escritora

I am walking on the frozen lake, my feet ache with cold in my boots. The sun looks like a blurry glowing disc behind the layer of rutted clouds. The sky is expansive and the perfect shade of blue. Snow covers the lake, except for a 2 km strip of bare ice that has been cleared and shovelled by locals for skating. In the distance, coniferous trees stand along the banks and billowing smoke escapes the chimneys of the cabins scattered around. 

It is the 25th of December, the day after my fathers birthday. He is now walking ahead a few hundred meters away inspecting the thickness of the ice in certain areas and waving to people who may or may not know from the area. He has walked on the lake many times over the winter, driving on the frozen water and ice fishing. 

My mother and sister are also participating on our holiday walk. It is cold, but not unpleasantly so for Christmas morning. We are all properly bundled up in layers of sweaters and down jackets. 

My sister's complexion is sallow and her hair is disheveled. She takes out her vape and smokes, her ungloved hand turning red. She seems detached and fragile somehow. Vulnerable and unreachable. The most recent years, more challenging than they ought to have been. 

At this stage in her young adult life, she feels like the world is against her. She has a hard time keeping her job, argues with her friends, borrows money for groceries and rent from my parents. She's wearing a long gray trench coat and thick soled leather combat boots.

Earlier this year in July, the man who raped her when she was underage was sentenced to prison. After having shown no remorse, nor acknowledgement of his crimes, the judge gave him 11 years in prison. Years prior, over 20 women had come forward with serious allegations against him of assault and involuntary confinement. He was found guilty in the cases of five women.

Despite being the first girl to have gone forward to the police, the perpetrator was found not guilty in her case. Years of questioning, trials and interviews by media had perceptively impacted her greatly, you could see it on her face.

My mother tries to keep the mood light with chatter. We haven’t spent Christmas all together in years. It seems that the holiday doesn't hold the same significance as it does for other families. We are the kind of people who ask for things we need like a windshield repair, so gifts never have the element of sentimentality. It feels good however to be together this year walking on the ice, breathing in the crisp air, feeling the cold on our cheeks. A family healing and growing.

We rejoin and walk towards the red bridge where the train crosses the lake. Back at the cabin my father lights a fire and we warm our chilled bodies. We have red wine, ham and scalloped potatoes. We enjoy our communion, our togetherness, putting our feet to be warmed on each other's laps, the way families do after dinner on Christmas night.

My childhood bedroom overlooked the backyard, my mother’s garden, the rusted swing set, the garage with the green trim and the alley where I once secretly planted an apple seed. I desired to see it grow into something big and long-lasting, yet I dug its shallow grave and left it alone, assuming nature would take its course.  

The slant in the ceiling of my room matched that of the roof and mirrored my sister’s just across the narrow hall. Ours were the only two rooms on the top floor, reached by a slender flight of stairs that felt like climbing to the highest point of the playground. We would race up like puppies on our hands and feet. 

Before dawn, I would stare at the ceiling as a blue light enveloped me, watching the shadows from the yard glide across it. I would replay in my mind the nightmare that afflicted me repeatedly. A plane crashed in a dense tropical forest. One of the survivors, usually myself or my father, would climb to the very top of the tallest tree to search for a sign of civilization or rescue, and all we would see was a canopy of trees as far as the eye could go. The sinking hopelessness I felt would startle me and I would lie awake until morning. Isabelle, my only sibling, slept in her dark red room ten steps away.  

Her little head would lie on a wooden futon that would transform into a chair during the day, where she could sit and read. The image of perfection. Her face, soft, pale, and freckled, her wispy light brown hair, her big blue eyes. 

Everybody loved Izzy as a girl, they couldn’t resist. She had a special glimmer that certain children have. She was playful, goofy and carefree. Different from me, entirely. 

In the photos of her as a young girl she is always beaming and splayed in comical poses. In one she is pictured in only her underwear with mud lathered on all her limbs. In another she is showing off a hat and dress made of a black garbage bag. 

I remember how jealous I was at our sleepaway camp when her name would be called over and over again to come to the front of the cafeteria to retrieve all her warm-fuzzies,  notes of endearment submitted anonymously by the other campers. I was never proud that my little sister was the most adored kid at camp. I bitterly waited for my turn to come and when my name was called, she cheered for me earnestly. The perfect iteration of her and I. 

