it was different. Everyone in the office that day was gone, all the doctors, receptionists, patients, nurses vanished. The only thing left was me, which in a way makes sense. At the end of the day, all you have is yourself, right?     After a long while of just standing around, letting the emptiness sink in, I reached the exit door and was outside. It was raining, pouring. My husband of 25 years was sitting in the car waiting for me, I see him smiling at me with all the hope in the world, the exact smile that I fell in love with all those years ago. Slowly, but surely, that smile started to fade as he sees the empty expression on my face. It’s amazing how one minute a person can be so full of hopes and so happy, and in the next, so broken and confused. I don’t even bother opening up my umbrella, my subconscious whispers to just let the rain fall down on me, and I let it. I allow myself a moment to stare up at the rain. Letting it fall down on me as if it were healing me on some psychological level.     “God, why have you done this to me?” I whisper to myself.      When I finally get into the car, drenched from all the rain, my husband, Julian, is quiet. I can tell he’s just as speechless as I am. I sit there longing him to say something, anything. To hug me and tell me that everything will be okay, even though we both know it won’t be. Instead we both sat there, staring into each other's eyes, as we’ve done many times before, however, this time is different. There’s a cold emptiness in the air. We sit there, staring and crying. He looks at me like I’m slowly slipping away and I stare at him preparing to say goodbye. He reaches over to me and embraces me, we’re still silent...aside from the whimpering. All noise is in soft “I love you”, sniffling, and weeping. Finally we started the drive home. Soon I would have to tell my family, friends, coworkers, and everyone in between. But, instead of stressing about everything that is yet to come, I sat in the car, looking out the window with a blank stare on my face, “The beginning of the end…”  

I Am From...

(in the style of George Ella Lyon)

I am from the hot cup of tea in the morning

From Barnes&Noble and Stradivarius

I am from the house on a dead end street, isolated, loving, the smell of home Irish and Italian cooking

I am from the rose bush in the garden, that sweet smell and thirst for life

I’m from Thanksgiving dinner and corny jokes

From godfather and godmother

I’m from the late movie nights and game nights

From the monster under the bed and campfire stories

I’m from silent prayers and crushed religion

I’m from New York, Ireland, and Italy

Shortbread cookies and penne

From the old chair swing in her backyard, grieving our losses

The grievance of cancer and heart problems

Walls, window sills, tables filled with pictures of you

“We may not have it all together, but together we have it all.”

Blemishes

Blemishes I'm covered in blemishes From head to toe, from inside and out I keep sending them but you're not getting the messages Your silence just filling me with doubt I keep running, looking for cover Looking through the mirror to find only me Trying to conceal my face in a shit ton of colors Finding tears in every plea Stop playing me like a game Stop being so blue Acting like you're the one riddled with pain Acting like it's all about you It hurts to sit here and be used But I'll make like a lady and handle the abuse

Painting allows us to capture an instant of time in order to capture it according to our own interpretation. Olena Babak Artist’s Works.

Hinton Ampner House, England (by Annie Spratt)

Addiction

He was doing so well. The money for rehab had finally been paying off. All those trips to the clinics and hospitals had just finally started paying off. As I looked at him, passed out on the couch, the hollows in his face become clearer, the ghostly representation on his face and body become clearer, he was still breathing slow and steady breathes. He was alive in technicality, but dead everywhere else. I wouldn’t wish this pain, this conflict, this endless sorrow and worry on anyone. Nothing hurts more than to constantly wonder if my son will live another day. To move on in life and go to college and get his degree in what he’s passionate in. To get a well-paying job and find the love of his life. To settle down and start a beautiful family of his own. “Mom,” a soft cry comes from my son’s chapped lips. I don’t have anything to say. My son, my beautiful son is dying in my arms and I have nothing to say My husband finally comes home, ready for another trip to the hospital. We’re running out of time… As he walks through the door, I can see that he was rushing to get here. Sweat dripped from his reddened face, his sleeves rolled up, and his hair was a mess. Being a former addict, this is the last thing he wants for his son, our son. I can still remember the time I first found my husband, Thomas, passed out on the verge of death because of his heroine addiction. He and I were only dating at the time and still in high school. It was the days leading up to our anniversary, we were celebrating six years of being together. I walked up quietly into his room, carrying his favorite candies, some popcorn, and his favorite movie. When I opened the door, I screamed at the top of my lungs. His parents came busting through the door only to find me weeping uncontrollably, holding Thomas’ cold, stiff hands. His mom ran over and picked me off the ground as his father hauled him over his shoulder to put him in the car. “It’s going to be okay, sweetie. Thomas will be okay.” She whispered to me. Every since that moment I vowed to Thomas that he will never end up like that again. I forced him into rehab and was with him every step of the way. I helped him get through the pain, I helped him live his life again. And after everything was over and he was all better, his way of thanking me was proposing to me.   “I love you more than life itself, Ella. And if it weren’t for you I might not have been kneeling here before you today.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ As we drive to the hospital, a million and one things are running through my head. I feel dizzy and nauseous. Can the doctor save him this time? Is this going to be an addiction that he breaks? Will my son be okay? He went into the Emergency Room right away while the rest of us waited, pacing back and forth in the waiting room. I carry my daughter of four years on my hip. She’s young, but she understands how this may end. My husband stands by the receptionists desk, waiting to hear what the doctor has to say. My parents are sitting in a selection of chairs in the corner, trying their best not to make a scene while the rest of us waited. Finally, the doctor comes out, he's tired. My daughter, Anastasia, starts crying, and so do I. Thomas swiftly comes over and pulls us me and Anastasia into a comforting embrace, he’s crying too. “The doctor hasn’t said anything yet. He could be okay,” he whispers. Anastasia and I wipe each other's tears away and walk over to where the doctor was standing. He stares into my eyes, noticing the hope in my eyes that maybe, just maybe, Daniel is going to be okay. “I’m sorry…”