Maybe I should just...

Our Saturday writing circle¹ prompt unleashed a torrent of thoughts…
How am I going to respond to this prompt was my first racing thought. But I took a deep breath and plunged in for it had been awhile since I had written, and I felt the need to show up…

Maybe I should just…
Quit.

It was April when my writing came to a screeching halt. I was juggling work and travel. Then, my mother went into the ICU again for the second time in just a couple months. I told myself that work would lighten up again. Soon. Give yourself some grace. You’ll have more time this summer, I reassured myself.

Yet, now it is mid-July, and my mother is back in the ICU for the third time in just six months. Her stays are always sudden - always unpredicted.

So maybe I should just…

Quit? Quit trying to write while I am teaching my favorite summer class and working on great consulting projects. All things I love to do and throw myself into.

Maybe I should just…

Quit? Quit trying to write while in limbo.

This limbo of wondering if my mother is going to come home again, or is she going to die. Is this it?

Is this the time when she doesn’t leave the hospital? Or is this another cycle when she rallies back, and we think we have outsmarted Death again, only to have it come smashing in our life like a turned-over car on the highway after an accident. Sudden. Unpredicted.

I don’t mean any of these thoughts unkindly. Really, I just want my mother to be out of pain.

I speak to her in the early morning when I wake and wonder if she is still with us. Does she hear the birds on the farm that she murmurs as she doses? It must be her grandmother’s farm, the place she loved so much as a child.

Whispers of writing come in this morning stillness.

Whispers of writing come when I remember special times with her. She loved to travel. Memories of our trips together pop up in my social media history. Seven years ago she could still walk in Portugal even if she felt the pain settling in her bones. We didn’t know then what we know now.

I want to write regardless of the outcome. Regardless of what others think. Who cares if I am a bad writer. It doesn’t really matter. Nobody has to read this.

Maybe I should just…
Write through this sadness - this grief - this uncertainty - my frustration - my anger.

It’s very hard to hear my mother’s cries as her nurses care for her. Her volume is just above the decimal of a whimper. She reminds me of a kitten; her eyes squinted shut, searching for a comfort she can’t find.

An appointment reminder pops up on my phone. What is that for? I am rattled by the intrusion. In this hallway moment, I can’t remember. What am I forgetting?

Maybe I should just…

Rush back into her hospital room and tell them to stop!

But I know I can’t.

They are trying to help her. My father and she have asked them to do everything possible.

So I stand outside her door in the artificially bright, fluorescent lit hallway, listening to her cries. My stomach clenches like fists with fingers tight and curled towards my palms, ready to punch against what is happening to her. Clench, release, clench, release. Please, please stop hurting her.

Her whimpers still. They have finished cleaning her.
Oh - Wait. Now I remember what the appointment is. I have to go. I am expected back in the world. I have to go teach my class.

Maybe I should just…

1. [Special thanks to Cindy Eastman for her writing prompt and to my writing circle friends who walk with me through the writing process.]