A Woman Like Her (short story) (6/6) by Leanne Dyck

Part five:  Mom tells me that my place isn't with her in Manitoba. It's with my husband, Byron, in BC. So I fly home and shortly after I do Mom dies.

Readers' Reviews:  Pass the Kleenex! Beautiful writing Leanne.

So very moving, Leanne. Thank you for sharing your experience, your thoughts and your heartache.

Beautifully written Leanne, you touched my heart!

Beautiful words indeed n thanks for openness about grief... Somehow your words helped me...shows I am not alone or crazy.

photo by ldyck

Part six

My grief is a heavy rock. It squeezes out all light, colour, emotion. It flattens me.

Byron is busy on his computer when I walk into his office. I pull open the fridge, grab a beer and take a swig. 

That gets his attention."What are you doing? It's the middle of the day."

"I'm going to finish this beer, go into the kitchen, take a sharp knife, and cut my wrists. Don't worry I won't make a mess. I'll sit in the bathtub."

 A day or two after mentioning that plan, I begin to see a grief counsellor.

The lights are dim. The sofa may be comfortable, but I sit bolt upright--staring at the tiled floor. The counsellor, pen ready, waits for me to spill my guts.

"Describe a typical day."

I don't look at him. "I don't understand what you want me to say."

"Start with where you work."

"I don't. I quit."

"Okay. So start with what you do first thing in the morning. You get up, have breakfast, and...?"

"And I feel tired so I go back to bed." Every time I open my mouth his pen moves across the page, I can sense it.

"For how long?"

"About twenty minutes--could be longer."

"Okay, after your nap you..."

"I try to watch TV but it's crap. I try to read but I'm not interested. So I go pester Byron."

"Byron is?"

"My husband.  I'm in his office but I can tell he's trying to work so I go have lunch. But I'm not really hungry so I stuff my face with donuts, chips--anything with sugar. Then I feel tired so I go back to bed. Look, I don't know what you want me to tell you. I spend most of my life in bed."

"How do you feel after you get up?"

"Tired."

"Do you think napping is helping?"

"I don't know."

"Well, you go to bed tired and you wake up tired. So...?"

I'm not stupid. I know what he wants me to say. "It's not working."

"What do you think you could do instead?"

"What do you think I should do?"

"That's not the way this works," he tells me. "Trust yourself, you know the answer."

"Um, I don't know. Go for a walk."

"Excellent idea." He sounds happy like we'd made some kind of breakthrough. If we have I missed it. "When was the last time you went out with friends?"

"I don't have any."

"None?"

"Okay, some."

"And you went..." Long pause, fill in the blank, your answer goes here.

"We went to the beach."

"It was a nice day?"

"No, we went in a thunderstorm." I'm trying to be rude but he laughs. "Yes, it was a nice day. The sun was shining, the water was warm."

"How did you feel?"

"Relaxed, I guess. But then..." He doesn't say a word, just waits with his pen. And I give him. "Mom's dead and I'm enjoying myself like it doesn't matter. She was this wonderful woman, she did everything for me. Now she's dead, let's party. Like her life didn't matter. But then... but then I got out of the water. I found the most uncomfortable place to sit--between two rocks--I wanted to hurt myself."

"Do you often feel like you want to harm yourself?"

"Often? I guess. But I'm too much of a wimp to go through with it."

"Okay, so, you're back on the beach--sitting between a rock and a hard place and...?"

"My friend keeps coming over to me. 'Leanne? Are you okay, Leanne?'" And I just lose it. I'm bawling so hard that I can barely breathe.

"Take your time." He pushes the box of tissues closer to me.

Finally, I squeeze out, "I told her, 'I want to go home.'"

Sitting there, talking to him is exhausting, but I keep going back and one night, in my dreams, I see a child--her head is buried in her knees. She's crying. Between sobs, I hear, "I'm so scared. I lost my mommy."

I wrap my arms around her. "Don't worry. I'm here. I won't let anyone hurt you."

She raises her head and I recognize her--my younger self. Mom has entrusted me with her care. And I will always protect her.

***

A year or so later, I have another dream. Mom and I are doing the dishes. She washes and I dry. She scoops her hand into the sink, blows, and covers me with bubbles.

"Hey." I laugh.

"That's better." She dries her hands, reaches into her pocket, and pulls out a folded note. "Read this when it's time for you to wake up."

A mother's worries are many,

joys are far too few,

one of my greatest joys is to see you happy,

so smile, darn you

signed

Your Mother

photo by ldyck

Thank you for being there as I shared this story. If you are grieving right now please know that someday you will see the sun again.

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A Woman Like Her (short story) (5/6) by Leanne Dyck

Part three:  All her life, Mom had shared a bedroom so I move into the palliative care room to be by her side. 

photo by ldyck

 Part five

We are chatting up a storm, but then Mom grows quiet. "You know, Leanne," she finally says, "I've always loved you and now that I've gotten to know you as an adult, I really like you. You're a good friend, but you need to go back to BC. You need to be with Byron."

