Fiction: Euth Home

By Gail Brown

Rain pattered against the window.

Trillia turned over. She gasped from the pain in her hip and leg. As if a knife twisted and ran up and down her leg. She pulled the covers tighter. The warmth should settle the crawling muscles.

A cold fall rain pattered against the windows. Another season of pain and anguish. Pain had already seeped into her bones. Even handling the remote to turn on the news took too much effort.

She dozed. For how long she didn't know.

"Momma?" Rendal walked into the room and sat beside the bed. She touched Trillia's hand.

Trillia opened her eyes and glanced at her daughter. A beautiful young woman, untouched by chronic life-debilitating pain. "Yes daughter?"

"Are you sure you want to go to the Euth home? Maybe someday."

Trillia closed her eyes. She tried to lift her hand. It raised mere inches. The grey splotched skin sagged. Where once it had been soft, supple, and strong. No longer. Not for many years. 

No doctor could find a cause. 

Without a cause, there would be no cure. 

Without a cure. She had already wasted away to skin and bone. 

She wouldn't survive long. At the Euth home, there would be hope for others. Her death would bring that hope.

"Have to go. Other's chance." Too difficult to find the words. They rattled through her brain in sluggish unpredictable ways. They were there. Not always in the order they needed to be. After her death, her mind would work again. Surely. Separated from whatever damaged strings were keeping it from working now, and several years of debilitating pain. 

Rendal looked away. Her tear-streaked cheeks glinted in the sunlight peeking through the window.

It should be raining. The world should grieve the loss of every mother. Every woman. 

The sunshine. Sunshine meant hope. Hope for those women who could not be cured. 

Trillia struggled to speak. To comfort her own daughter. "For you too. If this comes. You won't suffer. Cure." She gasped. How long she struggled to breathe she didn't know.

Trillia's eyes opened.

Rendal stood at the window staring out. Her hair framed her face, so that the silhouette was all Trillia saw. The younger woman turned. For one second, that shadow looked like Rendal as a toddler, struggling to learn to walk.

Trillia wanted to reach out and help her daughter through this moment. A moment no one wanted to happen. It had to. Her hand shook on top of the light blanket covering her shriveled body. Bones hurt so bad; she couldn't even handle the weight of a full quilt to keep warm. "Now."

Rendal reached out a hand. "I'll wash and dress you. I have a wheelchair in the hall."

Trillia closed her eyes to the coming pain. As each limb was gently lifted and washed, the searing and shooting muscles caused her to cry out. New bruises would join the millions of others that covered her from head to toe. Best to drift away and not feel it.

She came to as Rendal helped her into the wheelchair.

"I'll fix your hair. How would you like it? Down the back? In a ponytail?"

Trillia's hair clung to her scalp. It prickled. A long stringy mess. While hanging straight down, it pulled hard. In a ponytail, it pulled worse, and caused her to see colored spots from the pain. "Cut it. Short. Wipe it clean."

"Momma? Short?"

Trillia had always valued her long hair. Down below her waist until she had been sick a year. Then below her shoulders ever since. "Yes."

Rendal left the room. She returned and carefully lifted each lock before cutting it. She placed the bits on Trillia's lap.

Trillia looked down at the mess covering her hands. Yes, a grey matted mess, wet with her daughter's tears. Her tears soon joined them. Nothing would ever have made her hair grow healthy and shiny again.

The ride to the Euth home was long and short. The passage of time had ceased to make sense. Often, her mind flitted away, leaving her body to suffer whatever it couldn't bear with her mind present.

"Momma. We are almost there. Do you want to stop at the park and look at the lake?"

Trillia groaned. She wanted to say no. The pain was so bad, and movement hurt so much. However, for her daughter, she'd give it every effort she could. She lifted her head. "If you want."

Rendal pulled into a parking space. She slipped the wheelchair out of the ties in the van and rolled it down the ramp.

Every bump, every jounce, could be felt in Trillia's bones. A bruise grew on her thumb when her hand bounced and hit her bony knee. 

Rendal pushed her down the asphalt path as gently as possible. She chatted the whole time about days gone by.

