Entry 29: Stepmother

I don't believe that my stepmother ever loved my father. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and the inheritance she'd received from her late husband two years previously was about to run out. "This is the last of it," she told her daughter, as she stuffed three $100 bills into her hand, for the designer bridesmaid dress. They gave each other a look that made me feel uneasy, but I quickly pushed it away.

Dad's short dating window had been fun and exciting, as the three of us found ourselves filled with hope, having only lost Mom months before. But it wouldn't be long before we'd find ourselves entangled in this family's deceit, while Dad found himself financially supporting his new wife with the absence of love or marital intimacy.

Now, my stepmother was about to lose husband number two, and there seemed to be little concern for his wellbeing, in spite of them now being married close to 15 years. As my sister and I poured ourselves into Dad's 24 hour care, there was my stepmother in the corner of the hospice room, inconvenienced and disconnected. Each time she waltzed in, which was always later in the morning, she'd let out a dramatic sigh, and talk about how tired she was, in spite of enjoying a home cooked meal and knocking herself out with sleeping pills each night. She'd often describe the meal she'd prepared for herself, after we'd spent the night with Dad, looking exhausted, with remnants of breakfast sandwiches on our faces and clothes. She'd not offered to bring us food, and she never asked how our father was doing.

I could tell that the nurses didn't like my stepmother anymore than I did, as they bypassed her and asked my sister and I questions about Dad's care. In the eyes of my stepmother they were nothing more than hired help, but or us, they were our support and lifeline within that small room.

We'd been notified that Dad was down to days now, as my sister and I alternated between the armchair in the corner and the blow-up mattress on the floor that squeaked every time we moved. Dad was too weak to pull the string above his head to ask for more morphine, so we watched for signs, as he grabbed his abdomen in pain, as tears ran down his face. I was already grieving him, as he no longer opened his eyes, and though we were told that he could still hear us, he could no longer respond. But then one night, while lying my head on the side of his bed while in the armchair, he stirred. "Dad, are you okay? It's me, Ellie." Suddenly he fully opened his eyes, placed his hand on my head and smiled, while mouthing the words, "I love you," before closing his eyes again. I knew that was the last "I love you" I would ever receive from him, as I buried my face in the blanket and sobbed.

"It's any minute now," the nurse said, after checking Dad's vitals. "I suggest that you girls each take a hand while he passes, as he'll be aware you're there." Tears were running down our faces, as we listened to his labored breathing that was barely visible.

Stepmother was still sitting in the opposite corner, once again ignoring the scene in front of her. Suddenly, she began talking, as we attempted to keep our focus on Dad. "I just love this room and all these flowers," she said, pulling out her phone, taking photos, as her camera app did a snapping sound. Once she was done that, she decided to say a few words, not to my father, but to us. "Oh, your Dad was so happy when you remarried," she said, referencing my sister and her remarriage a few years after returning to the church. Then she turned to me. "Your Dad was so heartbroken when it didn't work out with T. He was really hoping you would have found someone before he passed," she said, filling the room with my inadequacies and failures. I waited for a "but", but there wasn't one. I ignored her and stared at Dad.

Suddenly, he took his last breath, and my sister and I got up and held each other, sobbing until our shirts were wet. Stepmother stood up too, and we thought she'd join us in the embrace, but instead she ran past us, flinging her body onto the bed, against Dad's corpse. "I love you," she shouted. As she turned to go back to her chair, she collapsed to the floor, crashing into the wheeled metal tray "Oh, I must have forgotten to take a breath," she said, "placing her hand on her forehead, while staring at the door, in hopes that the doctors and nurses would witness this theatrical act. No one came and she looked disappointed, as we helped her up.

Somehow she'd managed to suck all the life out of that room before Dad had even taken his last breath. And though we'd been encouraged by the nurses to stay as long as we liked in the room, we were desperate to get out of there as fast as we could, and away from our stepmother. Any connection to her and her family was now officially severed. And as sad as I was to lose my father, I couldn't have been more relieved to officially cut ties with her for good. And as I walked down the hospice hallway one last time, I couldn't help but wonder if somewhere up there, Dad was feeling the exact same way.