She asked if I would allow them to perform life-saving actions. If my heart stops, do I want to be revived, if my lungs fail, do I want to be intubated.
I said, without hesitation, no thank you.
I think I took her by surprise. She told me again what it all meant, and I shrugged my shoulders. She doesn’t know how many times I’ve tried to die. She doesn’t know that it would just be an easier way out for me.
I’ve spent the last 16 years in and out of the hospital. I really hate the likelihood that the end years of my life will likely be spent in a hospital.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if my hospital experiences weren’t so laden with horror. Hospitals are supposed to be safe, healing spaces. But how could they be when that evil woman sat there next to me?
She was never there out of care and concern. She was there to control me. I lay there in my weakest moment and she took it all from me. And I couldn’t fight back. I couldn’t say no. I couldn’t tell her to leave.
Because no one would have understood. They thought she was a loving mother. They didn’t know she was a monster waiting to wreak her havoc. Because the monsters were never under my bed, they were always beside it.
I am trying to be strong. I crack a joke with the doctor. I take a selfie from my hospital bed. But I’m also crying. Because even though the chair next to me is empty, I can still see my mother there, waiting to hurt me.
Don’t revive me. Don’t intubate me. Don’t save my life. I’d rather die than keep remembering.