You & I

By Katy Reagan

The day your mom died, the I part of you died with her. I knew who I was, but you are lost. I was a star student, a perfectionist, an overachiever. I tackled internships and jobs and 15 credit hours with a straight face. I saved my breakdowns for behind closed doors. Yesterday, you cried in the middle of the UCA Student Center with no shame. You turned in two assignments late and unfinished and called into work. I was healthy and had health insurance. Your health insurance company canceled your plan when your mom died because you were listed together. Now you don’t have health insurance, and no one will give it to you because you “make too much.” You were sick for three weeks before you finally went to the free student health clinic. You were diagnosed with serotonin syndrome. The irony isn’t lost on you. I was stable for the first time in my life on Zoloft, but you have too much serotonin in your body and that’s causing tremors. I was confident when I spoke. You shake when you type. I loved her. You miss her. I was excited for my life. You don’t particularly want to live. You don’t know who you are without her. You’re not sure you’re interested in finding out. I called her every day, twice a day, and said “Hey, pretty lady” every time she answered the phone. That was your answer in therapy when your therapist asked what you miss most about her. “Hey, pretty lady,” you say to her grave.

I knew it would come eventually. I prepared myself for the loss. I did in some ways. But eventually room and spoke to doctor after doctor. I held her to my chest as she had a seizure and told her everything would be alright. And everything was alright that time. I prayed for her safety when she finally got the surgery she so desperately needed. I nursed her back to health and took her to doctor appointments for updates. We drove three hours listening to a crime and conspiracy podcast. We talked about OJ Simpson and how I had thought all my life that he had been convicted. She laughed and told me about watching the trial go down in real time. I spent the weekend with her, and she was feeling better than she had in a long time. I went back to school and called one night after work. I’d gotten off late. I was prepared to say “Hey, pretty lady” when my dad answered the phone and said he would call back because the ambulance was there. I sat for an hour staring at my phone waiting for it to ring. tears in my eyes. This time felt different.

The phone rang. “She’s gone,” your dad said between sobs. You screamed. The sound that came out was one you had only heard on movies and shows. The grief tore through your throat, threatening to rip your chest open. You kept screaming. Your knees gave out from underneath you, but your roommate caught you before you hit the floor. You weren’t there. gone, and you weren’t there.