I remember the day I started lying. We never used to allow any secrets, but now, a lie seems to be the only thing holding the two of us together. Lying was the only solution because the truth was enough to break two hearts, and one heartbreak was enough to overdose anyone with a lifelong sentence of sorrow. I learnt how to lie, because it’s not his fault he doesn’t remember, yet it stings every single day when he asks the same question with the same, empty, confused look.
“Who are you?”
Silence. I always answer with silence, because I don’t trust my voice. Instead, I read to him because that’s what mum did. She read to him every day, in hopes of healing him, no matter how many times the doctors attempted to take her away. No matter how many times they told her he wasn’t coming back, she came back to read to him from the little black book that held his life.
She used to say he was just sick and was going to get better. She wasn’t going to stop until he was back to being the John she knew. I used to wonder when she was finally going realise that sick people get better and he wasn’t getting any better. He wasn’t going to come back. He couldn’t be fixed. He wasn’t even sick.
He was broken.
I read endlessly. I read about their love, their fights, their life. I dig deeper and deeper into their past in hopes of fixing him, because that’s what mum would have done. Mum would have given anything in the world to have him back, even if it was just for a small second.
“I would give anything to have a story like John.”
Now I realise why she never gave up. She never gave up because if she gave up, who was going to pay for the hospital bill? You can accumulate wealth to heal a broken bone or fix a torn apart arm, but there is no amount of anything that can heal a broken family or fix a torn apart heart. There was no health insurance in the world that offered to cover the pain of family’s dream being crushed.
“Beth?”
How could I not lie to him? I was taught that a lie under any circumstance is wrong, but how could you not lie to the one person who you loved your whole life in order to fix him? I miss him, but I’m with him every single day. I’m breaking my own heart day after day after day, even though I know he’s never coming back.
I can’t call out the first word that defined who we both were, even though it’s staring at me, right in the face. Daddy. The one word that meant love, security and bravery was lost forever. It no longer existed, because he no longer existed. So instead, I just hold onto his hand, assuming the identity of the last person to hold his heart and it kills me every single time, because I know I don’t exist to him anymore.
So I sit there and listen to him choke out the words meant for my mother. My eyes fall upon the gold band on my hand. Instead of my husband’s wedding ring, I wear the ring he gave to my mother. The day he saw my hand without it, his face echoed the pain he felt, as he tried to understand why I were wearing the promise of forever from someone else. I knew from that moment, that it will never be me who he remembered. It will always be her.
The only time in which I am ever certain that he still loves and remembers me is when he asks, “How is our baby girl?”
And then, I shatter myself into a million pieces in order to piece him back together.
“She’s good, honey. She’s happy"
“Who are you?”
Silence. I always answer with silence, because I don’t trust my voice. Instead, I read to him because that’s what mum did. She read to him every day, in hopes of healing him, no matter how many times the doctors attempted to take her away. No matter how many times they told her he wasn’t coming back, she came back to read to him from the little black book that held his life.
She used to say he was just sick and was going to get better. She wasn’t going to stop until he was back to being the John she knew. I used to wonder when she was finally going realise that sick people get better and he wasn’t getting any better. He wasn’t going to come back. He couldn’t be fixed. He wasn’t even sick.
He was broken.
I read endlessly. I read about their love, their fights, their life. I dig deeper and deeper into their past in hopes of fixing him, because that’s what mum would have done. Mum would have given anything in the world to have him back, even if it was just for a small second.
“I would give anything to have a story like John.”
Now I realise why she never gave up. She never gave up because if she gave up, who was going to pay for the hospital bill? You can accumulate wealth to heal a broken bone or fix a torn apart arm, but there is no amount of anything that can heal a broken family or fix a torn apart heart. There was no health insurance in the world that offered to cover the pain of family’s dream being crushed.
“Beth?”
How could I not lie to him? I was taught that a lie under any circumstance is wrong, but how could you not lie to the one person who you loved your whole life in order to fix him? I miss him, but I’m with him every single day. I’m breaking my own heart day after day after day, even though I know he’s never coming back.
I can’t call out the first word that defined who we both were, even though it’s staring at me, right in the face. Daddy. The one word that meant love, security and bravery was lost forever. It no longer existed, because he no longer existed. So instead, I just hold onto his hand, assuming the identity of the last person to hold his heart and it kills me every single time, because I know I don’t exist to him anymore.
So I sit there and listen to him choke out the words meant for my mother. My eyes fall upon the gold band on my hand. Instead of my husband’s wedding ring, I wear the ring he gave to my mother. The day he saw my hand without it, his face echoed the pain he felt, as he tried to understand why I were wearing the promise of forever from someone else. I knew from that moment, that it will never be me who he remembered. It will always be her.
The only time in which I am ever certain that he still loves and remembers me is when he asks, “How is our baby girl?”
And then, I shatter myself into a million pieces in order to piece him back together.
“She’s good, honey. She’s happy"
No comments:
Post a Comment