The Last Day

We drove down Towne Lake Parkway. I’m not sure what time it was, but I do know that it was light out when we left and dark when we came home. Sometime in the late afternoon, I guess. Mr. Hollis was driving their gold minivan with Mrs. Hollis in the passenger seat. Camille was in the bucket seat next to me. 

Mr. Hollis has salt and pepper hair. A defined jaw. He’s one of those crazy, workout, nutrition obsessed kinds of people. The radio is turned to 104.7 The Fish, and he taps his strong fingers on the steering wheel along with the music. Mrs. Hollis has reddish-brown hair. It is very short with big curls surrounding her face. She holds her large, Starbucks travel mug in her left hand. She has thin, small facial features. Camille is a little version of our dad. Blond hair. Round face. Happy-go-lucky personality.

They make light of the situation. We had just left the house and were driving down the road. We approached the Chic-fil-a and instead of stopping, we turned in. 

“You girls should probably eat something”, Mr. Hollis said. His voice was so cheerful that it made me angry. It’s not a time to be happy.

We all walked into the restaurant. Why is everyone so happy? Don’t they know that I’ve never been so devastated in my entire life? Don’t they know that my mom is in the hospital? She’s dying! She’s dying. My mom. My best friend. My mom is dying. Why are they so happy?

“My pleasure”, the cashier said after we ordered our food. Again with the cheery voice.

We got our food. The four of us were sitting at a table in the back corner of the restaurant near the bathrooms. I took one bite of my chicken sandwich and had to run to the bathroom and throw up. I don’t know how he expects me to eat. How are they eating? 

“I don’t think I can eat. I just threw up”, I said when I got back to the table.

“Are you ok? Do you need to go back home and lay down?” Mrs. Hollis asked me.

“No, I think it was just the sandwich. I’m fine now”.

“Ok, let us know if you feel sick again.”

Finally, everyone finished. We got back on the road. In an effort to lighten the mood, Mr. Hollis starts talking. 

“Maybe we should get ice-cream on the way home!”

“Yeah! Lets do that! Can Andrea come?” Camille asked.

“Probably! We’ll have to see.”

When we reached exit four on I-575, I had enough of the small talk and my body shut down. I rested my head on the shoulder strap of my seat belt and fell asleep. Not because I was tired but because that was my body’s reaction to stress. 

I heard her singing. It’s the song from a book she read to us growing up.

“I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always. As long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be”.

I could hear her calm, quiet voice. I could hear her reading aloud to us before bed. She did it almost every night. Sat in the doorway so she could see the light from the hall way. I felt her kiss my forehead when she thought I was asleep and came back in my room to check on me and whisper “I love you” in my ear. I heard her pray for me. Like she did every single night. I saw her give. She made meals for sick people or families that just had babies. 

I was brought back to reality by Mr. Hollis’ singsongy voice after we reached Kennestone Hospital.

“Hey MJ, we’re here. Are you ready?”

“Okay.”

C2. We were parked in the dark, sad parking lot. I got out of the van and smelled the gasoline. Hit in the face with a wall of humidity. I was sweating, shaking, and feeling sick to my stomach. I hate hospitals. Always have. 

Earlier that day I had gotten an overwhelming feeling that I NEEDED to see my mom. My sister and I were already at the Hollis’ house. I went to Mrs. Hollis and timidly asked her if she would take me to the hospital. Of course she would take me, she said. Everyone was surprised that I wanted to go. I avoided it every time I was asked.

We walked into the parking garage to the nasty, germie elevator. Up to the main level of the hospital. We walked across the connecting bridge to the lobby of the hospital. It’s the only welcoming part of the building. There was a large desk in the middle of the lobby. A cheerful receptionist sits behind it directing people to their loved one’s rooms. Again with the cheerfulness.

Everything echoed in there. Every step we took. Every word, cough, sniffle, clearing of the throat. For some reason that just made everything even worse. There were fake, plastic plants in every corner. Covered in dust. Chairs lined the perimeter of the room.

“You ready?” Mrs. Hollis asked.

“Yeah I guess so,” I responded.

We headed to the elevator. Something about elevators just make my stomach drop. Camille pushed the button. Four. The groan of the mechanics reflected the way I feel. The creaking made me feel uneasy. Ding… Ding… Ding. Floor four. The silver, steel doors slid open at my mom’s floor. The cancer floor. 

Instead of going straight to my mom’s room, we walked through the sterile maze that is the hallway. It was dark and somber. The halls smelled of rubbing alcohol and sickness. We passed many open doors and could see some very sick people lying and bed and others who were recovering and walking around. 

We were ushered into the family room. There was an ugly green couch. Mr. Hollis told us to sit down. That meant bad news. I looked around the room. There were a couple of round, gray tables with brown chairs. On one of the tables was a bowl of fruit. There was a counter with coffee. Next to the coffee maker were stacks of white styrofoam cups. I saw cupboards above and below the counter and wondered what was in them. My thoughts were interrupted. 

“Your mom is very sick. Just keep that in mind. She may not know you are there. She might sleep the whole time. She might say things that don’t make sense.”

Great. Why are they telling me this? I know she’s sick. I don’t need to know this. For a minute, I regret my decision to come. She’s my mom. I need to see her. Who knows how much time she had left.

“Alright, let’s go”, Mr. Hollis said.

He led me back through the maze-like halls. Just me. They wanted us to go in one at a time. Room 437. Without telling me, he left me in there alone. It was dark. Just a dim light near the blinds, which were shut. I stood and looked at her for a minute. It had been 11 days, I think, since I last saw her.