Isabelle and I would often visit a neighbor who lived three doors down from us. Her name was Janice. How to find the words to describe our friendship and her life without sounding debasing. 

For most of our childhood, Jan’s house was a respite. We loved sitting in the living room watching her satellite television, one of the only ones on the block. We would watch all sorts of cartoons, soap operas, sit-coms and talk shows for hours on end. She would often order pizza. My sister or I would go to the door and pay the delivery driver and bring Jan her liter of diet Pepsi. We would make ourselves comfortable in our respective spots and watch our favorite shows for hours. There were periods of time when  we went over so often, we could follow the sequence of a show’s daily progression. 

Sometimes Jan would ask us to run across the street to the corner store and pick up some chocolate bars. Despite the prospect of having free range of the gas station, I always dreaded when she made the request. I was terrified of crossing the five lanes of traffic to make it there. 

Isabelle was never bothered, despite being three years younger than me. She would cross and beckon me from the other side of the street, having grown tired of waiting for me. Crossing signals would come and go as I stood and hesitated on the corner. Sometimes, unable to summon the courage, I would return to the house empty-handed, sullen and ashamed. 

When successful, we would browse the shelves and make our selections. We would then dump the change Jan gave us on the counter for the attendant to count and return to the comfort of the living room feeling triumphant. 

The scene was always the same. Janice, wearing a long silk nightgown, sitting in front of the boxy television set, on the couch that was molded to the shape of her corpulent frame. Since she rarely moved from that spot, the cushion was completely flattened. The seat beside her was covered in crossword puzzles, receipts, phone books, cards, photographs, remotes and any other keepsake or practical item she needed within arms reach. At her feet were always soda bottles at various degrees of plenitude. The moss green carpet was usually flaked with crumbs and worn out in the spot where her feet lay. 

Her collectibles, glass figurines of cherub-like children praying or bears wearing various costumes, filled entire cabinets and covered the white stucco mantle. Every once in a while we would accompany her on trips to the mall, with the sole intent of going to the Hallmark store to select one of these ornaments with enlarged sulking eyes in different positions of innocence and irreproachability. 

On these trips, we were like her chaperones, having to go into the store unattended, fetch the electric cart and drive it to her vehicle. We would always argue over who got to navigate it as if it were a go-kart. Janice was around four hundred pounds at the time and could not walk long distances. 

We were often responsible for helping with household tasks, putting away groceries and fetching various items. Disney movies from the floor to ceiling VHS collection in the spare room, snacks from the kitchen, lightbulbs from the closet, tokens of memorabilia tucked in random chests. To my discontent, these would sometimes be hidden in the darkest corners of her basement. 

The rooms felt like haunted mazes, full of bewildering shadows, items carelessly stacked in all corners. All these furnishings, lamps, toys, photos and boxes were from a time period my mind could not fathom. They felt ancient and therefore riddled with mystery and phantom. I would whimper as we descended into the darkness of the vacant suite to fetch her desired item. 

I was repelled by the scents in the house like the musty basement, old food in the fridge and the dirty bathroom. 

But despite everything, Janice was our best friend for a long time. She referred to us as her kids, having had none of her own. She lost both her parents in her twenties, broke off an engagement and she never quite recovered. The pain never subsided and it eventually engulfed her.  

Years passed and we seem to outgrow Janice. We visited out of obligation, mostly going over to do chores and help out around her house, rather than camaraderie. At around eight years old we moved out of the neighborhood. We were no longer a few houses down, which made going over became more tedious. My sister and I would be picked up in her little gray car and driven to get groceries and household goods, diligently following her around the store in her motorized buggy, grabbing items from high shelves and ordering from the deli counter. We would put everything away for her, throwing out all the uneaten rotten food we picked up on our previous grocery run. We would sit and stay a while, then be skirted  off to piano lessons or soccer practice, leaving her alone once again. Around the same time, her family and her friend came by less often having moved to other cities or grown tired of the lopsided expectations placed upon the relationship. She became more and more limited in her mobility, reducing her already minimal social interactions.

