Jun 2014
In 72 hours,
1,782 minutes,
103,680 seconds,
How many times can you tell someone you love them?
How many prayers can you pray?
How many tears can you cry in three days?
Too many.
Your world can change completely,
Being thrown off its axis, spinning loosely into insanity.
72 hours: she has weeks to live, the doctors all say.
We can’t do much, but we still pray.
Believing in miracles seems like a waste of time.
But yet we can’t bring ourselves to stop trying,
Hoping that someone in the sky will hear our prayers and wake us all up.
From this nightmare.
I make a pact to myself, I will fill every second, with thoughts of hellos, not goodbyes,
Until the second that she dies.
60 hours: not much to say. She’s dying.
50 hours: Her kidneys failing fast.
48 hours: In a crowded room, I have never felt more alone.
30 hours: Hold up, slow down, you say she only has twenty-four hours to live? What happened to weeks? Every tick, tick, tick of the seconds passing by becomes unbearable. Watching as your mother weeps, trying to hold in the tears, trying to be strong, but, now, what’s the point?
24 hours: Time flies by as your holding on, but passes so slow it is as if you are in slow motion. You hold her hand as tightly as possible as if the second you loosen your grip they will be laying her down in the grave
15 hours: I cannot sleep. I cannot sleep. I cannot sleep, I repeat and repeat as if sure willpower will keep my body going. I tell her “it’s okay. It’s okay to leave.” The words get caught in my throat and I am barely able to breath, or spit out a sad, “I can survive,” knowing with every inch of my soul it’s a lie, but I know I can’t admit this to her, because, it’s time to go.
6 hours: Time is up according to the doctors, just a waiting game now. It’s three in the morning, my hand still in hers. Willpower isn’t enough, I drift off to sleep.
1 hour: I can’t do this...
30 minutes: Memories flooding my head of the words I never said, of the things I never did, never had the chance to do.
10 minutes: Like, go dress shopping for homecoming.
9: Or have her approve my fiancé
8: Or sleepover when I got in a fight with my dad.
7: Or tell her enough times that I love her.
6: Or be a bridesmaid as she married the love of her life.
5: Or hold her hand as my first baby was born.
4: Everyone leaves the room. I can feel it’s the end.
3: Someone, please come in, I can’t do this by myself.
2: I am trembling, trying to find my vocal cords, terrified, I squeeze her hand.
1: Mom walks in the door, breath in, breath out, flat line.
1,782 minutes,
103,680 seconds,
How many times can you tell someone you love them?
How many prayers can you pray?
How many tears can you cry in three days?
Too many.
Your world can change completely,
Being thrown off its axis, spinning loosely into insanity.
72 hours: she has weeks to live, the doctors all say.
We can’t do much, but we still pray.
Believing in miracles seems like a waste of time.
But yet we can’t bring ourselves to stop trying,
Hoping that someone in the sky will hear our prayers and wake us all up.
From this nightmare.
I make a pact to myself, I will fill every second, with thoughts of hellos, not goodbyes,
Until the second that she dies.
60 hours: not much to say. She’s dying.
50 hours: Her kidneys failing fast.
48 hours: In a crowded room, I have never felt more alone.
30 hours: Hold up, slow down, you say she only has twenty-four hours to live? What happened to weeks? Every tick, tick, tick of the seconds passing by becomes unbearable. Watching as your mother weeps, trying to hold in the tears, trying to be strong, but, now, what’s the point?
24 hours: Time flies by as your holding on, but passes so slow it is as if you are in slow motion. You hold her hand as tightly as possible as if the second you loosen your grip they will be laying her down in the grave
15 hours: I cannot sleep. I cannot sleep. I cannot sleep, I repeat and repeat as if sure willpower will keep my body going. I tell her “it’s okay. It’s okay to leave.” The words get caught in my throat and I am barely able to breath, or spit out a sad, “I can survive,” knowing with every inch of my soul it’s a lie, but I know I can’t admit this to her, because, it’s time to go.
6 hours: Time is up according to the doctors, just a waiting game now. It’s three in the morning, my hand still in hers. Willpower isn’t enough, I drift off to sleep.
1 hour: I can’t do this...
30 minutes: Memories flooding my head of the words I never said, of the things I never did, never had the chance to do.
10 minutes: Like, go dress shopping for homecoming.
9: Or have her approve my fiancé
8: Or sleepover when I got in a fight with my dad.
7: Or tell her enough times that I love her.
6: Or be a bridesmaid as she married the love of her life.
5: Or hold her hand as my first baby was born.
4: Everyone leaves the room. I can feel it’s the end.
3: Someone, please come in, I can’t do this by myself.
2: I am trembling, trying to find my vocal cords, terrified, I squeeze her hand.
1: Mom walks in the door, breath in, breath out, flat line.