She wanted to protect me from the final ending. She wanted to protect me from her end. And there was something within me that wanted her to--that feared I wasn't strong enough to face it. And so I left.

***

The plane finally lands. It feels so good to be back in Byron's arms again. The minute we get home, I dial the phone.

"Mom's right here," Rick, my oldest brother, tells me.

"Honey Bunny, are you home?"

"Yes, Mom, I'm in BC. It was a long flight. The plane was delayed. Byron told me that I owe him one for making him wait."

"Is Byron there?"

I cup my hand over the receiver. "Byron," I call.

He emerges from wherever he's been hiding. 

"Mom wants to talk with you."

I uncup the receiver. "Mom, he's right h--."

"Leanne," Rick interrupts me. "Leanne, Mom's sleeping."

***

A few days later, the phone rings, Byron answers. "Leanne, it's for you. It's Jim."

"Mother passed away, peacefully," Dad tells me. "She wasn't alone, Keith and I were by her side."

I see Dad and my youngest older brother sitting beside Mom's bed as she takes her last breath. I'm not imagining it. I’m recalling it—like I was there.

Dad breaks through my thoughts. "Thank you for being with Mom. I know that time was precious to her. Oh, yes, and dear, one more thing, could you please send me the tribute you wrote. Your mother and I want it to be read at her funeral. I love you, Kid. You know."

I drive my fingernails into the palm of my hand so I won't cry. "Yes, Dad, I know. And I love you too."

Byron is there for me when I hang up the phone.

Part six

This week I will listen to...

Emma Dabri with Nihal Arthanayake

A Woman Like Her (short story) (4/6 ) by Leanne Dyck

Part three:  An ambulance takes Mom back home to Eriksdale. I sit beside her all the way home.

 Reader's review: Omg, the tears are falling as I read your heartfelt story, Leanne. 

photo by ldyck

Part four

During the day visitors come and go as if through a revolving door. Mom is pleased to see them all. To inquires of, "How are you?" Mom quickly replies, "Fine. And how are you?" She is genuinely interested. Through comments and follow-up questions, she makes it known that she doesn't want to talk about herself; she wants to remain plugged into the world around her. 

The visits are brief but still draining. I try to control her social interactions—behind her back. If she discovers that I delayed a visit by a day or even a few hours, I know she will be upset. Between visits, the morphine overtakes her, and she sleeps.

The phone rings, and even though it's in the next room, I rush to it—willing the sound not to wake her.

Byron's silky voice wraps around me. I cuddle with him on the chesterfield. 

"Beth phoned," he tells me, and that changes the mood.

Immediately, I begin to think I've lost my job. She's sick and tired of waiting for me to get back and has hired someone to replace me. Or maybe she's just threatening to if I don't go back immediately. But my place is here with Mom. 

"Did she sound annoyed?"

"What? No. She was just checking on you. She told me to tell you not to worry; everything at the daycare is fine. They're missing you, but fine. And she wanted me to reassure you that your job will be waiting for you when you get back."

***

A nurse whispers in the night, "Your mom needs you."

Groggy, I reach for the edge of the blanket, try to climb out of the pull-out bed, but bang my knee on the arm of the couch. I stumble, half-blind, bare feet on the cold tile, to Mom's bed.

"Oh, hello, dear." She sounds puzzled by my appearance.

The nurse wheels the last of the machinery past me, out the door, and down the corridor. 

"Mom, it's Leanne."

"Leanne. Of course, I knew that."

"Would you like me to sit with you for a while?"

"Yes, that would be nice." She smiles.

Words full of anger and thunder from the mouth of another patient down the hall and explode around us. 

"I'm going to go tell the nurses. We don't need to listen to that."

"Leanne, be kind; she doesn't know where she is."

I close the bedroom door, but that doesn't prevent the words from attacking us.

I can't just sit here and listen to it.

"I've decided to drop out of university, quit my job, and move out of Coquitlam." The plan is being formulated as I speak. "At least that's what I want to do. I haven't told Byron yet. But..."

All I want to do is hide—dig a deep hole and jump in.

"What will you do, Honey Bunny?"

Huh, that's a question. Grasping for something, I say, "Open a store."

I've never operated a cash register, and I can't add in my head. So why not?

"That's a wonderful idea." Mom has always supported my dreams. "What kind of store?"

"A bookstore." I have dyslexia, but I've always loved books. So why not?

We continue to plan my future until a yawn bursts through her lips.

I arrange the blankets, holding her in a cozy nest.

"Don't leave. Not yet."

"Would you like me to pray?" Praying out loud for someone else—especially Mom, especially now—how can I do that? But by the way she looks, I know I have to try.

"Dear God, thank you for this time for Mom and me to be together. Thank you for the dedicated doctors and nurses that offer such compassionate care. Thank you for the family and friends who support us. Now as we prepare for sleep, please hold us in the palm of Your hand." I knew I'd forgotten something and quickly added, "Amen." I looked over, and Mom was asleep. 

