~Decisions~
Varun Reddy

May 7th

11:45AM

Standing shackled to the ground, I gaze at the sky.

Envy fills my heart as I watch the effortless soar of the birds above me. Their freedom calls to me. I want to ride the wind's invisible waves, to see the world for what it would be like without any pain, loss or heartbreak.

I want to know the feeling of exhilaration of freefall, or how light my bones would feel, how it would be to sing sweet songs instead of my words filled with snark and hate.

There would be nothing to constrain me or hold me back. I would chase the sun to the corners of the earth.

If the winter ever tried to grip me in its icy tendrils, I would simply fly to the lands of eternal summer and perch myself on the highest branch. I would build a hidden nest and live unburdened by human woes.

So, if there is a God, then let me trade my arms for wings and lift myself into the endless blues.

I hate hospitals– the way they looked, smelled, and even how ominous they often felt.

The steady beep of the heart monitor fills the sterile hospital room. I use the sound to reassure myself that my mother is still with me. I sat in the uncomfortable plastic chair, my fingers interlaced tightly in my lap. My eyes refuse to leave my mother's pale face.

She somehow looks even smaller now, lying slack and unresponsive on the hospital bed. The unique scent of hospitals hangs in the air lingering with the faint scent of the lunch my mother's colleague had dropped for me, but I can't get myself to eat. It has only been three hours since I got the call that my mother had fainted but it seems like an eternity has passed.

A nurse quietly enters, checking vitals and adjusting IV lines. She offers me a sympathetic smile before leaving.

I lean forward, gently taking my mother's hand. It feels cold and fragile. The pit in my stomach grows as I continue watching her face. "Come on, mom," I whisper, rubbing my thumb across her knuckles. "You have to open your eyes, please."

I don't know how long I sit there before I feel a slight pressure on my hand. I look down, heart racing, to see my mother's fingers curling around my own. Her eyelids flutter, and slowly, finally, open.

"Varun," she calls out, her voice hoarse.

I leap to my feet. "Mom, are you okay? Can you hear me?" My words tumble out in a rush. "Wait, hold on. I need to call the doctor." Gently, I disentangle her fingers from mine, squeezing her hand reassuringly before hurrying out to alert the medical staff.

The next two hours pass in a whirlwind of activity. Doctors ordered a bunch of tests, and we went around the hospital, from one department to another.

We finally return to her room. "Careful," I murmur, supporting her as she eases back onto the bed. Once she is settled, propped up against the pillows, I perch on the edge of her mattress. "How are you feeling?"

Her silence was deafening. I shake my head, frustration and fear bubbling up. "Mom, how many times have I told you to take care of yourself? You never listen." My voice cracked slightly. "Why do you do this? What if something serious had happened to you?"

"Then I would have been punished for my sins," she whispers, her voice hollow. The familiar vacant look clouds her eyes, and my heart sinks. It's happening again - that terrifying dissociation that had haunted my childhood. I would often find her lost in her thoughts, completely dissociated from herself. She would be there with me physically, but her mind would be in a reality she completely made up in her head.

"Mom, please," I plead, grasping her hand. "What sins? What are you talking about?"

Her gaze locked onto mine, suddenly blazing with intensity. "When you were growing inside me, I swore on my life that I'd try my best to keep you safe. That your father would never hurt you the way he hurt me." Her voice breaks, thick with self-loathing. "But I failed you. God,I failed you completely. You must despise me, Varun. How could you not?" She clutched my face, her nails digging into my skin. "Hate me," she begs, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Please, Varun. Please hate me! It's the only way I can bear this guilt!"

"Mom," I try to steady her trembling hands. "I don't hate you. I could never-"

"Why" she wails. "I destroyed everything! Your innocence, your childhood, your trust. All because I was too weak, too cowardly to shield you." Her voice dropped to a haunted whisper. "The scars he left on you... Do they still burn? Don't they torment you like they do me?"

I swallow hard. "There's no more pain. I'm all healed. That man is gone and he will never hurt us again. He has no impact on our life anymore."

"Is that so?" she challenges, her voice laced with bitter disbelief. "Is that why you never smile, never laugh, never do anything that children your age should? You don't even have friends, Varun. Don't lie to your mother."

Her words cut deep, each one a knife twisting in my gut. I force a chuckle, the sound hollow even to my own ears. "Who says I have no friends?" The lie tastes acrid on my tongue. "I do have friends. And what son tells his mother about the fun he has in college? That's the first rule of mother-son relationships, isn't it?"

"You have friends?" she asks, her eyes searching mine. I could see her internal struggle – the part of her that knew I was lying warring with the part that desperately wanted to believe her son was indeed happy.

"Yes, In fact I even have a girlfriend. The only reason I didn't tell you is because I thought you wouldn't like it." My heart breaking at the hope flickering in her eyes. 

"Tell me more about her. Is she in your class? Why haven't you introduced me to her? I want to meet her. Call her here now." 

