“There is a chance your mom might die.”

            I blinked. No one nor no amount of preparation could have saved my siblings and I from the anxiety about to ensue. Hannah could barely watch Scooby-Doo without my mom threatening to put her on medication.

My parents never communicated very well with their children, so dad always took the lead in crushing our hopes and dreams. Hannah, Becca, Ethan, and I sat haphazardly across the unmade bed of Hannah`s individual room that evening. The golden hour of summer in the Ohio river valley poured hot acid into our eyes. The mountains weren`t available for protection from the sun so close to the river. I sat next to my siblings and stared at my parents – mom`s hair still rocking the eighties curl and dad in his dull work clothes. My dad, always the bearer of bad news, appeared nonchalant like a drill instructor.

            Hannah was the first one crying, losing her mind over the unexpected announcement. My parents rarely ever brought us kids together to tell us something good, but they really took the cake with this one. I could feel the heat swelling up in my chest before the tears ever hit. A sense of denial, whether warranted or not, kept my younger siblings and I from panicking for a split second. No one really seemed to know what this all meant, but children don`t take the sound of “your mom might die” very well on most occasions. A general theme of confusion swept across the little room as snot bubbles and screams dissolved into the walls. My mom started crying too.

            As a kid, one often sees life through what happens in movies or books. My mom didn`t have terminal cancer found at stage four or a harrowing accident. There would be no concrete endings and film crew. The immediacy of her disease completely mystified my parents, her doctors, and my siblings. So what? She had a few strokes and trips to the hospital every now and then. As far as an eight-year-old is concerned, mom`s trips to the hospital seemed as dull and disappointing as dad`s frequent business trips. Who`s to know how many visits went untold? Despite the mystery, this new ultimatum made the disease process feel immediate and pressing.

            “What do you mean?” I asked after uncovering my wet face.

            “Well we just don`t know what will happen to your mom, but she might die someday because of the nature of her disease,” dad said. One might imagine his tone to be sweet and consoling, however, father spoke as if the event was a casual business meeting between colleagues.

            I cried a little more, wondering what the future might hold. Would it be today? Tomorrow? Next year? Should I tell anyone? My childhood ignorance was not equipped to absorb the medical terminology, processes, and possibilities concerning my mother`s illness. Mom appeared puffy and swollen in the way we always knew her, so how could she be dying? My face smelled like salt.

            Becca and Ethan took longer to calm down, the slow burn of the thought probably tortured them for days afterwards. Mom, working through the chaos, said she was sorry. A woman who can vividly recall her own mother leaving her at the age of three now possibly leaving her children through no fault of her own. The nuance of mom`s disease probably exempt her from conveying the reality of the situation to four young kids, the eldest turning nine and the youngest, four.

            “This is the reality of the situation. Now don`t get scared kids,” said dad. He always found a way to rationalize. Unfortunately, four kids with rampant anxiety issues and imaginative minds rarely ever respond harmoniously to a threat to parentage. Becca looked dazed, her dark bangs covering up her round, puffy face. Ethan hid his mental processes behind thin glasses and Hannah`s floral comforter. Mom and dad sat stoically on tiny chairs in front of the ruffled crowd.

The ceremonious evening of the weeping family phased to black. Mom and dad left us for the distant downstairs area of the house. Hannah let us sleep in her room to watch Little House on the Prairie. Ethan always slept in there anyways, but for tonight, we could find a little comfort in the distorted reality of a pioneer show. We rarely spoke of the matter after that night of communal sleep. Mom`s difficult years of strokes, chemotherapies, and ulcers to come were markedly survivable, but such early warnings linger like anxious thoughts. They painfully etch into the fabric of the mind, sewing doubts into reality. There is always a chance.

afterword by me

it’s midnight
the closet light is on
and i am 12 again
my stomach hurts
and so much feels wrong
in my small world
but i can never pinpoint
if it’s me or the outside
i venture out of bed
pale feet hitting stained carpet
creeping down the stairs
i reach for her
but all my hands can find
is some ibuprofen
i swallow it down
along with my longing

mom’s in the hospital again