Window In The Skies
One And Only.
She gives one of those sad smiles, the kind where you just want to break down and cry. But you have to be strong for her, and for your kids. Your wife of thirteen years, your love for as long as you care to remember isn’t what she used to be. She’s lying in a starch white hospital bed, her olive skin and dark, curly hair not shining with health like it once did.
You wonder why this happened. Why did it go for so long unnoticed? Because you were busy. She was busy. You were stressed, and so was she. Neither of you noticed that she was becoming lethargic, feeling dizzy, getting angry for no reason. Of course you didn’t see the cancer that had spread from her blood to the rest of her body.
“Billie, don’t cry…” Her voice is so weak and useless that what she’s saying doesn’t matter. You reach for her hand, her pale, yet nonetheless soft hand. Just like her voice, her hand is lifeless and trembling. Your hand isn’t much better. Why are you so weak too? Your wife is the one with the terrible sickness, your wife is the one facing death.
You’re just the one facing life alone.
She tries to reach out to touch your face, but she can’t muster the strength. You can’t bring yourself to tell her what the doctors say about her diminishing health, how its going to be a long winding road of pain.
“Adie, I’m sorry.” Your voice is masked with that type of fake strength. The type where she could probably see through it, but doesn’t – instead she grasps to it for dear life.
The tears begin to roll down your cheeks. Screw being a man. That means nothing. Why does it hurt to cry?
It even pains her to swallow, let alone speak. “Billie – Billie, where are… the - the kids?” Her voice continues to fade, ever so softly, into nothing, where it seemed forever lost and unable to be found.
“They’re – they’re at home with – with Mike.” Your children. The products of you and the beautiful woman lying in front of you are waiting at home, oblivious to the situation your family is stuck in. They don’t know what’s going on – and maybe its better that way. At least if it happened suddenly, there wouldn’t be the longer lasting, aching pain that you’re feeling right now. Instead it would be like a collision, quick and shocking, but not seemingly eternal.
She nods. Her brown eyes are slow, not alert, but still soft, bringing the essence of their possessor to everything they saw. “I don’t want them to see me like this – just in case… in case I …”
You grip her hand tighter, watching the tears well up ever so slowly in her gentle eyes. You wish that you would stop crying, just for her. Just to be her strength.
“I don’t want to die, Billie.”
The words are scary. Her voice is barely a whisper but it hits you like a school bus. Your wife is acknowledging death too many years too early. She’s not ready to die. You’re not ready to lose the one that you love.
But what can you say? That you don’t want her to die, either?
They would always say actions speak louder than words. You just grip her hand, tighter, feeling almost as though somehow, just somehow the strength of your hand can transmit to her weakening body. You ignore what the doctors told you. Your wife couldn’t die.
“I love you, Adie.”
“I love you too, Billie…” Her words are even more quiet than before. What was it like to hear her speak normally? You can’t even remember. Those previous words mean nothing now, as your wife hangs onto life by such a small thread. She will pull through it, you think, regardless of the devastating effect the cancer has on her once perfect body.
Yet you look to her heart monitor where the beat is starting to slow. Slower, slower, slower… you begin to panic. The brown irises of your wife’s beautiful eyes become hidden as the eyelids slowly slide down.
The alarm is sounded. You begin to cry. “No! Adie! Stay with me, please, just stay with me!” Doctors and nurses begin to rush into the room, pushing you out of the way as they begin to get to work. You keep your hand tightly wrapped around hers nonetheless. You can feel her hand become cold and clammy, its grip on your hand not so tight anymore.
“No…” you breathe, not daring to accept what is now left of your wife. The doctors stand ever so still, their heads hung and faces sombre. You shove them out of the way, your calloused hands beginning to sweat as they desperately run over your wife’s body. She remains unresponsive, her eyes peacefully closed. Her chest is still, even though only minutes before it was rising and falling with each breath she took.
Your hand still sticks to hers like glue as your knees finally give way. You can’t sit still; instead your remaining hand tears at your hair and your feet slide over tiled floors. How can you still be alive when all you’ve ever known isn’t? The doctors remain uselessly quiet. How can anyone be so calm when your life has just been torn to shreds? Adrienne Armstrong is still immobile as you begin to cry in desperation and despair…
Your wife is now heading for that window in the skies.
