Losing It

This week’s GBE 2 writing prompt is, “Pick a line from a book and write from there.” I chose the book, the perks of being a wallflower by Stephen Chbosky. 

Then, I turned around and walked to my room and closed my door and put my head under my pillow and let the quiet put things where they are supposed to be.

There was no thought of my husband or children.  I blocked the shock and bewilderment on their faces and concentrated instead on the cool linen against my cheek; my breath warm and moist in contrast, escaping under the pillow with me.  In, out, in, out, as I tried to empty my head of the day.  I raised and lowered my eyelids in the dim light, fixating on the singular sensation as one small portion of my lash brushed the pillow edge. 

In seeped the quiet, pushing out the echoing shatter of the dirty dinner plates, the half full gravy boat and the serving platter that still held a few remaining pieces of meatloaf.  What pieces hadn’t broken against the wall, fractured on impact with the ceramic tile. 

I’d just “lost it” as the kids would say, right in the middle of the daily dinner banter.  The last thing I remembered was Jessica mentioning that the French class was planning a trip to Paris during spring break.

Slowly, steadily the heavy pounding of my heart eased with each measured breath and then a sob, deep from my gut, bringing with it an equal amount of uncontrollable laughter and tears.  I pulled the pillow tighter over my face, rocking on the bed, muffling the noise. 

Oh God, it felt good to let go.  To be angry and scream and throw things and walk away. 

Finally, spent, I lay there as it got dark outside, sounds of our daily life slowly filtering into my thoughts.   The low, short groan of the dishwasher as it made its final rinse, the hum of the television in the family room, Jason on the phone in his room. 

Sweet Jesus, how to tell them it’s back.  That there are no more treatment options.   How to fit a lifetime into the next few months when we all felt sure I'd made it through?  I LOOKED fine.    

Graduations, weddings and unborn grandchildren fly through my mind.  Anniversaries, birthdays and holidays, all missed.  Dammit, it wasn’t fair.  I’d done it all. Stayed the steady course and kept a positive attitude through the rounds of surgery and chemotherapy. 

They’d all done their part as well, paid their dues so we’d come out the other side with a future.  Now our “family squared” as we call ourselves would become the “family trio”.

I’d believed in the good prognosis Dr. Lawrence talked about.  Entered the aggressive treatment with all I had in me.  Today was supposed to be my “all clear” visit. I hadn’t told anyone about the appointment, choosing to surprise them instead.  I knew the moment he walked into the exam room I wouldn’t need the double chocolate layer cake I’d made that morning.   

A soft knock on the door announced Bob as he peeked his head in.    

“Hey darlin’”, he says quietly.  “Want some company”?

He lies on the bed next to me, pulling me gently across his chest as he wraps his arms around me.  I feel it radiating off him.  He knows.

“Love you,” he whispers and I feel his hard swallow.  I look up and in his eyes, find my answer.  We fit what we can into the lifetime that is left.