As a teenager, I went over to her house out of a sense of moral duty to spend an hour every week or so, doing what we always did, watch TV. She started to open up about her depression and anxiety. I felt overwhelmed by the burden of being one of her only visitors at the time. I could visit every other day and it wouldn't have been enough. She was chronically and perpetually lonely. The kind of loneliness and isolation that eats at you and makes your life lose all sense of meaning. She had so little to look forward to, almost completely confined to the space between her couch and bed. 

It was almost a relief when she broke her femur on her back porch while taking the garbage out, because she was finally being tended to all day and night by caring hands in the hospital. She felt purposeful in her unrelenting need. Finally, somebody cared enough. She was joyful in a way we hadn't seen since my sister and I were young. She innocently flirted with the nurses and they played the part, as was there wont. I am sure they enjoyed her good humor, she really did have the sweetest laugh. Her eyes squinted to a close and her body quaked silently moving up and down like a baby bouncing on their mothers knee.

After her surgery, she was meant to be up and moving around on her leg to build strength and prevent atrophy. Part of me believes she didn't try to walk, because she wasn't ready to leave the safe purgatory of the hospital. Jan was not ready to face the fact that she wouldn't be able to live alone in her house anymore. The house she grew up in, where she experienced a loss of her parents, a failed marriage, the downward spiral of her life. Her house symbolized family, happier times, history and ultimately her identity. She couldn't part with the things that made her human. 

A year passed and she still couldn't walk on her own. She was moved to a more full-time wing of the hospital where the nurses weren't so nice and patient with her interminable want. She missed her home, her old unit, her independence, but at that point it was too late. She was bed bound and completely reliant. We suspect she had a minor stroke in her sleep because there came a point when she became ill-mannered and disagreeable. My family would visit every so often, my mother more than any of us because she worked at the hospital where Janice stayed. When we did, Jan would demand things like that my dad empty her eavestroughs immediately. She would criticize him for not tending to them fast enough or grumble that we had forgotten something when going by her house to pick up items, like slippers or books, which we have done countless times since her hospitalization. 

I was at my job as a waitress when my mother called me at the end of my shift sharing the news of her death. I howled in my manager's office, in a way that surprised me. In the coming days, I felt regret over my lack of compassion, lack of patience and overall selfishness. I always put my needs above hers, I didn't visit enough, I didn't save her. I just let her diminish into nothing. I also felt relief, of course.I  was no longer not doing enough. I didn't have to feel guilty for not having visited in a month. All the people in her life could finally say that, at least she was no longer suffering, as a way to ease a sense of culpability. Her family was not going to plan a funeral, which enraged me. How could we fail her in life and not even care about her enough to pay our respects? It was the last time we could fulfill our duty to her, as people she loved. We could have so easily not done enough, as we were so accustomed, but I pushed adamantly for a service. 

Nobody wanted to write a eulogy, so I wrote one myself. I wrote about how we failed her. She was lonely and depressed. She never recovered from her mothers death. She became reclusive, unable to work and live a normal life, but we, as her close friends and family, didn't do enough. I also acknowledge that it was hard to be there for somebody who had so much as given up.My mother advised me not to be too bleak and so I softened in my words so they were easier to receive. I tried in my final homage to infuse her life with essence, making her human again. Not just a burden to bear. Many people in attendance approached me after the service thanking me, expressing that my eulogy eased their guilt and brought them closure. I was spiteful and skeptical of these people, questioning their right to be soothed. I wondered why they hadn't visited her in years, why they hadn't picked up her groceries and didn't always call her back. I was polite and hugged these people I had never met in 20 years of knowing Janice. 

All this is why I don’t know how to talk about her life. Sharing her eulogy is the best way I know how. 

We gather here today to remember Janice and honor her life. 

Janice was born in Swift Current, Saskatchewan. She was the beloved only child of Effie and John. 

She was a faithful Sears employee for over 20 years serving food in the cafeteria. She often talked to me about how much she loved interacting with the regular customers and building friendships with her coworkers. I'm sure that she thrived in this job by doing what she did best, caring for people and making them laugh.I'm sure we can all agree that one of the most pivotal days in Janice's life was the day her mother, Effie, passed away. I wasn't alive to experience it, but according to what she told me, they were inseparable. 

The bond between mother and daughter was accentuated due to the fact that she was an only child and that she had been an unforeseen gift, especially to her father who always wanted a daughter but didn't think he would have the opportunity before he had met Effy later in his life. She was definitely daddy's little girl. 

