Sitting

I'm sitting crosslegged, currently, and there's smooth jazz playing from a CD player in the corner. The lighting is dim. It could almost be a nice, classy jazz bar, were it not for the constant humming noise coming from the giant machine across the room that my mom is currently nestled inside, wrapped up tightly like a human burrito and under strict instructions not to move her head "an inch."

She's getting a PET/CT scan.

I noticed something this evening that I overlooked before. Up on the ceiling, right where her head sticks out, the monotony of the white ceiling squares is broken by a rouge tile painted with the scene of a rainbowed hot air balloon soaring through vibrant blue skies. A thoughtful gesture, that.

All I want is to be normal. Not to have to be the mother, the caretaker. I have no one to lean on. I refuse to, even if someone were to offer me a shoulder to cry on, I wouldn't take it. To do so would be to weaken myself, to share some of the burden.

But what happens when the person you choose to share with drops their half of the load?

No. I'm fine. And I will be fine. I promised myself I would be strong this time. I knew it would be hard, harder than before. But I'll be fine.

I just want to be normal.