The Burden of Memories

Ivory walls and stark white floors stretch out before me, interrupted by the occasional stock photo or red upholstered bench whose fabric has seen so much heartache and happiness, loss and love, that you can see it in the flattened cushions and strategic wear marks. I can picture the bodies who occupied them before I entered the spotless hallway. I can feel them; sitting at the end with their feet tap-tap-tapping in nervous anticipation; or slumping their weight into the deepest part of the bench in profound mourning; or restless, internally trapped in a state of no news is good news.

An elevator’s tinny ding pulls me forward. The stainless-steel doors rush open, and before I can turn to enter, two orderlies in clean, clerical blue uniforms step out leading a gurney. I recognize its rider immediately—her once beautiful skin now yellowed, taut, and peeling. Her sparse grey hair, once bouncy and brown, in a disarray of brittle curls, as it had been for a while now. Too long.

“Grandma.” I choke out in surprise, rushing to grasp the gurney’s ice-cold rails.

They pause. The larger of the orderlies stops the gurney by letting it roll lightly into his hip. They exchange a brief glance before eyeing me. “You’re her granddaughter?”

“Yes,” I say in a hushed voice, unable to tear my eyes away from the piece of my heart lying on the bed. My grandmother’s eyes search for me, but with a sinking feeling in my stomach I realize they cannot find my face.

“Where are you going, Grandma?” I beg, hoping to hear her voice, to know that she is conscious.

“The hospital,” she mumbles, a look of confusion clouding her face. Her milky eyes settle on me, but as if she is seeing straight through me—if she can see anything at all.

“Grandma, you’re at the hospital,” I whisper, reaching for her dying hand. The skin is tight, and her knuckles are more

prominent than ever. Could she feel the erratic pounding of my heart through those thin, arthritic bones?

“We are taking her to the bigger hospital, the one downtown.” The other orderly speaks. I glance at him; lost in the moment, I forgot they were there. “She’s going in for surgery.” I feel like I could choke on the silence in my chest. Another surgery.

“Your grandfather is upstairs in her room,” the same orderly adds. I nod, it makes sense that my sweet grandfather would be here at this time of night, he never leaves her side.

“Oh”—I gulp—“thank you.” I reel over the implications of what another surgery could mean, both good and bad. At this stage, it can only be bad. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Grandma. I promise.” My voice shakes. I reach over the railing to pet the thin, wild hair down—the only thing I can do to let her know I am there—that this is real.

I watch the orderlies, in their pressed blue scrubs, wheel away the strongest woman I know.

I can’t follow. I am forced to watch the gurney with its pressed white sheets disappear down the hallway. I know what will happen if I go upstairs: I will veer off the elevator towards her room and stop halfway, finding my grandfather on a couch in a small waiting room, looking disheveled and lost, wearing two different shoes and rubbing his shaking hands together. His Parkinson’s is getting worse. He will be staring at the wall, not the vending machines, or magazines, or the flat-screen TV in the corner.

I want to move, to run back to my car and follow the ambulance. I want to be waiting by her bedside when she gets out of the operating room. Something holds me in place like I stepped in glue, or gum, or cement, or something wicked and cruel that wants to watch me suffer. Again, and again. I watch until there is no more hint of silver or blue; I stare until all I can see arewhite walls and white floors and the red blotches that remind me of fresh blood against snow.

The dream will fade as the morning rays of sunlight flood my bedroom. It will take a while for the knot in my stomach to unravel, but I will never truly be rid of it—not while I remember.

You could call it a nightmare.

I wish it were.

Published under Karly Campbell. “Burden of Memories.” The Meadow 2021, pg. 67-69