Sick Bed

My mother dropped me off outside of the hospital, giving me careful instructions on how to get her room. Go inside, take a left to Harris Tower. Take the elevator to floor 7. Turn right at the nurse's station, and right again. You will see her name outside of her room. I get to the right floor and the familiar sites surround me. The lunch cart is in the hallway, a nurse knocking on doors where tired voices let them in for the mediocre meal. Tired nurses in worn-out shoes pace the hallways carrying with them metal clipboards which hold a host of souls under their care.

I am carrying a plastic bag with two Tupperware containers of left overs for her, she gets tired of the hospital food so quickly. Tuna Helper and peas, a favorite mother makes for her that no one else will eat. I am never nervous in hospitals anymore. I see her name written in marker outside of her room, and with a deep breath I knock. Her quiet little voice calls me inside and I slowly press the lever which will open the door. I do not know what I will see.

Resting comfortably against the white sheets, she looks so tiny. Her delicate arm is wrapped around a teddy bear nearly as large as she is. The adult-sized hospital bed makes her look so much smaller than she is. Her face has several raw red sores on it but she is smiling when she sees me. Closing the door, I can not help but stare at the wounds she has inflicted on herself. Even as I watch she pulls her leg up so she can pull at a scab on it. Her leg was so thin, my first thought was the photographs of Holocaust victims. Her body was wasting away as it devoured itself for nourishment.

I sit beside her and break the uncomfortable silence with our usual questions. How did she feel. When would she be home. Was the food that bad. We share a chocolate bar and talk about my new haircut. She likes the bangs. Her room is freezing but she is covered in sweat from the steroids they give her. We laugh and joke about previous stays were I would push her around in a wheel chair late at night. We were looking for zombies and pointing out where we thought they would be. We always joked about trying to get into the morgue. The Sound of Music is on her TV, this was the Saturday before Easter.

We talked for three hours until we ran out of things to say. I gave her several hugs, her body shaking hard against mine as my arms wrap around her skeletal frame. If only I could just give her a part of myself to make her better. It always broke my heart that I had so much weight and health and she had none. Most people never know we are sisters. She is frail, thin, and short. I am tall, round, and robust. We don't even have the same eyes. I kiss her cheek despite the scabs before I head down in the dark for my mother to take me home. I tell her we had a good time and she smiles silently.

Before she pulls out to take us home, she turns to me and tells me that she will not get any better. She was waiting for the right time to tell me. She was so sorry to have to do this to me after such a pleasant visit, but my sister is never going to get better. I manage not to cry. It would not be until two days later that the shock settled in. I cried. I cried for my sister, for the life she never really had. I cried for my mother and how strong she has had to be. I cried for myself because I knew she was right. She was never going to get better.


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Photo is of my sister, the subject of my writing.