Trillia drifted off. Every spot of this lake park was as familiar as her own home. 

Rendal had practically grown up here. Chasing butterflies and birds. Running through those open fields that now were shaped into a place to play various ball games. They used to swim in the lake, out to that tiny island, barely big enough for a picnic. Then, her brother and father had been here. Today, both were long gone, to a city far away.

Rendal stopped them in front of the paddleboat dock. A place they used to visit. No paddleboats were here now. It was winter. They were stored away from the chill and potential ice.

"Time."

Rendal bent down. "Momma, I wish I could hug you one last time. I know it hurts." Tears dripped down her cheeks. 

Trillia tried to nod. Her neck popped painfully. She could no longer reach up to pop it back into place. It wasn't fair to her daughter. She had let this go on too long. A hug would break bones. Many had broken multiple times already. Even being placed gently in the chair, it felt as if her wrist might have broken yet again.

Rendal stood and looked out over the lake. Then, she carefully steered the chair back to her van.

When Trillia woke again, they had pulled up to the Euth home.

Rendal glanced at her. "Momma. One moment more. I want to see your face one last time."

Trillia tried to smile. It was worth the effort and pain for her daughter.

Rendal dried her tears. She backed the wheelchair out and pointed it toward the building. After a few deep breaths, she stepped forward.

Trillia wanted to tell her daughter it would all be okay. It really would. She knew it wouldn't. Not for a while. Rendal would miss her. As her husband and son never did. She would miss the mother she had been, and even the pain-filled shell she had become.

Inside they waited at the desk. Before long, the receptionist ushered in a man and a woman. 

The woman stepped forward. "I'm nurse Quintella. This is doctor Kelar. We will talk to you about your decisions today." She turned and led them to a room with several chairs and anopen place for the wheelchair.

Once settled, the nurse turned to her. "Tell us about you."

Trillia tried to talk. Words tumbled out all jumbled. She turned to her daughter.

Rendal closed her eyes before beginning the story of the last decade. Pain. Broken bones. Loss of mobility. Loss of motor control. Loss of speech. Memory issues. Words were there. Long forgotten words.

The nurse and doctor nodded throughout Rendal's speech. They'd heard it all before.

"I'll miss mom." Rendal stopped speaking.

"I'm sure you will. Trillia, we've had a chance to go over your medical records. You are sure you want to leave your body to science to figure out what is causing your disease?"

Trillia nodded. The pain made her sleepy. She slipped in and out of consciousness. Her biggest fear was they would determine she wasn't of sound mind to make the decision to stop the suffering.

Quintella touched her hand. "We require you to reside here with meals and 24-hour care for three days. Are you willing to do that?"

Three more days of wracked pain. If she could survive it. At least Rendal wouldn't be the only person taking care of her. She glanced at her daughter.

"I'll be here. As long as you want me."

Trillia tried to grin. Of course, she would. Her daughter had been there for the entire illness, giving up her own future. Even foregoing dating to care for her mother. With no career, what would her daughter do after her death?

 

The next three days passed in a blur. Quintella was often in the sunlit room, talking to Rendal, making plans for the future. A future without pain. Without Trillia.

 

At last, evening approached. The sun's rays grew long.

Kelar and Quintella entered the room. Rendal held her hand.

"This is your last opportunity to change your mind," Quintella tucked in the sheet around her feet.

"Ready." Trillia smiled at her daughter.

Her daughter squeezed her hand. "I'm here."

Trillia closed her eyes and remembered no more pain. Her last thoughts were pain free and joyful. Without the chains of broken bones, and gasping for breath, her soul pulled free. Free to move without grinding broken bones, or bruising mottled skin. Her mind functioned again. She remembered.

Rendal sat beside her holding her broken hand. "Momma is at peace."

Kelar nodded. "We will do our best to determine what caused her illness. Do you have a place to go now?"

"Yes. I want to be a nurse like Quintella, and help others find peace."

Trillia's soul relaxed. Her daughter would live.

Gail Brown found science fiction brings hope and light through worlds of colorful dreams. It mirrors daily life as it could be. Perhaps should be, in some ways. Worlds where disability is accepted, and people live their lives without overwork and fear.