Page 10 of Tell Me I'm Enough

I actually hate them, because now when I see them I’ll think about how she’ll be one of them soon and won’t be here anymore…but I still want her to say something that’ll make me feel better.

She pulls me back to her so my head is lying on her chest, and I can hear her heartbeat.

“Okay,” she says. “You know how butterflies look so fragile and breakable ‘cause they’re small?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, they aren’t,” she says. “They travel thousands and thousands of miles with their little paper wings. People think strength is loud and obvious…but sometimes it’s not. Sometimes it’s quiet and stubborn. That’s us, Mason. That’s how we’ll do this. Remember that.”

“I will.”

3

Mason

Age-Thirteen

Two years ago, Saturday mornings were filled with Cartoon Network, the smell of breakfast cooking, and my mom’s terrible singing in the kitchen. Now all I hear when I wake up are machines and silence throughout the house.

At least when I hear the machines, I know she’s still alive. She’s here for another day. As unfair as that may actually be to her.

I’m selfish in wanting her here, even when she’s suffering through each day now.

I’ve learned how to do a lot for her, though. I can do almost everything she needs. The new nurses who come around are always impressed with me.

I know how to give her the medication she needs, I know how to keep her comfortable, and I know how to feed her so that her hands and arms don’t cramp up from the effort.

I know I’m only thirteen, but I feel a lot older with a checklist of responsibilities I have every day.

Dad always hounds me about still putting school and sports first, but how can I when my life is getting closer and closer to changing for the worse?

Hemight not care, but I’ll never stop puttingherfirst. She’s always taken care of me. Theonlyonewho has. So I can do the same for her now. It might sound lame, but I don’t care. My mom is my best friend. Always has been. Why wouldn’t I want to take care of her?

I walk over to the doorway of her bedroom—the one my dad doesn’t even sleep in—and just look at her. It feels like she gets smaller every single day, like this stupid disease is sucking the life out of her right in front of me.

You’ve taken enough, ALS. Leave her alone now. Let her have some peace at the end.

When I walk inside the room, she smiles at me. It’s barely a smile; her muscles are too weak, but I see it. Her eyes still smile for her; they always do when she sees me.

“Hey…baby,” she whispers. It’s as loud as she can be anymore.

“Hey,” I tell her, pulling a chair closer to her bed. “Do you want me to open the windows up?”

She nods weakly.

I stand up and slowly pull the curtains back so they don’t blind her with the brightness, then unlock the windows and lift them to let the warm Florida morning air in.

It can get stagnant in this room pretty quickly, so I always try to let in fresh air when the weather is nice and keep her plants watered in the room in case it could help her somehow.

The last nurse who came in hasn’t left in two days, and my dad is home early from his trip. That’s how I know it’s getting bad.

He walks into the room right as the nurse steps out to make a call. It’s just the three of us now, and I don’t like the way it feels. It feels like the end of a day, even though the day has just started.

Mom’s breath hitches, and I can hear how hard it is for her to get air in on her own. I scoot my chair closer and grab her hand. It’s cooler than normal and really light. My dad moves closer, and for a second, I think he might touch her, but he doesn’t. His eyes are shiny, though, and he blinks it back quickly.

“Mase,” she struggles to get out.

I bite the inside of my lip, trying not to cry. “It’s okay, Mom. You don’t have to talk, just…rest, okay?”