Dying From a Broken Heart

Her hands were so swollen that she could not move them from poor circulation, her heart wasn’t pumping well, although I gave them some temporary relief by massaging them, I could not relieve the pain in her heart nor stop the tears from flowing as she recited the memories that lead her to this moment. As she lie there grasping with each breath, refusing to go to the hospital, I reminded myself how I was afraid of people that were dying, because of the constant reminder of my mortality, the real final frontier, yet I stayed, because I did not want her to die there alone,. I hid her cigarettes, knowing when she got better she’ll probably be cursing me out  when she can not find them.

I meet Linda, the first day I moved into the complex. Our daughters were the same age. She seemed unusually friendly; I was familiar with the routine though, the dominant female, introducing to the new recruit the boundaries of her territory, her husband, which were not to be treaded upon. I overlooked the settle hints, knowing that she had no idea that I could never be that way. I had witness my mother suffer too much as a result of my dad’s infidelities, that even as a child, I resolved that I would not be the family wrecker, the other woman. My mom’s tears were endless, and so were Linda’s. With each tear she cried, I relived the moments spent behind my bedroom door with my ear against it, listening and wondering what my dad had did this time and when would he come back so that my mom’s ceaseless silent tears would stop. I saw glimpse of my mother in Linda and just wanted her pain to end. I was hoping the comfort I long to, but as a child could not give to console my mother’s aching heart, now as an adult I could comfort Linda. They were long suffering, even at the risk of their own health, I did not know whether that was an attribute or a hinderance. I never got her to stop smoking, but did help her to realize that in her struggles to face her demons, she would no longer have to be alone.