Chapter 6 Harper

The biggest warning sign was that Mum had stopped asking about her discharge date.

Before, she brought it up during every single visit. She’d complain about the terrible hospital food, joke about going stir-crazy within these four walls, or promise she'd be home soon to make my favorite dinner. Lately, the topic of home never came up.

Instead, she slept constantly, barely touched her trays, and seemed to fade a little more each day. Just propping herself up against the pillows took everything she had, and talks that used to last thirty minutes now left her gasping for air. It looked like she was throwing in the towel, and I was too terrified to face it.

That morning, I arrived at the hospital holding a small grocery bag with a few bananas, some oranges, and the crackers she sometimes tolerated. When I walked in, she was awake, staring out at the sky.

"Good morning, Mum."

Her face lit up a little bit the moment she saw me.

"You're here," she murmured.

"Of course I am."

I placed the bag onto the small table beside her bed, then stepped closer to adjust her pillows and smooth the blanket over her legs.

She seemed frailer than she had the week before. Her cheekbones were sharper, casting deeper shadows beneath her eyes. The sight brought a cold, heavy ache to my chest.

"Have you had anything to eat?"

"A little."

"How much is a little, exactly?"

She offered me a weary glance. "Harper, please."

I sighed, relenting slightly. "Fine. I'll ask the nurse instead."

"Harper don't. I don't need you cross-examining the hospital staff."

"Well, someone has to ensure you're getting some nutrition,” I stated with a frown.

A shadow of her true smile returned, and for a fleeting moment, she looked entirely like herself.

Sighing heavily, I decided to let the argument dissolve. “Fine then.”

Taking an orange from the bag, I began to peel it. "Would you like some?"

"Only a little."

I separated a few segments and arranged them on a small plate. She forced down two pieces before shaking her head. I didn't push.

Instead, I pulled up a chair and held her hand. It felt fragile and small enclosed in mine.

"How is college?" she inquired.

"You ask me that every time I visit, Mum. It's fine."

"Are you still attending your classes?"

"Yes." The lie slipped out effortlessly.

She searched my expression for a lingering moment, but weariness overcame her curiosity.

"Good," she murmured. "You must never neglect your studies. You worked far too hard to give up now."

Fixing my gaze on our clasped hands, I repeated, "I know."

In truth, I had unsubmitted assignments piling up, the major presentation I had completely missed, and the exam I had only just managed to complete.

I couldn't let her know that the hospital had become my real campus. I was so distracted that during the rare moments I tried to study, I would stare at the same page until the words blurred, reading a single paragraph five times without a shred of comprehension.

She carried enough burdens already.

And after all, I was trying.

I really was.

---

That afternoon, the doctor requested a word with me in his office.

A deep dread had begun to color these meetings. It was always a cycle of new lab reports, altered dosages, or sterile explanations detailing why the latest intervention had failed to yield results.

But today, he didn't immediately reach for her chart. He simply asked me to take a seat.

I sat down, bracing myself. "How is my mother?"

He laced his fingers together on the desk.

"Harper, we’ve thoroughly reviewed her latest results and evaluated her overall response to the clinical trials."

I waited, the silence stretching between us.

"Unfortunately, her condition has continued to decline. The current regimen is no longer producing the efficacy we require."

I stared at him, my mind refusing to process the words. "What does that mean?"

"It means the cancer is advancing, despite our best efforts."

"But she is still receiving the medication," I countered, clinging to the baseline facts.

"Well, yes. Technically speaking."

"Then there must be another line of treatment. Something else we can try,” I argued.

He paused, his silence heavier than any answer.

"We've weighed all our options," the doctor said, his voice heavy. "But considering how rapidly her condition is deteriorating, continuing with aggressive treatment won't help. It will only cause her unnecessary pain without offering any real improvement."

I shook my head in refusal. "Can't you adjust the protocol? Try a different approach. There has to be another drug we haven't tried."

"Harper—"

"Please," I begged. "Try something else. I can't let her die. I refuse to.”

His expression softened with sympathy.

"There truly is nothing we can do Harper. We will keep a close eye on her and ensure she remains pain-free. Our focus now is managing her symptoms and providing supportive care. But I don't want to offer you false hope."

