There
was a time that I thought it all started the day my mother died, four
or five years ago. Maybe it started a little later, when I met Rena
and then Stephan. Maybe it all started a lot earlier, even before my
mother got hospitalised. She stayed in the hospital for quite some
time and unfortunately -or fortunately, depends on someone's point of
view- she had plenty of time knowing how her life would end. So, one
of those days, that my life was nothing but going to work and having
to deal with the cold walls of an ordinary hospital, a doctor
approached me and announced that “sadly, my mother did not make it
through this seisure” and of course that he was “so sorry”.
I recall almost every night those moments. I
remember how, for a couple of moments, I couldn't believe it. My
mother. My mom. Is dead. I lost her. I was twenty eight and still
living with her. I had spend my entire life having her in the next
room, at the same room... To take care of me, to look after me. To
think of me before herself. My mommy. What am I going to do in my
life? How will I go on? She had always been there when I was coming
back from school, from college, from work... she was always there
waiting for me... always waiting...
I was standing there just staring at the doctor who kept talking. Something
about paerwork thathad to be done and other necessary procedures and
if there was anyone to call for help. I had noone. Only a couple of
friends, to whom I avoided becoming a burden. Grandparents were not
alive anymore and the rest of the relatives, well... they didn't want
having anything to do with my mother and that blew back on me. As for
my father, he died when I was very young. I barely remember him. Or
maybe a child's mind is able to create memories with people only seen
in photographs, just so to comfort oneself, to calm down a little bit
between two outbursts of someone stronger, whom is unable to cope
with.
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