My name is Leila and for the last two months I have been in a coma. How do I know?
I watch my lifeless form, from the seat next to by hospital bed. I see many people come
and go - nurses, doctors, friends - but most painful of all my mother. She is here everyday. Her once beautiful face, now completely drained of life and colour, looks exhausted as she watches over me with saddened eyes. I wish I could just embrace her and have her loving grasp around me for one final time. I wish I could tell her that I did love her and that I was sorry, but I don't think I would get that chance. The last time I saw her, we argued.
* * *
It happened on January 22nd. Still so fresh and clear in my mind, as I have had everyday to reflect on it. I was eating breakfast in our tiny kitchen, that had preserved the lingering odour of last nights dinner, when mum came through the door. I recognised the expression plastered across her face. Furious yet alarmed - she only got it when I had done something wrong.
I watched as she went around the kitchen looking for a clean mug, the sound of slamming doors following her around the room. With her eyes on me, she said what was bothering her. “Leila, who is Trace?"
I could feel my face flush scarlet, even though I knew, she knew who he was. "Just a boy from school. Why do you ask?" I tried to deny any implications she had, because I knew he had a bad reputation.
"Oh, it's just I have been talking to Jenny -"
"Why have you been talking to her? What has it got to do with her?" Jenny is my best friend and had been since the day we moved here.
"She was worried about you, and it made me worry. You must have heard all the stories about him using those poor girls, then dropping them." It was a statement rather then a question. I didn't like to admit that she was right, and I had proved my own guilt by being so defensive.
"That is exactly what they are mum, stories. You can't accept the fact that I may have found someone and after your dysfunctional relationships you should be happy for me. Not everyone is like you!" I was annoyed that she had no faith in me and my judgement, although parts of what she had said were true. He had - in the past - been a user, but changed when he met me, he said. She stared blankly at me as I got up from the table, in what she had called a typical teenage tantrum, leaving my half-eaten cereal.
I never did see her (consciously) again as I was hit by a speeding car, on my way to the school gates. I thought, even though I wasn't religious, God was punishing me.
That was the first night mum came to the hospital looking like she had died and come back to life. Gran was comforting her by my bedside (the place they would rarely leave over the next two months). They both cried.
* * *
My doctor, Dr Jameson (who only just looked like he was out of nappies with his sweet childlike face), told mum my prognosis. “Your daughter, Leila”, Like she didn’t know my name I thought, “has severe brain damage”. He looked down at the floor, following the lines, then back up to meet mums eyes. “There is every chance that she will wake up, but there is also the possibility that she won’t,” he said, reaching out to console her. Then he left. Leaving my mother the possibility that she may lose me.
I thought he looked quite optimistic before he left, but I presumed that was false for the benefit of mum. She didn’t seem to notice, or if she did she showed no sign of it.
There were only two people that knew I wouldn’t wake: myself and Dr Jameson. Other people may have known, but they didn’t admit it to themselves or each other.
I was like a time bomb waiting to go off.
* * *
When I was a child I had watched my grandfather die. He had been ill for as long as I could remember. Each month I got older, he became weaker. On my 12th birthday he was unable to cling to the last of his painful life. I thought this would have prepared me for the inevitable - I would die someday. Someday very soon - but it hadn’t.
No one actually knows what will happen after death, which is what frightens me so much. It is one of life’s mysteries. One that I would soon solve and not be able to share with another living soul.