 I manage a smile. "I will bring her here, but not today. Once you are better. Now, please, lie back down and rest. Your test results should be in. I'll go discuss them with your doctor, okay?" She goes to argue, but I shake my head. "If you don't listen to everything I say, I'll break up with her."

That silences her and she nods distractedly, already retreating into her own world.  I mechanically walked to the front desk to ask about mom's reports.

"The doctor is in the oncology department discussing another patient's case. I'll let him know you are coming down there."

I drag my feet to the elevator bank and press the button to call an elevator. When the doors open, I step inside, grateful to find it empty. I press the button for the fifth floor and lean against the back wall, closing my eyes for a moment.

The elevator doors begin to close when a hand with sparkly pink nail polish stops them. As they slide open, I find myself face to face with Sanjana. Her eyes widen, her smile faltering before a larger, obviously fake one takes its place.

"Varun?"she says, her voice sickeningly sweet. Then her expression shifts. "Wait, are you crying?

That's when I realize that I'm indeed crying. Embarrassed and caught off guard, I quickly turn away, hastily wiping at my cheeks with the sleeve of my shirt. I take a deep, shaky breath, trying to compose myself before facing her again. "What are you doing here?" I snarl, my voice dripping with venom. "Are you stalking me now? How pathetic can you get?" I continue, not giving her a chance to respond. "How many times do I have to spell it out for your entitled, pea-sized brain? I. Don't. Want. To. Tutor. You."

She glares at me, her eyes flashing with hurt and indignation, but I'm too far gone to care. "You think just because Daddy bought you everything, the world revolves around you?" I sneer. "News flash, princess: your money can't buy brains or even basic human decency." Stepping into her personal space, I add, "I haven't seen a more shameless and pathetic person. You literally have no pride or self-respect and are really the most annoying and obnoxious person I have ever met in my life."

Sanjana's eyes widen, filling with tears, but I press on relentlessly.

"A goldfish is probably more intelligent than you. You can't even cheat properly."

My chest heaves as I finish, adrenaline coursing through my veins. Tears now free falling down her cheeks. The sight stops me cold, guilt beginning to creep in at the edges of my anger.

Sanjana reaches into her purse, her shoulders trembling slightly. She pulls out a badge and holds it up, practically shoving it in my face. "I volunteer here," she says, her voice quavering. "And just so you know, I've been doing this since the first year of university." Her words hit me like a punch to the gut, but she's not finished. "You are such an asshole and I hate you," she continues, tears still streaming down her face. "I may not be as intelligent as you, but at least I'm not cruel like you are."

Before I can respond, she turns on her heel and rushes out of the elevator, leaving me standing there. Rubbing my face roughly, I try to push back the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm me. I need to focus on my mother's health right now. That's what's important.

I tell myself it doesn't matter whether Sanjana hates me or what she thinks of me.

With a heavy sigh, I step out of the elevator, forcing myself to concentrate on finding my mother's doctor.

📕

"Varun," the doctor begins after reading through the reports. Her hands neatly folded on the table over the file.

"Is everything okay with mom?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady. "I keep telling her to take her medications on time, but..." my voice trails off as the doctor gives me an empathetic smile.

"We've reviewed your mother's latest scans," she says, her tone measured. "As you know she has a severe brain injury." It was a courtesy of my father. "The injury is causing significant pressure on her brain, and this is why she lost consciousness."

"Her other doctor suggested surgery," I reply, my fingers trembling, so I clench them tightly.

The doctor sighs softly, a hint of sadness in her eyes. "Yes, there is a surgical option, but it's very risky and the chances of success aren't very high. Potential risks can include brain damage and memory loss. Which I'm sure her previous doctor also informed you about. Alternatively, we can opt for intensive therapy. It does come with its own challenges, but it's less risky. And it's also not as expensive as the surgery."

"What would you recommend, Doctor?" I ask.

She hesitates for a moment, choosing her words carefully. "Given her age and overall health, I would recommend the therapy option. But whatever option you choose, you must do it as soon as possible. I'm afraid the longer we wait, the more serious her condition will get."

A heavy silence settles between us. I feel a surge of emotions—fear, anger, helplessness.

"I would recommend getting in touch with our social worker as your first step. She can guide you through the whole financial aid process. Also, try and keep the patient's spirits up. We don't want her to stress too much, yes?"

Nodding, I push back from the chair. "Thank you, Doctor," I manage to say, through the fog of my thoughts.

As I make my way through the oncology department, my steps falter. There, in a small waiting area, I spot Sanjana. She's sitting beside a young girl, no more than seven or eight years old. The child's frail arm is extended, and Sanjana is carefully applying nail polish to her tiny fingernails. Their heads are bent close together. Suddenly, Sanjana says something I can't hear, and the little girl's face lights up. They both burst into giggles.

Ignoring the weight in my chest, I quickly make my way back to my mother. She's sleeping so I quietly sit on the chair beside her. "We'll get through this," I whisper, more to reassure myself than her.