Short Story: Aged 13 - When Mum went to hospital.

This is a piece that I submitted for my creative CV assignment, enjoy.

 

 

                                    Aged 13: When Mum went to hospital.

I’ve never liked hospitals. The sharp, metallic smell of chemicals and medicines that float through each and every corridor, the off white walls and out of date magazines with crinkled, ripped pages. And now, I really don’t like hospitals because this one is keeping my Mother captive, like a prisoner, hooked up to machines with wires and electronic pads.

She’s just lying in the bed looking so calm and at peace. The crisp linen is folded neatly around her, just how beds in hotels are turned down. But this is no hotel or vacation at a luxury spa, my Mother isn’t here through choice.

I feel sick because I know how much she is hurting, the pain numbed by sedatives. Her face is drained of all colour, so pale that she looks transparent. I want to get up and run away, leave this place and never look back because this woman is not my Mum. My Mum is bright, bubbly and full of life, this person is frail and motionless with dark brown rings circling her eyes, her arms patterned with deep purple bruises.

They’ve brought her a plate of hospital food, something that resembles a kind of broth with a bread roll and a little pot of Greek yoghurt. Not like she can eat it anyway, do they just like adding insult to injury?

Her eyes flutter open and she smiles at me, shifting ever so slightly in the bed. She’s so ill, I can barely stand it. They’ve found tumours in her stomach, which are believed to contain cancer cells. Not only that, she’s anaemic and only has half the amount of blood that she should have in her body. Seven transfusions later and here she lies looking the best she has in weeks, and she looks truly awful.

She leans over to me and takes my hand in hers. Her fingers are cool and gentle, but her hands look so weak and fragile. I’ve missed her reassuring touch; she squeezes gently on my palm. It feels as though a bolt of lightning has plummeted through my chest cavity and straight in to my heart, and in this moment of weakness a solitary tear rolls down my cheek.

A nurse walks in to the room and abruptly rings a bell, the kind they used to have in primary school to tell you play time was over. No length of visiting hours could ever be long enough, I don’t ever want to leave her side. I guess I’ll be back tomorrow, six until seven-thirty.