Janice spoke so highly about her mother and the connection they had. She loved her more than anything in the world. She was not only her mother, but also her dearest friend and her most fervent supporter. Janice was crippled with grief when she died and I don't think she was ever able to fully recover from that loss.

 I thought a lot about what I wanted to say about Jan today. All I knew is that I couldn't come up here and talk about how happy and fulfilling her life was, without acknowledging her battle with mental health in her later years. My family used to live a couple doors down from Janice. She had been in my life since I was born and my sister and I love Janice like family. We would go to her house as kids multiple times a week to watch Disney movies, play board games and eat dinner. Going to visit her was a routine growing up. Her house was a getaway for when we would get in fights with our parents or a place we could go to unwind and have a good laugh. 

As we got older, we started going over less and less, until we scarcely visited her at all. She was always on my mind and the guilt I felt for moving on without her was always heavy on my heart. When I went to university, I made it a priority to go see her and bring her groceries at least once a week. This is when she started to open up to me about her anxiety and depression. I saw a side of her that I had never known. She was scared and above all she was lonely. I realize this isn't glamorous but I think that it needs to be acknowledged for the sake of authenticity. 

Her battle with mental illness dictated the course of her life and it's a tragic reality.

Despite all this though, Jan loved. She loved each and everyone of us fiercely and faithfully she always cared about the happenings of our lives. She cared about where we were going to school, when we got new jobs, who we were dating and she always remembered to wish us happy birthday. We were always on her mind. I have never even met many of you before, but you'd be surprised how much I know about you solely because of how much she raved about you and all your success.  

She had hundreds and hundreds of our Facebook photos saved onto her iPad because seeing us happy brought her the sincerest joy. I hope we can all look back on her life and remember her as someone who loved and cared even when we might not have deserved it from her.

Another thing Jan had, even in the darkest times, was hope. She spoke in whens not ifs. She spoke about the day when her anxieties would be lifted and she'd be able to do the things she loved again like go to the mall or out to the restaurant. She talked about when she'd be able to drive up to Calgary and visit her family or see the mountains again. She talked about the day when her depression would be gone. When she was in the hospital, she talked about the day when she would be able to go back and live at home. She saw the light at the end of the tunnel, even when it might have seemed like the tunnel was closing in on her. She had hope in the most unlikely of circumstances. I hope we can be inspired by that kind of Hope and that when we face demons in our own lives we will think of Jan and the boys inside her saying everything would be okay in the end.

I think another thing she hoped for was to be able to see her mom again one day. Which brings me to another one of Janice’s fundamental qualities, her faith. In her recent years she found comfort and peace in building a relationship with God. She told my family that she knew she wasn't alone because God was listening to her through prayer. She found solace in faith. For those of you who are religious I hope you can find comfort in the fact that she believed Jesus heals the broken. If you don't know God, I hope you can find relief in the fact that Janice didn't feel alone. She prayed and felt heard. 

Hearing about Jan's death was a shock to me. For some reason I was always under the impression That she would just always be around. I always thought I'd have the opportunity to someday show her my gratitude and that I’d have the chance to make up for being a neglectful friend. I took her for granted, and for that I'll always be sorry. In the end though, I know she forgives me and I know that she loves me. And if you feel the same way as me I hope you know that too. I hope you all go home and hug your loved ones a little tighter to honor the love she had for all of us.

When you think of Jan, I hope you think of her love and devotion, her unfailing hope and her faith. I hope you also think of her amazing smile and how much she loved to laugh. I hope you think of how she appreciated the small things in life like a good song, the colors of fall or a stuffed bear.

The nurse asked me if I wanted to look at the sonogram, as she moved the probe back and forth over my abdomen. I turned my face away from the screen and told her that I didn't. I could hear a heart beating. A tear silently rolled down my face.

This is the first part of the process that I have gone through alone. At 24 years old, I found out I was pregnant with my boyfriend of four months. I had been feeling off for a few weeks, feeling anxious and unsettled. I told myself it was homesickness. I had just moved out of my parent's house and into my own apartment. I often felt queasy and nauseous as a child when I was away from home. I developed an unhealthy attachment to my dirty old pillow, bringing it with me whenever I had to spend the night away. Even as a young adult, I would diligently stuff feathers escaped back into the four holes that had formed in the corners. The scent brought me instant relief. I felt the homesickness deep into my teens, which is why I didn't find it odd that I started to feel sick when I moved out.

