Minna B

Disclaimer: this story is kinda sad.

Side note: In order to be a writer, you must be willing to embarrass yourself, your friends, and your family, especially. (Sorry guys)

  When I was about fifty-six I was diagnosed with lymphatic cancer. My wife was the care-taker, the stay-at-home-mom, the house-wife, the what-you-want-to-call it raise my children while I work, love of my life. Yes, at times I may have been unfaithful, yes, at times, she may have been, too. Yes, at times we had our differences—and then some, but I will never be more grateful to have this woman in my life.

Because who would have taken care of me when I was fifty-six and sick and weak and unable to work? Who would have cared for my children and fed them and encouraged them as I lay in a bed green and ill and unable to provide? Yes, at times I may have been unfaithful, and yes, at times she may have been, too.

And maybe that’s why that dreadful day when my children were barely of age to understand, my wife decided to show me just how much she meant to me by “chugging” the scotch I often keep in the liquor cabinet (and I put that in quotes because my wife doesn’t drink, so a mere shot is poisonous to her) and swallowing pills that concluded in her passing out in our porcelain tub one afternoon after a serious quarrel over fidelity.

She said she was leaving. She didn’t say where. I didn’t know where. So it was my responsibility to pick up the kids that day. I took them to the Seven-Eleven around the corner from school, as she did most days. We went to the grocery store to pick up dinner and then headed home. But once I got home, I had forgotten the rice, so I dropped off the kids—I knew the nanny was home and they’d be OK.

My son, Mike plopped on the computer—of course; while my daughter, Minna waited in her mother’s room to show off her latest masterpiece. I returned home to find my son on the computer—still, and my daughter fidgeting with the construction paper creation waiting on the edge of our bed. I asked my son where his mother was—barely looking up from the screen he said,

“In the shower, I think?” Kids these days, I thought.

So I walked in my room and called for my wife who was STILL in the bathroom. “Mami.” She didn’t respond.

“Mami, abreme.” (let me in) I said—in Spanish. She didn’t open.

“Mami, abre la puerte!” (open the door) I yelled—in Spanish.

Nothing. With my right hand on the knob and my left shoulder on the door, I began to push.

“Mami!” Push.

“Mami!” Hinges.

“Mami…”

My wife is in the tub—unconscious. I slap, I shake, I kiss, I sob.

Now I’m fifty-six.I’m in the hospital bed. I thought I had pneumonia. The doctors say I have liquid in my lungs. My body aches. I’m in my bed. I can’t tell the difference between my two daughters. I can’t eat. I can’t swallow. I’ve lost 50 pounds. My wife struggles. My children are depressed.

Now I’m sixty. I’m celebrating my birthday. I can barely walk up the four steps to the kitchen from the patio where my Mike and Minna sit in adulthood. My wife works. I sit at home, on the computer, still smoking cigarettes. A pack a day, maybe more. My wife buys them, because she smokes, too. My wife supports me, because she loves me, too. And I will never forget how it felt to, for an instance, think of my life without my wife.