You wonder why this happened. Why did it go for so long unnoticed? Because you were busy. She was busy. You were stressed, and so was she. Neither of you noticed that she was becoming lethargic, feeling dizzy, getting angry for no reason. Of course you didn’t see the cancer that had spread from her blood to the rest of her body.
“Billie, don’t cry…” Her voice is so weak and useless that what she’s saying doesn’t matter. You reach for her hand, her pale, yet nonetheless soft hand. Just like her voice, her hand is lifeless and trembling. Your hand isn’t much better. Why are you so weak too? Your wife is the one with the terrible sickness, your wife is the one facing death.
You’re just the one facing life alone.
She tries to reach out to touch your face, but she can’t muster the strength. You can’t bring yourself to tell her what the doctors say about her diminishing health, how its going to be a long winding road of pain.
“Adie, I’m sorry.” Your voice is masked with that type of fake strength. The type where she could probably see through it, but doesn’t – instead she grasps to it for dear life.
The tears begin to roll down your cheeks. Screw being a man. That means nothing. Why does it hurt to cry?
It even pains her to swallow, let alone speak. “Billie – Billie, where are… the - the kids?” Her voice continues to fade, ever so softly, into nothing, where it seemed forever lost and unable to be found.
“They’re – they’re at home with – with Mike.” Your children. The products of you and the beautiful woman lying in front of you are waiting at home, oblivious to the situation your family is stuck in. They don’t know what’s going on – and maybe its better that way. At least if it happened suddenly, there wouldn’t be the longer lasting, aching pain that you’re feeling right now. Instead it would be like a collision, quick and shocking, but not seemingly eternal.
She nods. Her brown eyes are slow, not alert, but still soft, bringing the essence of their possessor to everything they saw. “I don’t want them to see me like this – just in case… in case I …”
You grip her hand tighter, watching the tears well up ever so slowly in her gentle eyes. You wish that you would stop crying, just for her. Just to be her strength.
“I don’t want to die, Billie.”
The words are scary. Her voice is barely a whisper but it hits you like a school bus. Your wife is acknowledging death too many years too early. She’s not ready to die. You’re not ready to lose the one that you love.
But what can you say? That you don’t want her to die, either?
They would always say actions speak louder than words. You just grip her hand, tighter, feeling almost as though somehow, just somehow the strength of your hand can transmit to her weakening body. You ignore what the doctors told you. Your wife couldn’t die.
“I love you, Adie.”
“I love you too, Billie…” Her words are even more quiet than before. What was it like to hear her speak normally? You can’t even remember. Those previous words mean nothing now, as your wife hangs onto life by such a small thread. She will pull through it, you think, regardless of the devastating effect the cancer has on her once perfect body.
Yet you look to her heart monitor where the beat is starting to slow. Slower, slower, slower… you begin to panic. The brown irises of your wife’s beautiful eyes become hidden as the eyelids slowly slide down.
The alarm is sounded. You begin to cry. “No! Adie! Stay with me, please, just stay with me!” Doctors and nurses begin to rush into the room, pushing you out of the way as they begin to get to work. You keep your hand tightly wrapped around hers nonetheless. You can feel her hand become cold and clammy, its grip on your hand not so tight anymore.
“No…” you breathe, not daring to accept what is now left of your wife. The doctors stand ever so still, their heads hung and faces sombre. You shove them out of the way, your calloused hands beginning to sweat as they desperately run over your wife’s body. She remains unresponsive, her eyes peacefully closed. Her chest is still, even though only minutes before it was rising and falling with each breath she took.
Your hand still sticks to hers like glue as your knees finally give way. You can’t sit still; instead your remaining hand tears at your hair and your feet slide over tiled floors. How can you still be alive when all you’ve ever known isn’t? The doctors remain uselessly quiet. How can anyone be so calm when your life has just been torn to shreds? Adrienne Armstrong is still immobile as you begin to cry in desperation and despair…
Your wife is now heading for that window in the skies.