Patrick

I didn’t think it would happen like this.

Me, just sitting here, staring at her laying in the bed.

The fluorescent lights of the hospital room making my eyes twitch after three days of just... sitting here.

I was hesitant to come in the first place. I didn’t understand why Lexi, my oldest sister didn’t come; she was clearly mom’s favorite, not that that really meant a whole lot. I have no idea what this woman did to Luke. He always seemed to be mom’s pride and joy but he too was nowhere to be found. I couldn’t have expected Brian to come, or dad. She burned those bridges at the same time – two birds with one stone, as they say. I haven’t talked to her in ten years, but I don’t think anyone should have to die alone. Not even this woman who looks deceivingly peaceful as she lay on the precipice of death.

It’s funny, almost, how when death is immanent, everything else seems less and less important. Truly, she died to me a long time ago – and I keep replaying it in my mind.

The scene was truly a gruesome one. Not in the sense of blood and gore, but in the sense that I laid everything within me out on the table and all she did was dissect it like a scientist with specimen. She wasn’t kind; there wasn’t even care looming in her eyes. Only disgust and contempt. Her eyes burned with fury as she told me exactly what she thought of me and the “decision” that I was making.

You see, when I was young, I learned to hide things quite well. She was always so disapproving. Nothing I did could ever be good enough for her. I ran myself ragged trying to earn her love. It turns out that trophies, grades, friends, or anything else are any good at earning love. Not when a person really doesn’t care about you. So, on the day I came home to tell her about my boyfriend, Patrick, I knew, deep down that our relationship was going to change forever.

Patrick is everything that I have ever needed. I hid my own sexuality from everyone, including myself, for so long that I was just a walking cold shell of anxiety and depression. I wasn’t happy, and I don’t know if you’ve ever spent much time being unhappy, but it’s a deathly way to live. My mind was broken – I had collapsed in on myself with no hope of my true self emerging anytime soon. My heart was desolate expecting nothing but loneliness and self-loathing for the rest of my life - I couldn’t have loved if I tried. That is, after all, who Mother taught me to be. Cold, hard, and unhappy.

But Patrick, he came into my life, completely unexpected; his smile lit up the darkness that dwelled inside me in ways that I can’t even explain. There was no depth that could recluse into my cavernous well of despair that he couldn’t reach. With him, it took only a month, not for my emotional wounds to heal, but for me to learn a life-giving lesson: you don’t have to try to earn the love of someone who sees your value and your worth. No longer could I live with the fatigued loathing of myself and others. In my mind, Patrick became a symbol of everything good in the world – and I wanted him to have everything that his sweet soul deserved. But I couldn’t give it to him as I was.

I did nothing less than transform – at first for Patrick, then, slowly, also for myself. I realized that I deserved a life of love and beauty, of connection and solace. I knew she would disagree though. And I was not wrong. She disagreed feverishly. Filled with hate and disgust, she looked at me with her dead eyes, and she yelled and yelled until my head was full of confusion and chaos.

She yelled about the Bible. She yelled about how I was disgracing the family. She yelled about how “THE HOMOSEXUALS ARE RUINING MARRIAGE”. She yelled about how I would never be happy, and I would deserve it for choosing such a vile life. As she was coming to a close, nearly thirty minutes later, my mind having already shut down, I felt a moment of clarity. I felt a moment of peace. No, I didn’t just feel it – it washed over me in waves. Because Patrick had shown me what real family is. He showed me what it means to be loved and to understand my worth. All she did was make every negative thought I had ever had about myself resurface. All she did was remind me of my days of being depressed and anxious. She made me feel like a monster – like something that was only deserving to be sent to Hell and burned for the rest of eternity. Someone who would never be good enough.

In my moment of serenity, I knew what I had to do. I said, “Okay. If you feel that way, then I guess this is goodbye,” and I turned around and walked out the door. She yelled and screamed as I walked out the door. I didn’t hear a single syllable that came out of her mouth. I heard her throwing dishes, smashing them, as I was getting into my car to leave her house for the last time. And do you know what? I haven’t regretted it for one single moment since.

And ten years later, I find myself here. I didn’t think it would happen like this. Me, just sitting here, staring at her laying in the bed. Her body as decrepit and broken as she made me feel for all of those years. And do you know what? I only feel sorrow for the person she could have been. I feel only sadness that she never found what made her feel loved, valuable, special, or anything other than filled with hate. The cancer inside her is as insidious as she. But I have forgiven her; I don’t like her, but I refuse to let resentment poison me, like she would probably like. She hasn’t had power over me for a long time.

She will die, probably before tomorrow, the doctor said. But me? I still have Patrick. Patrick who lights up my world every morning when I wake up to his tender smile. Patrick, who fills my heart with joy and who has shown me what it means to love and be loved. Patrick, who, despite the torture she caused me, supported me coming here because no one else would. And so here I am. Watching the life drain out of what is left of her body. Just so she doesn’t die alone. Because despite how terrible she was, no one deserves to die alone.