I sit down and stop and breathe. My tired eyes gaze across the kitchen and see the cherry-stained wooden bartop counter. So much clutter I can’t even wrap my head around what is all there. A Lowe’s receipt for paint, and mail for both my sons that have been sitting so long I can see the dust accumulating on it. I look further at the heavy, black iron bar chairs and feel the pain back on my toe from the night before when I walked into its leg shaking my head and giggling at my clumsiness.
Eyes scanning came across my “special bag”. The worst bag I have ever owned. I hated this bag, to me it was opala. If it was a genuine premium gold and black stitched bag from any top designer I would still look at it in disgust. This bag has made my simple life complicated. The stained, peach-colored strap went perfectly with the worn-out tan corse fabric with tropical leaves and flowers printed on it. I could see the teal zipper looking back at me almost to bring me back to that dark interior of the wretched bag. Beyond the zipper, there is a mess of vials, needles, electronic machines, and pills, and all of them have my name on them. Prescribed to Amy Abang with a dosage and an expiration date.
These are life-saving... no life altering...no life debilitating.
Hatred for the bag and the reason for its contents flooded my eyes, my mouth dried and my throat tightened around the bubble of air going into my lungs. An asthma attack brought on by an allergy. An allergy that could kill me. Without this bag I’m dead.
I close my eyes and see my daughter’s red nose with slimy mucus running like a waterfall out of her nose, her flushed face, and her bloodshot eyes with large heavy tears falling steadily down her cheeks. She’s screaming at my mother to call the hospital.
“Grandma, mom’s lips and hands are purple. Grandma, tell them to hurry, I’m scared. I don’t want to lose my mommy to the angels,” her voice cracking as the words were being choked out between sobs.
Another week in the hospital. I still remember thinking I was fine.
I still see the Doctors and nurses in that sterile hospital room. Hearing the question that wasn’t filled with routine, “Do you have an advanced directive?” My eyes closed and I answered them, “No, I’m too young”, spoken to the empty kitchen where only the walls could hear my response. Their eyes turn gray as they look down with pity on their faces, a look no one wants to see, especially one who has pride and stubbornness hand in hand running through every concave blood cell in their body.
“You stay in Colorado, you will die Amy.”
The thought of dying made me think, it happens to everyone, just a matter of time. Aren’t we all really just waiting to die? Is this how it ends? Steroids, inhalers, injections, nebulizers, pills, tons of money, tons of doctors; just to die?
My eyes open, eyeing the bag limply lying there feeling it smirk at me. Not even realizing the warm liquid running down my cheeks, then soaking into my shirt.
The sunshine is just coming in the windows and I can see the dew dripping from the windows and the tiny green frog soaking up the moisture with the dawn outside. All the while the house was breathing so calmly, quietly. I was jealous.
I rub my hand on the dark-stained tabletop, I think of my son. My son bought this table when we moved to our house in the middle of nowhere. “God bless my son for looking to see if Juniper is native here”, I say to myself in a scratchy, strained voice. I glance up, my daughter standing over me, sunshine casting her hair to be a beautiful ehu color matted and tangled from the wild dreams from the night before. She smiles sleepily with her half-opened eyes with the crust still in the corners. “Good morning Mom, I love you.”
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