When she arrived the week before Christmas, I was very careful never to cough in front of her. I wouldn’t take my medications in front of her. I did everything I could to appear like a vibrant, healthy child so that she’d have no choice but to see me as the child she’d always wished I was and that she would take me back to Paris with her. But that didn’t happen because on Christmas morning, I overheard her and my grandmother having an argument. My grandmother was telling my mother that she wanted her to move back to the States. She said she was concerned about what would happen to me when they died of old age. “What will Maggie do when we’re gone if you’re not around to care for her? You need to come back to the States and develop a better relationship with her.”
I will never forget the words my mother said to her in response.
“You’re worried about things that may never happen, Mother. Maggie will more than likely succumb to her illness before either of you succumb to old age.”
I was so shattered by her response to my grandmother that I ran back to my bedroom and refused to speak to her for the rest of her trip. In fact, that was the last time I ever spoke to her. She cut her trip short and left the day after Christmas.
She sort of faded out of my life after that. She called my grandmother to check in every month or so, but she never came back for Christmas, because every year I told my grandmother I didn’t want to see her. Then, when I was fourteen, my mother passed away. She was traveling from France to Brussels on a train for a business trip and suffered a massive heart attack. No one on the train even noticed she had died until three stations past her stop.
When I found out about her death, I went to my bedroom and cried. But I didn’t cry because she died. I cried because as dramatic as she was, she never made a dramatic attempt at winning my forgiveness. I think it’s because it was easier for her to live a life without me while I was mad at her than when I was missing her.
Two years after her passing, my grandmother died. That was the hardest thing I’ve ever endured. I still don’t think I’ve fully absorbed her passing. She loved me more than anyone had ever loved me, so when she died, I felt the absolute loss of that love.
And now my grandfather—the last of the people who raised me—has been put on hospice due to recently declined health, coupled with a case of pneumonia he’s too weak to fight. My grandfather will pass away any day now, and because of my Cystic Fibrosis and the nature of his illness, I am not allowed to see him and tell him goodbye. He’ll likely die sometime this week, and just like my grandmother feared, they’ll all be gone and I’ll be all alone.
I guess my mother was wrong about me succumbing to my illness before them. I’ll outlive them all.
I know my experience with my mother hinders all my other relationships. It’s hard for me to fathom that someone else could love me despite my illness, when my own mother wasn’t even able to do that.
Ridge did, though. He was in it with me for the long haul. But I guess that was the problem. Ridge and I wouldn’t have stayed together as long as we did if it weren’t for my illness. We were too different. So, I guess whatever end of the spectrum people are on—whether they are too selfish to take care of me or too selfless to stop—I’m going to resent them. Because for whatever reason, I seem to have lost a piece of myself to this illness.
I wake up thinking about this illness. I spend my day thinking about it. I fall asleep thinking about it. I even have nightmares about it. As much as I claim that I am not my illness, somewhere along the way, it has consumed me.
There are days I’m able to break out of this web, but there are more days that I’m not. It’s why I never wanted Ridge to move in with me. I can lie to myself and lie to him and say that it’s because I wanted to be independent, but in reality, it’s because I didn’t want him to see the dark side of me. The side that gives up more than it fights. The side that resents more than it appreciates. The side that wants to face all of this with dignity, when really, I can hardly even accept it with disdain.
I’m sure everyone who fights to live on a daily basis has moments where they give up every now and again. But these aren’t just moments for me. Lately, they’ve become my norm.
I wish I could go back to Tuesday. Tuesday was great. Tuesday, I woke up wanting to conquer the world. And by Tuesday night, I sort of had.
But then Wednesday morning happened, when I overreacted and made Jake leave. Friday happened, when I finally swallowed my pride, but then ended up in the hospital, drowning in my own humiliation. Then Friday night happened, when I just wanted to forget the ups and downs of the past few days, but our fight was a new low for the week.
And if Friday night was my low, Saturday morning was my rock bottom.
Or maybe today is. I don’t know. I’d say they’ve been equal.
I can’t even focus on school. I have two months left, and I sometimes think Ridge was right. I’ve worked so hard on my graduate degree in order to begin work on my doctorate, only to feel like I accomplished something. But maybe I should have put all my energy into something more worthwhile, like making friends and building an actual life for myself outside of school and my illness.
I’ve worked at proving myself to no one but myself. In the end, it’s left me with nothing but a graduate degree that no one really cares about but me.