I kept complaining of my illness to my boyfriend and my mother, until finally she suggested that I take a test. Despite not using any form of birth control, I was certain that I couldn't be pregnant. Almost certain?

Growing up, sex was always an awkward topic of conversation, if it was ever mentioned at all. It was clear that my family believed that the only virtuous sex was saved for marriage. And even in that case, how virtuous could it be if it was always censured and so embarrassing to mention? There was always a shadow of disapproval around dating, as if I should be married to my partner before we considered courting one another. On one occasion, I heard my dad call me a slut from the basement, when I brought a boy to hang out at my house when I was seventeen.

My boyfriend and I had already moved in to my apartment after a few months together, having met one day and not spent a day apart thereafter. Our first date lasted over twelve hours, enmeshing our lives forever. We knew suddenly and abruptly that our lives would be different going forward. We loved each other almost instantly.

We sat together in our tiny bathroom waiting for the result that we both predicted. And so it didn't come as a shock when we saw two pink lines appear. The conversation was brief. He would support me, whichever decision I chose. He would be there for me and our child if we let it live, and also for me alone if we chose to surgically end its little life. After a short deliberation, we both felt relieved when I pronounced that I wasn't ready to be a parent. I was still so young, my career so tiring and all-consuming. It wasn't the right time for us to bring a child into the world when we were still learning so much.

The days leading up to the appointment were acute and unusual, knowing that life was growing inside me. I felt hollow and yet filled up. I was more aware of the nausea, holding plastic bags to my mouth on car rides, something I didn't feel the need to do before. I never felt regret over the decision, but I couldn't help recall conversations that I had had with my mother when I was a teenager. Before I remember having any conversations about the mechanics of sex, consent, the emotional burden, respecting my body and boundaries, I was informed that abortion was murder. God formed thee in thy mother's womb, and whatnot. These conversations always took place in the car when we were alone, me sitting hunched over in the back seat as her eyes stared at me in the rearview mirror. She knew it was probably far too late to convince me to save myself for marriage, but she thought she might be able to prevent me from committing such an unforgivable act.

As an adult woman, the procedure didn't frighten me nearly as much as the thought of my mother finding out. I worried she would never look at me the saw way. She was a kind and good mother, but I didn't want her to be ashamed of my decision. Would she ever be able to forgive me? Would she understand that the shame her and my father instilled in me around my sexuality was one of the reasons I felt the need to hide this from her? I didn't want her daughter to be the one to bring shame to the family. I didn't want her to have to call her own mother and tell her the shameful thing her daughter had done.

The day of the appointment arrived. My boyfriend and I sat in the waiting room surrounded by women of all kinds. There were women completely alone, some weeping quietly. Others were clutching their husbands, partners or loved ones for support. I was surprised at the amount of women in the room and the diversity of people in need of this service. All ethnicities and backgrounds came together in the waiting room of the clinic.

We waited our turn to be called up to the front desk. The clerk checked us in and we waited once more for our turn to speak with a social worker. We were brought into a dimly lit room with a computer desk and comfortable chairs. In a discreet and sympathetic tone, a woman asked us questions about our decision. Were we sure it was the right choice? Did both parties agree? Did we want an IUD inserted after the procedure? These questions were asked in order for them to feel confident abortion was the right choice, that we wouldn't leave and live a life full of regret, seeing our unborn child's face in our dreams, staring longingly at baby carriages.

When she social worker was reasonably convinced that I was in my right mind, we signed some papers and waited once more. I was later brought into another waiting room alone, where I watched home renovation shows on the TV. I was oddly soothed by the hosts revealing newly decorated living rooms to excited couples. Colours and textures bringing balance and harmony to their homes.

A nurse came and brought me to a small yellow room in order to make sure I really was pregnant. I lay supine on the bed, wearing a hospital gown that opened at the front. She placed cold slime on my abdomen. She found the image she was looking for. I turned my head, because being confronted with it would have been too much for me to bear. She informed me I was around 8 weeks along. I was still, listening to the faint sound of the baby’s heart.

