Remember Me

I used to think that the worst thing about death was ceasing to exist. But it’s really being forgotten that’s the kicker. I’m afraid that when people hear my name they won’t think of me. Tragic I know. How do I explain that my very existence is only meaningful if it’s perceived? That nothing was worth anything unless it was weighed on another’s scale?

See the thing is I’m in a coma. I’ve been in a coma for about a month. Apparently, you can get brain damage from almost anything, it could be Red 3, radiation from your microwave, plastics in our water, etc. But when I rolled those dice? 

I got into a head-on collision with a drunk driver. Go figure.  

So how did I become so self-obsessed? Truthfully after being in every sense of the word stuck in my own head, one learns to love it. That’s all I’ve been hearing about for the past month. Myself. Right after the collision, the world went dark. I couldn’t tell you how I got to a hospital or what town I’m even in. 

But then the chatter started creeping into my consciousness and pieces began knitting themselves back together. The noise was so overwhelming it actually woke me up. Before that, I just vaguely remember the warmth of my body heat under the blanket and the rhythmic beep from the heart monitor. Since then I’ve been aware of literally every freaking thing that’s been said around and about me. 

I can hear every breath, every sniffle, every weighted moment stuck in this vegetative state until my brain decides to give me control again. It's insufferable. This is sleep paralysis times a million.

Worrying about being forgotten while being the hot topic of conversation for the past month is deeply ironic, yet in my case, sadly true. I’m being forgotten slowly like I’m actually rotting away while I’m very much alive. My body has suddenly become a stone coffin and no amount of internal screaming will ever slip out. They are all talking about me in the past tense. Like I’m already a ghost watching over them and they’re looking at my picture on the ofrenda. I’m STILL here. But no one can hear me.

I'm terrified that sooner or later with my breathing corpse in front of them-they soon won't even see me.

Mom comes in each day and she talks about her favorite memories of me. I even heard two of my cousins admit how they did in fact attempt to ruin my 13th birthday. It was always a theory but one I never had solid proof of. Those little shits got away with it. My throat almost itches with the urge to scream. 

Even the nurses, who are literally monitoring me for signs of life (which I have) seem to have lost hope. Their voices lose their chip, their breaths are slower, longer. Every few minutes being decorated with a sigh. Sighing is such a luxury now. I would chop off my big toe just for the freedom to sigh again. 

Someone shuffles in – Victor. My younger (and much drunker) brother. “How… could you leave …meee?” His voice breaks and I’d laugh if I was physically capable. Victor was never much of a drinker but this month has done a number on him. I’ll give him that much.

It’s comforting to know that my death means his life falls apart. It’s selfish but it’s the only thing I can hold onto in limbo so I’m taking it. Sue me. 

“You weren’t supposed to leave before me.” He chokes out. Okay, getting darker…

“You were supposed to get old and then I would get old and I don’t know but it wasn’t supposed to be like this.” His sniffling becomes coughing and then irritation. 

The alcohol is catching up to him. By the rambling I’m guessing whiskey. But by his slurring? I’d make a bet at rum. Let’s roll the dice. 

“Everyone is already acting like you’re gone. Like you’re past tense and in the ground! You were always so smart and so – (Yea and look where being smart gets you)–so um smart and you always knew stuff and...” 

Whiskey then.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there sometimes. I know that I should have been but I just got distracted.” His voice continues with this raspy quality like he’s been smoking. I wonder if he ended up getting hooked again. 

It’s a comforting confession but I could not bring myself (or literally anything for that matter) to listen further–I know I know dick move to tune him out in his not so sober soliloquy. 

It does get exhausting though. Even if it’s my younger brother falling to pieces. 

Turns out my sense of empathy might have gone into a vegetative state too. 

“I just keep thinking… What if you don’t wake up? What if the last thing I said to you was me complaining about Mom?”

Well Mom was being annoying that day even I’ll admit that.

He continues to ramble about how last week she was complaining about his laundry. Which yes, weeks worth of laundry is gross and annoying. But it was in his apartment that she doesn’t live in so my vote is to let the slob be a slob and enjoy a glass of champagne in your clean house. Several minutes tick by, each enunciated by the heart monitor. Until one sentence rings clear as a bell. 

“I know you can hear me.” 

I would freeze if I fucking could.

My ears strain to hear more until a stumble, a shuffle, and him creaking into my very small space. 

He leans in closer, his breath heavy with cheap whiskey and whispers, “If you can hear me, give me a sign.” 

There are no words for how loud my internal screaming got at that statement. There's no way he knows I’m still here, can he? He’s completely plastered at 2pm on a Tuesday (thank the lord for the nurse complaining about her shift earlier). But still there’s no way he could know right? Right?

And then I could have sworn my toe twitched.