I wish there was a magic pill that could get me out of this funk. I’m sure if Warren had his way, that magic pill would come in the form of an apology. He texted me this morning to let me know he was sorry for the stunt he pulled when he told Ridge I was upset, but then he scolded me for posting that picture of Ridge in my bed and told me I should apologize.
I didn’t respond to him, because I wasn’t in the mood for Righteous Warren this morning. I swear, every time there’s a wrinkle in a scenario, he pulls out his iron and tries to smooth everything, while burning us all in the process. He’s like a Sour Patch Kid. Sour and then sweet. Or sweet and then sour. There’s no in between with Warren. He’s completely transparent, and sometimes that’s not a good thing.
But, I’ve never had to wonder what Warren is thinking, nor have I ever worried about hurting his feelings. He’s impenetrable, but I think because he’s impenetrable, he assumes everyone else is, too. As much as I can appreciate him, it’s not enough for me to respond to his texts from this morning with anything other than, Don’t want to talk about it yet. Text you tomorrow.
I knew if I didn’t let him know I was okay, he’d show up at my front door to make sure nothing happened to me. Which is precisely why I texted him.
But…I don’t think it worked. Because my doorbell is ringing. There’s only a small chance that it’s Warren, though. My bet is that it’s my landlord. Since I informed her a few months ago that I’d be moving back to Austin soon to start my doctorate, she’s brought me a loaf of banana bread every Sunday. I think she does it to make sure I’m still living here and that I haven’t destroyed the house, but whether it’s out of kindness or nosiness, I don’t really care. It’s damn good banana bread.
I open the door and force a smile, but my smile falls flat. It’s not banana bread.
It’s Sydney.
I am so confused. I glance behind her and look to see if she’s here with Ridge, but Ridge isn’t behind her. Nor is his car in the driveway. I look at her.
“It’s just me,” she says.
Why would Sydney show up at my house alone? I look her up and down, taking in her casual jeans and T-shirt, her flip flops, her thick blond hair that’s pulled up into a ponytail. I don’t know why she’s here, but if any other girlfriend showed up at their boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend’s house, they wouldn’t show up looking this casual, even if it were just to borrow a cup of sugar. Women like making other women jealous. They especially like making the women who have slept with the men they’re in love with jealous. Most women would show up in their most flattering outfit with sculpted makeup and perfect hair.
Seeing Sydney at my front door is jarring enough for me to want to close it in her face, but seeing that her goal has nothing to do with making me envious of her is enough for me to step back and wave her inside.
I will never forget the words my mother said to her in response.
“You’re worried about things that may never happen, Mother. Maggie will more than likely succumb to her illness before either of you succumb to old age.”
I was so shattered by her response to my grandmother that I ran back to my bedroom and refused to speak to her for the rest of her trip. In fact, that was the last time I ever spoke to her. She cut her trip short and left the day after Christmas.
She sort of faded out of my life after that. She called my grandmother to check in every month or so, but she never came back for Christmas, because every year I told my grandmother I didn’t want to see her. Then, when I was fourteen, my mother passed away. She was traveling from France to Brussels on a train for a business trip and suffered a massive heart attack. No one on the train even noticed she had died until three stations past her stop.
When I found out about her death, I went to my bedroom and cried. But I didn’t cry because she died. I cried because as dramatic as she was, she never made a dramatic attempt at winning my forgiveness. I think it’s because it was easier for her to live a life without me while I was mad at her than when I was missing her.
Two years after her passing, my grandmother died. That was the hardest thing I’ve ever endured. I still don’t think I’ve fully absorbed her passing. She loved me more than anyone had ever loved me, so when she died, I felt the absolute loss of that love.
And now my grandfather—the last of the people who raised me—has been put on hospice due to recently declined health, coupled with a case of pneumonia he’s too weak to fight. My grandfather will pass away any day now, and because of my Cystic Fibrosis and the nature of his illness, I am not allowed to see him and tell him goodbye. He’ll likely die sometime this week, and just like my grandmother feared, they’ll all be gone and I’ll be all alone.
I guess my mother was wrong about me succumbing to my illness before them. I’ll outlive them all.
I know my experience with my mother hinders all my other relationships. It’s hard for me to fathom that someone else could love me despite my illness, when my own mother wasn’t even able to do that.