She was lying on her back in the bed, at a slight incline. She looked peaceful. Relaxed. Her eyes were closed and kind of sunken into her head. They were surrounded with brown-purple circles. She had no eye lashes or eyebrows and just a little peach fuzz on her perfectly shaped head. Her lips were thin and white. Her face was pale. She had lost weight and looked very skinny. Mom wore a light green shirt and the white hospital blanket came up to her waist. 

“Hey Mommy”, I said. My voice was barely a whisper. 

I was afraid. Not sure why. I walked over to her side and put my hand on hers.

“Mommy?”

“Hey sweetie”, she said, “How are you?”

“I’m good. How are you?”

She didn’t respond.

Her words ran together. I’d seen movies about people who have died, but this was nothing like that. It was much, much worse. When she spoke, I saw that her teeth had turned brown from lack of nutrients and inability to care for herself. I think that’s why I was so scared. She didn’t look like my mom. My mom took care of herself.

“I love you, Mommy”

“Mmhmm.”

I didn’t know what else to say. She wasn’t responding anyway. As I was looking at her, her face started to twist into a pained look. She was writhing in pain and twisted herself so that she was face down, screaming. I’ve never seen her like that. She was always very calm and collected. The room suddenly felt crowded. There were just a couple of nurses, but it felt like the room was packed. I couldn’t move. 

“It’s ok, Mrs. Ellise. It’s ok. Calm down it’s ok. We’re gonna fix you up”, one of the nurses said.

She was rocking back and forth, trying to ease the pain. They later told me that she got sudden, intense headaches that lasted anywhere from two minutes to an hour, because of the cancer. The nurses finally got her back in place. She looked at me.

“I hate you! I hate you, Maggie!”

“I love you mommy! I love you!” 

I was trying to hold back the tears. What is happening? I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I cried.

“I hate you!”

“I love you Mommy! I love you.” I said between sobs.

“I hate it when you come visit me!”

I felt a gentle hand on my back.

“That’s not your momma, baby. That’s not your momma, that’s the drugs.” The nurse said. She was trying to reassure me, but it wasn’t working.

“Why did you come here?”

“Because I love you! I love you so much, Mommy.”

“I hate you!”

The nurse started to pull me away.

“Please! I love you mommy! I love you! I love you! Please! Mommy!”

“C’mon baby. Let’s go.”

My mom was still screaming at me as I walked through the door into the hall. Mrs. Hollis was waiting, crying. I failed any attempt I made not to cry. I lost it. I cried deep, excruciating sobs as I was lead back to the family room. I couldn’t stay on my feet. I started to fall every couple of steps I took. Mrs. Hollis caught me. As we made our way, we passed nurses, some who were discretely wiping tears and some who were openly crying. 

She had that effect on people. Everyone liked my mom. She was so graceful and selfless. Everyone liked her. Her nurses had grown to love her during her short time in the hospital. During her treatment, my mom made cookies to give to all of her doctors and nurses.

Back in the family room, Camille, Mr. Hollis, my pastor, and some other people, who I didn’t know were sitting and talking. They seemed pretty care free. I sat down, beginning to regain my composure. Mrs. Hollis was sitting with me, holding me and whispering that it would be ok.

“Why don’t we sing some songs. Let’s worship the Lord,” my pastor said.

They started singing. “Holy God in love became. Perfect Man to bear my blame. On the cross He took my sin. By His death I live again.” But I didn’t want to sing. Why would I want to worship right now? My mom just told me she hated me. I don’t want to worship. Why are they making me do this?

Everyone finished singing. The pastor started praying. I love Jesus, but I don’t want to pray right now. I want them to let me be sad. I want them to let me be scared. After he finished praying, he spoke to us.

“If you have anything you want to clear up with your mom, now is the time. You don’t have much time with her”, his words cut me.

“Mrs. Ellise wants to see Maggie again,” a nurse came back in the room.

“No, no, no! I don’t want to. Please, no!”

“C’mon”, Mrs. Hollis said.

I was crying again. So afraid to go in there. I loved my mom and I wanted to see her, but I was so very scared. Mrs. Hollis had to brace me so I could walk back to my mom’s room. Uncontrollable sobs. I was almost hyperventilating. We reached her room. I walked in. 

“Hey Mommy”, I said again.

“Hey sweetie, how are ya? Come here”, she slurred.

She didn’t remember anything. I was half relieved. I walked to her. She grabbed me and held me. She held me for a long time. This is my mom. I was still crying, but she didn’t notice. She wasn’t really there. 

“Why aren’t we matching?” my mom asked. “I want you to match me.” 

“I’m so sorry mommy. I’m so sorry.”

“I wanted to match you! Why aren’t we matching?” 

“I’m sorry. I love you mommy.”

She was getting upset. I was wearing a light blue polo and blue jeans. She was wearing a light green shirt. I couldn’t think of why she wanted to match with me. We’ve never done that before. If I had known, though, I would have worn green.

Mommy was asleep. Just like that. She was still holding me, but she was sleeping soundly now. I climbed up into her bed with her. This is my mom. 

All too soon it was time to go. Visiting hours had come and gone, and they let us stay way longer than we were supposed to. They pulled me away and I whispered one last “I love you.”

“I’ll see you soon”, I said.

Mr. and Mrs. Hollis, Camille and I walked back through the halls, down the elevator, and to the parking garage. Back to C2. It was dark outside. Dark and still hot. I heard the crickets chirping as I climbed back into the gold minivan.

“I was thinking about making breakfast when we get back to the house,” Mrs. Hollis said.

“Breakfast? But it’s night time.” My sister responded.

“Haven’t you ever had breakfast for dinner?” Mr. Hollis asked.

I don’t know why they think food fixes everything. My stomach still hurt. The very last thing I want to do right now is eat. They all acted like nothing happened, while I sat in the back, completely broken. No, I didn’t want to eat. I wanted to crawl up in my mom’s hospital bed and die with her. 

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