Page 3 of The Ecstasy of Sin
The doctor assured me that in my case, my hormones leveling out and balancing into adulthood would mean fewer attacks, as long as I stayed on top of my treatment plan. I held onto those words, using them to anchor me. They were a lighthouse on the darkest night during my worst days.
I wanted to take my medication, but I couldn’t afford them without Dad’s help.
It took everything in me to stay on top of school and my homework, and thankfully I had the support of a great school system helping me graduate this year. A school that really stepped up after Mom died, to make sure my future wasn’t ruined by my family’s tragedy.
Staring at the empty pizza box, I resign myself to pestering my dad about maybe ordering another.
The throbbing ache in my head is still overpowering the sharp burn in my belly, but if I’m going to take another dose of medication and get back in bed, I really need food to go with it.
I’d like to eat before the nausea has a chance to get worse, even if I hold my food down just long enough to get the painkillers into my system. If the aura part of the attack is a warning sign, then the headache that follows is an alarm that tells me I need to eat, drink and take my pills as soon as possible.
The other symptoms follow within an hour. Nausea, numbness in my hands and face, vision loss, and the loss of my ability to speak; all of this and more are what happens next, keeping me trapped in bed until the attack finally ends.
I abandon the kitchen and head for the living room, where my dad is usually camped out. I approach the large couch from behind, the outline of my father silhouetted by the bright glow of the TV in front of him.
Dad used to watch home videos of my mom for days on end, but now he jumps between the news and the same sitcom reruns.
The scent of urine hits me square in the face, and I swallow against a violent gag.
“Dad?” I call out, hoping not to startle him. “Are you awake?”
He doesn’t answer me, so I try again, a little louder this time. “Dad, can we order some pizza?”
I sigh when he still doesn’t acknowledge me. He’s either passed out, or refusing to engage with me. I’m not sure which one is worse, considering how angry he gets whenever I have to wake him up.
I circle around the couch to stand in front of him, rubbing at my eyes to clear my vision.
Shock hits me like a fist to the chest, and my heart begins racing like I just stepped foot onto a battlefield. The rush of blood through my body has pain flaring to unbearable extremes as I stare at my dad in disbelief.
He’s slumped over where he sits at the center of the couch. His yellowed eyes stare blankly ahead, his mouth agape. He’s still breathing, but it sounds so wrong—laboured and wet.
I know that sound. My mom made it too, just before she died. A death rattle.
My knees buckle as my body gives out, and I crash down to my knees on the carpet in front of him. Terror and grief slam into me and steal the breath from my lungs. “Dad? Dad!” I scream his name, but he doesn’t respond.
I grab his phone from the table in front of the couch, my hands shaking so violently I can barely dial. The screen blurs as I punch in 911, and when the operator answers, asking me to choose between police and ambulance, my hysterical voice manages to shout “ambulance” down the line.
“Can you tell me what’s going on?” the operator asks, maddeningly calm.
It takes everything in me to force myself to my feet. My legs are jelly, and my pain has only grown stronger. “M-my d-dad,” I stammer, the words catching in my throat. “He’s d-dying. Liver f-failure. He’s d-dying.”
“Is he breathing?”
Tears burn in my eyes, and I almost drop the phone from how hard I’m shaking.
Not again. Please, not again.
“Yes,” I choke out. “But it’s a death rattle.”
“A what?”
“A death rattle,” I repeat, fighting to stay coherent. “It’s the sound people make when they’re dying.”
I learned that from the hospice nurse while Mom was actively dying. One of several terms I heard them speak in hushed voices, words I never wanted to hear or use ever again.
Tears are streaming down my cheeks, carving hot trails across skin that has gone ice-cold. Even my teeth are chattering—from fear, from the migraine, from the sheer weight of it all. I clutch the phone like it’s a lifeline, my raft in tumultuous waters.
“Please,” I beg the operator, my voice cracking. “Please hurry. I can’t lose my dad too.”