Part five

Listened to 

Boomers On Books:  Laurie Buchanan

A Woman Like Her (short story) (2/6 ) by Leanne Dyck

Readers' reviews:  I find your stories so great n seem to draw me in.

A really good story Leanne! Can't wait to read more!!

Part one:  I received a phone call advising me to go home to Manitoba to see my terminally ill mother. 

photo by ldyck

Part two

Lost in the toxic goo of my mind, I rely on Byron to guide me from our house to the plane and down the hospital corridor. The smell of cleaners, antiseptic, coffee, and food blends together and makes my stomach flip.

"Pancakes, please," Byron tells the woman behind the counter. He nudges me. "What are you going to have?"

I shake my head and place my hand on my stomach.

"Are you sure? You haven't eaten since supper, and you had very little of that."

"I'm just not hungry," I mumble.

Byron pays and picks up his tray. "Hey, isn't that Jim?"

That man sure doesn't look like Dad. He's too old, too fragile.  Who's he talking to...? Who's that woman in a white lab coat sitting at the table with him? She must be Mom's doctor.

When the could-be doctor stands up, Dad puts his hands on the table, leans forward, and pushes himself to his feet.  She gives him a hug before she speeds down the aisle, passes us, and leaves the cafeteria.

Dad waves us over.

"Hi, Jim." Byron sets his tray on Dad's table.

I give Dad a gentle hug—worried that if I press too hard, he'll crumble.

I sit down, but Byron doesn't. "Where's the bathroom?"

"Just over there." Dad directs Byron with a nod of his head.

Thin wisps of steam rise from Dad's coffee mug. "Are you thirsty, Kid?"

I want to see Mom, but I'm scared. 

"Oh, no... No, thank you."

I want everything to be the way it was before I left.

"How was your flight?"

I'm so very scared that things have changed. Please, Dad, tell me she'll be okay.

But he shouldn't have to try to carry me through this. The weight of it is already crushing him. 

"Our flight was smooth. No turbulence."

"It's been so long since we talked. What's new?"

I should have written, phoned, visited more. If I had... None of this would have...This is all my fault. I'm so sorry. I love you. Mom won't be forgotten. I'll make sure she isn't. 

All the words try to come out of my mouth at once and so I say, "Bttlr."

Dad smiles because he thinks I'm still his little girl. That I haven't matured. That I'm not strong. 

He needs someone to lean on. I need to prove to him that I am that someone. 

I pull my journal out of my purse and flip to the page. I remember the words as he reads them.

Mom has filled...

I wait to see the look of pride sweep across his face. I wait to hear him say This is really good, Leanne.

But his face hardens into a scowl. "What is this?"

"I wanted to make sure she would be... It's..."

Too early. I gave it to him too early. I should have waited...until... How could I be so Stu-pid? So cold.

Sharp eyes glare at me. "Leanne, what is this!"

"I didn't know... I didn't mean to..."

He drops my journal on the table like it's a foul-smelling rag. Metal chair legs scrape against the linoleum floor, and he's gone. 

***

The two of us against the world, Byron leads me to the nurse's desk. "We're here to visit Olavia Willetts," he tells her. "I'm her son-in-law, Byron Dyck."

The nurse gives him the room number and tells him to follow the mint green tiles to the oncology ward.

"Dear, you have to eat." The closer we get to Mom's room, the louder the voice grows. "Just a little, Hon."

At the threshold, I squeeze Byron's hand—holding him there. I breathe out—one, two, three. In—one, two, three. "I'm so glad you're here."

"You'll be okay," he whispers and ushers me into the room.

A mint green uniformed nurse holds a bowl in one hand, spoon in the other. The patient is as white as a sheet and looks like a stiff wind could blow her over. She looks more dead than alive.  

Where's Mom? She must in the next b—.

"Why are you here?" A woolly-haired, elderly woman dismisses me with a wave of her hand and focuses on Byron. "Now you. You, I'm happy to see."

Byron smiles at her. "Thanks."

"Well, you can't travel back to Ericston on an empty stomach, Hon." The nurse tells her patient.

Ericston? She must mean Eriksdale. So that ghost is... "Mom?"

Mom searches my face with her saucer-like eyes. "Oh, Honey Bunny, you're here."

The nurse puts the bowl on the table beside the bed and moves out of the way. I lean down and softly press my lips against Mom's cheek. As I search for words, Byron fills the silence. "Hi, Oli. Nice room."

"Oh, Byron. It's so good to see you." Mom reaches for his hand. "How's work?"

"Oh, the usual—we're really busy," he tells her.

"Then you'll have to get back soon."

"Yes, unfortunately, I fly back on Monday." They let go of each other's hands, but I dive in. "But I can stay as long as you want."

"Well, then we're going to have a nice long visit." Mom smiles at me. 

Part three

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