“Where is your inhaler?”
“Right here, Mum.” I patted my bag. “I checked before I left my house.”
“Good girl. Did . . . Did Michael speak to you?”
I nodded, blinking back another wave of tears.
“Mum, I’m so sorry. I should have noticed the signs that Dr O’Rourke could see. I’m so sorry. I wish I could make this go away for you. I’d give anythin’, I swear I would.”
“Little, I know you would, but what’s happenin’ to me is not your fault. It’s nobody’s fault, it’s just the cards I have been dealt. We have to roll with the punches, okay?”
I bobbed my head as I sniffled.
Hearing her call me the nickname she had called me since I was a child made me want to curl up next to her and cry myself to sleep. This was my mum and she was really sick. I couldn’t even allow myself to think of what was going to happen to her because it made me feel trapped in a room with no air. That was how I had felt when my dad died, it was how I still felt every day when I thought about him.
“What are you of thinkin’, Frankie girl?” she asked, moving her hands to mine. “Tell me?”
“Dad,” I choked. “I can’t lose you too, Mum. I can’t.”
It had only been five years since my father passed away during an accident at his job and most days it didn’t feel like that much time had passed by at all. He was an electrical lineman. He was working on the line of a blown transformer the evening he died. He was electrocuted by a line that was exposed and had power when it shouldn’t have. He died instantly and just like the snap of my fingers, he left me and my mum all alone with nothing but his clothes and our memories of him.
“Oh, honey.” Mum hugged me to her once more. “Please, don’t think like that. Okay?”
It was impossible not to, but for her sake I nodded and tried my hardest.
“Listen to me,” she took my face in her small, soft hands. “We’re going to get educated in this disease and we’re goin’ to do everythin’ we can to help me stay strong for longer, okay?”
I hiccupped. “Okay.”
She kissed my cheek then said, “D’you have your inhaler?”
I frowned because she had already asked me that. I glanced at Dr O’Rourke, he gave me a discreet nod that he had caught it too. Mum had forgotten she had already asked me that question. This was my first experience with her disease now that I was aware that she had it. A feeling of helplessness that I had never felt before overcame me.
“Yeah, Mum,” I answered. “I have it right here in my bag.”
“Good girl,” she sighed. “You’re due a refill soon.”
“Two weeks’ time,” I nodded. “I have it on a reminder in my phone so I don’t forget to go to the pharmacy.”
Mum relaxed like she always did when she heard I was on top of taking care of my asthma. Ever since I moved out, she had been constantly worried about me since she wasn’t there to check that I had inhalers always stocked and on hand should I ever need them. I took her hand in mine and stroked my thumb back and forth, and before either of us could say another word, the curtain to her cubicle was pushed aside.
“Good morning.” A brown-skinned, middle-aged, balding man inclined his head. “I’m Mr Coleman.”
“Nice to meet ye, sir. I’m Dr O’Rourke, Mrs Fulton’s GP and partner.”
The doctor looked to me after he shook Dr O’Rourke’s hand.
“I’m Frankie.” I gripped his extended hand. “Mrs Fulton’s daughter.”
“Lovely to meet you,” he retracted his hand and looked to my mum. “Sorry we have to meet under these circumstances, Mrs Fulton.”
Mum smiled. “Me too.”
“I know you’ve been told you need surgery on your leg, I will be the surgeon leading it. I just want to examine your leg, if you don’t mind?”
“Go ahead.”
The surgeon carried out his examination and I had no idea what he did because I was staring down at my mother’s face, trying to gauge if she was in any more pain than necessary the entire time. A couple of times, she made a face and I squeezed her hand to offer her as much support and comfort as I possibly could. I hoped I was helping her by being here because I felt as useless as a miniskirt on a windy day.
“I’m happy to take her down now.” The doctor gained my attention. “I was concerned the swelling would be too much for surgery today, but it’s fine.”
I gripped my mother’s hand tighter.
“How long will the surgery take, sir?” I enquired. “And what will you be doing?”
“The fracture your mum has is placed in such a way that would make it difficult to heal well on its own. I’m going to insert a small metal plate and have half a dozen screws seal it to the bone. This will ensure the fracture heals correctly, and the plate and screws will give the bone added strength and protection. A surgery like this can run from two to three hours, maybe more, maybe less. Each operation is different.”