The walls of the room felt like they were closing in on me.

"How much time does she have left?” I asked, my voice weak.

"I can't provide a precise timeline," the doctor said quietly. "It could be a matter of days, or perhaps weeks. But I believe you and your family need to prepare yourselves."

I stared at him blankly, desperately waiting for him to retract the words—to tell me it was a cruel joke or a terrible misunderstanding.

“I'm truly sorry, Harper,” he added.

Nodding, I stood up and thanked him. But all the while, my heart bled.

Immediately I stepped out of his office, I pressed my palm hard against my mouth to stifle a sob. I had to be strong.

---

The days that followed dissolved into a blur.

My routine split between the hospital and campus—visiting in the morning, rushing to whatever lectures I could meet up with, and returning to her bedside in the evening. Sometimes I stayed until the nurses gently reminded me that visiting hours had passed.

I finally stopped pretending that everything was fine.

Naturally, my already bad grades began to plummet. I ghosted a group project meeting, leaving my teammates understandably furious when my promised section never arrived. I skipped a major presentation after spending the entire night at the hospital. An assignment deadline passed completely unnoticed because I had forgotten it even existed.

Then came the midterm.

Sitting in the lecture hall with the exam paper in front of me, I stared at concepts I knew I had mastered weeks ago. But my mind was a total blank. Instead of formulas, my thoughts looped back to the hospital room—to Mum’s shallow, rattling breaths and the way her eyes drifted shut mid-sentence. I finally handed in the paper with entire pages left blank.

The moment I stepped outside the hall, I checked my phone. There was a missed call from the hospital.

My stomach dropped. I called back on a single, ragged breath. The nurse who answered tried to reassure me; Mum had been agitated earlier, but she was resting quietly now. I didn't stay on the line for details. I just bolted from campus and headed straight back to her hospital room. It was becoming impossible to tether my mind to anything else.

At night, I lay awake in my dorm room, listening to the quiet rustle of my roommate on the other side of the room. In those dark hours, the isolation was suffocating; I wished more than anything that I had someone to talk to.

One afternoon, when I went to visit as usual, she managed to eat a little more than she usually did, and she stayed awake for almost the entire duration of my visit. That gave me a little hope.

She even laughed out loud when I described a professor who had spent twenty painful minutes overcomplicating a concept that could have been explained in five.

"Perhaps he just loves the sound of his own voice," she joked weakly.

"That was my exact thought," I agreed.

She chuckled again, though the amusement quickly triggered a brief, rattling coughing fit.

I instantly reached for her water cup and pressed it into her hand. "Careful, Mum."

"I'm fine, Harper," she managed.

"You always say that."

"And you always fuss over me."

I smiled softly, helping her steady the cup to take a sip. For a little while, the heavy reality of the ward vanished, replaced by completely ordinary conversation.

Later, I adjusted her pillows to help her settle back comfortably. She watched my movements in quiet contemplation.

"Harper?" she called softly.

"Hmm?"

"Come closer."

I stepped right up to the guardrail. She reached out for my hand, her fingers feeling terribly frail wrapped around mine. She gave my hand a squeeze, or at least tried to find the strength to do so.

"I need you to be happy," she said. "I want you to have a beautiful life."

"Mum, please don't." I protested. But she shook her head.

"Let me finish, Harper."

I hated the direction of that conversation. "I don't want to talk about this."

"Harper—"

"No." The rejection cut through the room sharper than I had intended, and instant regret pooled in my chest. I quickly apologised.

"I'm sorry. I just... I don't want you talking as if you're already leaving me."

Her expression melted into profound softness. She gently brushed her thumb across the back of my hand. "I am not trying to leave you, sweetheart."

"Then don't,” I said as hot tears began streaming down my eyes. I was tired of pretending I was strong.

She looked at me with a pure, agonizing tenderness that caused a painful knot to tighten in my throat.

"Oh, sweetheart." She said as she pulled me in for a comforting hug. “I love you so much, baby.”

“I love you too mum,” I said with a

sniff. “Please don't leave me.”

That night, I remained anchored to her side until her breathing evened out into sleep. Staring at her, I wished for the thousandth time, that things were different.