Free To Go

• Jenna Milone, Grade 8, Catholic Regional College
• Short Story
• 2011

Excellence Award in the 'Step Write Up 2011' competition

My mother was 58 when she was diagnosed with leukaemia. The doctors said she wouldn’t make it past 60, but she did. I had faith that she would recover. Over the years the life of my family and I have been turned upside-down. I often fight and argue with my partner and children about how we will spend the day. I always want to sit by my mother’s bedside and read her the latest ‘Take 5’ magazine, while my children would rather go to the park and play. My family think I’m obsessed, and that I care more about mum than them, then I call them selfish.
Four years ago today, mum and I sat in the doctor’s office waiting nervously for her results. Mum whispered to me that everything was going to be fine and not to worry. My heart sank when the doctor said, “I’m sorry Mrs. Dawson, but you have acute leukaemia. Unfortunately we aren’t sure whether your condition is treatable, but we will do everything we can”. I was devastated. I expected mum to fall apart but instead she took a deep breath and smilingly said, “Don’t worry doc, everything will work out fine”. I couldn’t believe it! My mum, the biggest stress head ever, wasn’t worried. At first she was as determined to fight it, but each year she got more tired and her condition would worsen. Every time she got the all clear, within a month she would be back on chemotherapy. Last year I knew mum was losing the battle. The cancer had spread throughout her frail body. She looked white as a ghost and so thin she couldn’t hide her boniness. But as always, she continued being cheery around everyone. Every day she would greet me with a smile and a positive attitude.
Today is different. My partner and children are coming to the hospital to support me because the doctor called last night with bad news. “Your mum has taken a bad turn. I think it’s time to let her go, Jill,” he said in a sympathetic voice. I parked where mum’s car usually sat during her appointments. The day’s misery made worse by the cold wind whipping my hair across my face. Inside the hospital it is warm and that familiar hospital smell lingers in the air. I say hi to Karen, the receptionist, who knows me well. We reach mum’s room and enter quietly. She is sleeping but awakens when I sit on the edge of her bed. We hug as she welcomes the family with a smile. I can see she is weak and tired. My heart pounds furiously. I hold mum’s hands as I recall family stories and we laugh. The doctor gives a reassuring nod as he enters. The rest of the family hug her and then leave. It’s just me, mum and the doctor. He nods his head at mum as if to say ‘it’s okay’. I’m still holding her hand. She is struggling to breathe, but still holding on. “It’s okay mum, you can let go”, I whisper. Mum looks up at me. “Thank you”. I take a deep breath as I listen to the beeping of the monitor. Then it happens. The beep turns into a flat, piercing buzz. Her face looks peaceful. A tear rolls down my cheek.
Even though I have lost my mother, I know she will live on in my heart. No more hospital bed, no more depressing grey walls. But most importantly, she won’t suffer the pain she has lived with for so long. She is now free…