The Day I Lost A Part Of Me

• Jessica Martin, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2009

On the 25th of March 2001 my life took a drastic change for the worse, something which was once a hospitalised fading memory was in fact a part of me which would be lost.
The week starting the 22nd of March I was staying at my Grandparent’s house, a school holidays tradition. Compared to others, my Nana and I have a unique relationship, easily being considered as mother and daughter. Her warm, cosy house is like a second home to me. Her residence is almost fifty years old, cream bricked, with a large tree out the front that my rebellious cousins and I used to climb. My Grandparents were always good to me, spoiling me like most do, but they always knew that I was mature for my age and that with some things they couldn’t beat around the bush. This particular visit wasn’t just a chance for me to get away; it was a chance for my distant but loving Dad to organise and make decisions. “Mum is very, very sick,” Dad said quietly, “Much worse than what she usually is,” easily believed by the gullible ten year old that I once was.
Falling pregnant when I was five years old, my Mother had an ectopic pregnancy. During the operation she had an allergic reaction to the anaesthetic but was treated incorrectly, sending her into a coma where she would stay for the next five years. Growing up over the next five years was hard, trying to fill the hole that a female figures absence left and trying to avoid seeing my lifeless, vegetable like Mother. Over time the smell of the cruel, cold hospital became familiar to me, one which I now refuse to encounter. Her skin was a constant pale white, despite her Mediterranean heritage and her figure slowly wasted away until she was the size of a small child.
Two days later I was told I had to go see my Mother. I was bitter, and despite my arguments I was dragged to the Royal Adelaide Hospital. The wide and looming sliding doors opened and the antique smell of disinfectant and the elderly hit me with striking force. Three floors up, second corridor on the right, once again I was facing my lifeless Mother who I had grown up without and knew nothing about. My family stood around her; sullen looks controlled their faces, all avoiding eye contact. My Nana sat in the rickety cane chair in the corner, her eyes red, a crumpled tissue lay on her lap. Standing behind her, my Uncle and Papa had a hand on each of her shoulders, trying to offer some sort of stability.
“Mum’s going to sleep; she’ll never wake up again. Say goodbye please”, whispered Dad. Sitting beside her bed, holding her withered hand in my own as everyone left the room quietly. I looked at the motionless, small figure she had become. Here was the person that gave birth to me, that I looked so much alike, that I shared so many traits with and yet I knew nothing about. Sitting there, simply holding her cold, limp hand in my own, I had nothing to say. Close to fifteen minutes later my family re-entered the room, and I realised the tears were streaming down my face.
The next day I was back at my loving Grandparent’s home, awaking in the spare room to the smell of bacon and eggs. Slowly getting up from my slumber I moved to the kitchen, the usual warmth and friendliness of the home had disappeared, outside it was a muggy and overcast day. Sitting at the table, my Nana handed me my breakfast. “Here you go, love”. Even with the faint smile and shaky voice I still felt secure. The phone rang; two ear piercing rings and Nana answered the disturbance in her bedroom. Moment’s later faint, quiet laughter was heard; I disregarded my now cold French toast and headed to investigate.
Walking down the hallway towards my grandparents’ room; the hallway seemed longer than usual, almost never-ending. “What’s so funny?” Echoing in the hallway, my words hung in the air. Entering the room I saw my Nana sitting on the bed, rocking backwards and forwards, head in her hands, speaking in a foreign tongue through hysterical sobs. My smile quickly faded and I turned to my usually humorous Papa for reassurance. “Your mother passed away this morning.” That simple phrase froze in my mind then begun to sink in. My world crumbled before me; standing there, numb with pain and hurt. Sinking to my knees, the unstoppable tears streamed down my face. Weeping for someone who I had a one way relationship with for five years and knew nothing about. The rest of the day passed as a blurred memory, vague thoughts rushed through my head, one question still nagged at me like a whining child.
Why me?
A week later the dark, eerie funeral was held. I chose the flowers for her coffin, gerberas, her favourite apparently. During the burial it seemed hundreds of people walked past me, kissing my tear stained cheek, holding my tissue filled hand, somehow trying to offer their condolences. Family and friends came back to our house for supper; sitting in my cluttered cubby house, I separated myself from the rest of the group. As each day passes I remind my family of her more and more, as my appearance and traits are identical to hers and grows more so with my age. I aspire to be a tiny bit like the amazing person she was. Losing a part of myself that day was horrific, a part which will never be recovered. A part of her still lives on through me, a part which becomes more solid and active every day, which is a comfort to the pain I still bear.