Ridge did, though. He was in it with me for the long haul. But I guess that was the problem. Ridge and I wouldn’t have stayed together as long as we did if it weren’t for my illness. We were too different. So, I guess whatever end of the spectrum people are on—whether they are too selfish to take care of me or too selfless to stop—I’m going to resent them. Because for whatever reason, I seem to have lost a piece of myself to this illness.
I wake up thinking about this illness. I spend my day thinking about it. I fall asleep thinking about it. I even have nightmares about it. As much as I claim that I am not my illness, somewhere along the way, it has consumed me.
There are days I’m able to break out of this web, but there are more days that I’m not. It’s why I never wanted Ridge to move in with me. I can lie to myself and lie to him and say that it’s because I wanted to be independent, but in reality, it’s because I didn’t want him to see the dark side of me. The side that gives up more than it fights. The side that resents more than it appreciates. The side that wants to face all of this with dignity, when really, I can hardly even accept it with disdain.
I’m sure everyone who fights to live on a daily basis has moments where they give up every now and again. But these aren’t just moments for me. Lately, they’ve become my norm.
I wish I could go back to Tuesday. Tuesday was great. Tuesday, I woke up wanting to conquer the world. And by Tuesday night, I sort of had.
But then Wednesday morning happened, when I overreacted and made Jake leave. Friday happened, when I finally swallowed my pride, but then ended up in the hospital, drowning in my own humiliation. Then Friday night happened, when I just wanted to forget the ups and downs of the past few days, but our fight was a new low for the week.
And if Friday night was my low, Saturday morning was my rock bottom.
Or maybe today is. I don’t know. I’d say they’ve been equal.
I can’t even focus on school. I have two months left, and I sometimes think Ridge was right. I’ve worked so hard on my graduate degree in order to begin work on my doctorate, only to feel like I accomplished something. But maybe I should have put all my energy into something more worthwhile, like making friends and building an actual life for myself outside of school and my illness.
I’ve worked at proving myself to no one but myself. In the end, it’s left me with nothing but a graduate degree that no one really cares about but me.
I wish there was a magic pill that could get me out of this funk. I’m sure if Warren had his way, that magic pill would come in the form of an apology. He texted me this morning to let me know he was sorry for the stunt he pulled when he told Ridge I was upset, but then he scolded me for posting that picture of Ridge in my bed and told me I should apologize.
I didn’t respond to him, because I wasn’t in the mood for Righteous Warren this morning. I swear, every time there’s a wrinkle in a scenario, he pulls out his iron and tries to smooth everything, while burning us all in the process. He’s like a Sour Patch Kid. Sour and then sweet. Or sweet and then sour. There’s no in between with Warren. He’s completely transparent, and sometimes that’s not a good thing.
But, I’ve never had to wonder what Warren is thinking, nor have I ever worried about hurting his feelings. He’s impenetrable, but I think because he’s impenetrable, he assumes everyone else is, too. As much as I can appreciate him, it’s not enough for me to respond to his texts from this morning with anything other than, Don’t want to talk about it yet. Text you tomorrow.
I knew if I didn’t let him know I was okay, he’d show up at my front door to make sure nothing happened to me. Which is precisely why I texted him.
But…I don’t think it worked. Because my doorbell is ringing. There’s only a small chance that it’s Warren, though. My bet is that it’s my landlord. Since I informed her a few months ago that I’d be moving back to Austin soon to start my doctorate, she’s brought me a loaf of banana bread every Sunday. I think she does it to make sure I’m still living here and that I haven’t destroyed the house, but whether it’s out of kindness or nosiness, I don’t really care. It’s damn good banana bread.
I open the door and force a smile, but my smile falls flat. It’s not banana bread.
It’s Sydney.
I am so confused. I glance behind her and look to see if she’s here with Ridge, but Ridge isn’t behind her. Nor is his car in the driveway. I look at her.
“It’s just me,” she says.
Why would Sydney show up at my house alone? I look her up and down, taking in her casual jeans and T-shirt, her flip flops, her thick blond hair that’s pulled up into a ponytail. I don’t know why she’s here, but if any other girlfriend showed up at their boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend’s house, they wouldn’t show up looking this casual, even if it were just to borrow a cup of sugar. Women like making other women jealous. They especially like making the women who have slept with the men they’re in love with jealous. Most women would show up in their most flattering outfit with sculpted makeup and perfect hair.
Seeing Sydney at my front door is jarring enough for me to want to close it in her face, but seeing that her goal has nothing to do with making me envious of her is enough for me to step back and wave her inside.
