I Spent Seven Hours in the ER

I can’t breathe, my mother says. Her body is volcanic. She gasps mouthfuls of air. Here we go again. Instructions: Pull on your coat and pad to the kitchen. Call the car service. We know where you live, kid. Bear the weight of her body down six flights of stairs. Zip her jacket and ease her into the car, easy, easy, and she rolls the window down and you sit in the front seat with your coat pulled up to your ears with the heat blasting because it’s snowing and cold and the night is still and cruel and the cab driver eyes her in the mirror. Shakes his head. Look at what you put your kid through. Pull her through the revolving doors. Set her down in a chair. Fill out all the forms. Hold her hand when she says the damn cigarettes will do her in when we both know smokes don’t make your body quake. Stare up at the television when they wheel her back. You’ve seen this episode of Taxi before. You’ve seen the same people in the waiting room before. The cracks in the ceiling paint are the same as before. And you sit like this and focus on steadying your breath. Don’t cry, don’t wail, don’t weep — don’t let yourself feel the hurt full and complete. And when it’s over, when you call another cab and ease her into another backseat and carry her up six flights of stairs and pull the covers over her body and smooth her hair out of her eyes, do you finally crawl into bed. You bite the pillows because it’s better than screaming. As you fall asleep you wonder when — not if — this will happen again. When you have to bear the weight of her, take care of her. You wonder if she would do this for you. <a href="https://medium.com/the-gathering-kind/bear-the-weight-of-me-c30fa36894dc">Click Here</a>