I was transferred to the room where the surgery would take place. My boyfriend was allowed to enter. He sat in a chair by my head as I lay down on the bed. He held my hand and smoothed my hair. Two female doctors entered the room and prompted me to put my legs on the stirrups. I did as they asked, exposing myself. They pulled on a device from above the bed and assured me it wouldn’t take long. They inserted the vacuum-like probe inside me and moved it around briefly. After a minute, it was over. The women wished me well, took off their gloves and left the room.

The nurses moved me to the recovery zone, which was nothing more than a series of stalls like a public washroom with curtains for doors. All the women sat with buckets on their laps, side by side in their respective cubbies. I threw up in my bucket and bled on the pad they had provided. After 30 minutes, I was allowed to leave.

I read the aftercare pamphlet on the way home. It detailed the amount of bleeding that was expected and how much might be cause for concern. I always had heavy periods, so the line felt ambiguous.

We went home and I laid in bed for days, familiarizing myself with my evacuated body. I bled heavily for over a week, flushing large, web-like clots down the toilet. New fears began to surface. What if I couldn't get pregnant again? What if this was my only chance to be a mom? And if my boyfriend dies, was this his only chance to have a living memory?

These fears still rise up on the occasion, albeit with less urgency, along with new fears. The recent death of my now fiancé’s mother, makes me wonder if our baby could have saved her. She had been collecting children’s books for when she became a grandmother. Titles like, “Grandma and Me,” sat on her shelf untouched.

I regret that she never got the chance to hold her grandchild and tell them how much she loved them, how they brought her more joy than she ever imagined. The best our child might get when we read them the books she collected is a recounting of the kind of woman she was, the kind of grandmother she would have been.

I am staring out the window at the landscapes rolling by. The light is golden and warm, casting the fields and farmhouses in an orange glow. It is morning, around 11 AM. I am sitting at the table in our family's 1970's motorhome, tenderly nicknamed the Aristocrap.

The beige exterior is adorned with the brown and orange lines, typical of the times. By the times, I am referring to around 30 years prior to the journey we are currently taking. In its prime, the Aristocrat may have been a luxury. A vehicle proud families drove to campsites, wearing whatever was in fashion. I imagine that they smiled like the people in all the ads from that decade. The mother wearing a pattern dress, the son in a bright red baseball cap.

Now in the 2000s, our motorhome is usually the most run down at the campground. We tend not to tempt fate by journeying too far from home. We stay in places like Elk Island, Alberta Beach or Pigeon Lake, where a tow home wouldn't cost a fortune.

My parents are sitting in the cab. My father is driving, my mother is in the passenger seat. Are they bickering? They so often do on these types of trips. My sister, her young, innocent soul, is sitting across the table from me reading. So pure and untainted. Her ivory skin covered in freckles from the sun. She is reading a fantasy book. The Hunger Games, I think. There is a streak of sun coming through the window heating the space between us. Soft Portuguese blankets and textured Mexican ones are spilling out of the compartment above the cab where my parents sleeps, having been hastily stuffed inside.

My beloved feather pillow is beside me. The familiar odour is an odd obsession of mine. I am soothed and comforted by the smell of my bedroom. I, a 13 year old girl, have been told that I am too old to still be compulsively smelling it and fondling it in my hands. I even go as far as stuffing the feathers that have escaped back into the holes that have formed in all four corners. I feel like I can't be without it, especially at night. If a friends spontaneously asks if I want to sleep over, I say that I can't because I don't have my pillow. What is this attachment to home? Where does it come from?

The kitchen and bathroom are inoperative and emit an unpleasant, musty odour. The motorhome is essentially a few beds and shelter. All the cooking is done on a camping stove or on the fire outside and we use the outhouses or campground bathrooms. It's almost the same as camping in a tent, without being soaked when it rains.

We usually eat delicious meals, my dad being unable to go a week without a steak always cooks elaborate dinners. We eat freshly caught fish cooked in garlic and butter and thick, juicy hamburgers with all the toppings, including caramelized onions. We eat donuts and danishes for breakfast on picnic benches.

