Bryan Crystal-Thurston

Love/Hate

I remember wondering, “How is it--even in death--she can be this way?” She snapped at the orderly because the lights were too bright. She made me readjust her pillow a hundred times and then rolled her eyes whenever I inevitably got it wrong. When they finally turned off her oxygen, she complained that she couldn’t breathe, and she looked at all the nurses as if it was their fault her lungs were full of fluid and unusable. I hate myself for thinking it--especially now, but when she lost consciousness, I laughed and thought, “She’s finally quiet.” I heard it in her voice, like it was her joke.