I feel completely and utterly comfortable on these trips. I am young and untainted by the tumultuousness and dirty-making of teenagehood. I am going to sit by fire. I am going to bury my feet in the pebbly sand. I am going to swim in an unromantic body of water, 40 minutes or so out of my hometown. I will sleep on the folded-down table in the motorhome. I might make my way to the bathroom in the middle of the night under the moon, completely unaware that these will be the last unburdened and sinless days of my life.

Your breath is laboured. The sound is one of enormous struggle. Air is entering your body through an oxygen tube in your nose. Your arms are covered in sores and tape, where multiple IV's have been inserted. Vitamins and fluids are being pumped into your unconscious frame. Everything but what you really need and which could save your life, blood.

The screens are blinking and displaying numbers that represent the chances of your survival. We've beed told by doctors that your hemoglobin levels are critically low and that you are in need of a blood transfusion, but as per your wishes no blood has invaded your body.

You are a member of Kingdom Hall, a Jehovah's Witness, and it is against your principles and the principles of your congregation. Your father and brother carry cards in their wallets that say NO BLOOD in bold red letters. They nobly show them to the doctor, as he states that your chances of making it are extremely low. Your card hasn't been found, but your family knows it is what you would want. If you could speak for yourself. The doctor asks questions. He has never heard of people refusing blood before. Then he explains that they will do everything they can, but they aren't sure if any of their efforts will be effective in saving you. They have never dealt with a case like yours before.

Your liver is failing, which is apparent due to the yellowish hue of your skin. An enema has been inserted rectally in order to flush some of the toxins that could be accumulating in your brain, causing extreme confusion and comatose-like symptoms. Alcohol is the cause of your hospital stay, but loneliness and depression are to blame.

Your sons found you in your apartment in a state of complete incapacitation. Your rabbit was running amok in his own filth. Piles of white fur covered the floor. Your fridge and kitchen were full of uneaten takeout orders, mouldering and infested with fruit flies. You had soiled your bed and nightclothes., even going as far as shitting yourself. Empty bottles of vodka were strewn across the apartment. When the manager of your building unlocked the door for the EMTs they couldn't put you on the stretcher because you were so weak. You surely hadn't eaten, maybe even moved in days. Both your boys saw you in that state. A sight I am sure they will never forget.

My fiancé, your second son, ran across the street to get you some food so that you'd have enough energy to even be placed on the stretcher. As they waited, one of the paramedics started washing dishes, throwing our garbage and moping the floors. A gesture so humane, so considerate that is cracks me open. It reminds me of the time I watched firefighters put oxygen masks on cats that had been rescued for a burning apartment. The cats were likely already dead by that point. Seeing their small unconscious bodied laying in a row, while the firefighters tried to resuscitate them made me cry. It was beautiful and tragic. Humanity cracked and spilled.

Seeing you now in your hospital gown, thin blanket covering the unrhythmic rise and fall of your chest, I don't know how you could recover. The flame has been blown out, it seems to me. I know that it is you laying there, but it is also somehow not you. Your children, however, are as real as ever, weeping for you. I can see my partner vividly, sitting in a corner by the window. His head is in his hands. He is wearing a yellow hospital gown. The light on the wall is illuminating his hunched back like a spotlight. Your only daughter is by your side stroking your hand and face, periodically lifting her glasses to wipe away her tears. Your eldest, paces the hospital corridors, unable to be still in the sudden inevitability of the loss of you. The bearer of their lives, withering before them.

Time passes. We walk to the food court. We go pick up documents and some of your belongings. We place your favourite photo of your mother at your bedside. We wait for news from the doctors. Sometimes as we wait, we laugh. It feels strange and wrong to laugh, but even when everything feels as if it's one the verge of collapse, things are still funny. And so we do laugh, despite it all.

You open your eyes and say your children's name once more. We all breathe an uncertain sigh of something like relief. You get better, you actually do. You even live to celebrate your son's 31st birthday, even to celebrate your own. We have faith and hope again. We make plans as we had before your sudden illness, to move your bed and furniture into our spare bedroom. We rent the U-Haul, but something goes wrong with the booking. It's a long weekend and the doors are locked. Nobody is working, so we make plans to move your things tomorrow.

But of course, tomorrow comes and they find blood in your stool, an internal bleed. Your precious blood, seeping into the interstitial space instead of through your veins. And so you die. After everything, you still die. Do you know your dog barked uncontrollably miles away in the middle of the night at the exact time you drifted and left this world?