The Weight We Bear

Trigger Warning: Terminal illness and death, Chronic illness, Mental health, Grief and caregiving

This bed is killing you.

My higher self whispered as I attempted to flip over from one side to the other, as my hip and shoulder voiced gentle pops. My “frozen” left shoulder was in the final stage of “defrosting”. I lifted my arm and tested which angles were feasible for movement without pain. With more effort than I anticipated, I rearranged my position on my back with my knees up. I had saved a series of YouTube shorts of Qi Gong exercises to warm up joints. Checking my phone, I proceeded to gently twist back and forth with hope and optimism.

This mattress is over 30 years old, once owned by my parents who passed some time ago. I started sleeping on it after my father had a stroke, after he could no longer navigate the three short steps to get to the bathroom at night. For safety, we moved him to another room in the house where it was easier for him to walk around. Even after he passed, I continued to sleep on it.

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We had just come from the rocks and gemstone exhibition that afternoon. Entering the vendor concourse, my niece asked if we could try out the beds on display. There were at least twenty of them, spread across the section of the noisy hall. A meadow of rectangles each promising comfort and peace.

“They’re not just beds. They’re sleep systems!” I overheard a salesperson yell with excitement. 

We proceeded to go from bed to bed and explore the merits of each. Some were unreasonably firm in a way that foreshadowed possible bruising and dislocation of joints. Others were squisher than I anticipated and difficult to get up from. I fancied myself a modern-day Goldilocks assessing the needs of my body for the first time until I came to an epiphany.

These beds didn't know me.

They didn’t know my history. 

They haven’t seen me grit my teeth from stress in my sleep.

They haven’t seen me sneeze or drool awkwardly into a CPAP mask.

They haven’t seen me, sweating and restless and anxious from panic.

They haven’t seen me sob in utter anguish. 

These beds were strangers without judgment, happy to represent their brand and serve the fine attendees of the county fair who were looking for a moment of rest. The sleep systems sat sprawled - a meadow of white rectangles each promising comfort and peace amidst hawkers selling everything from fudge to sandals.

I nestled into a queen size and attempted to raise my head and legs with the remote control. 

“I really like this one. But I don’t live anywhere near here. I’m on vacation.” I told the eager sales rep. 

“That’s not a problem at all. We can have it delivered from a store closer to your area”, she said.

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Growing up, my room was next door to my parents room. 

I remember how they retired to their evening activities following the same routine every night. At 7 PM there was Jeopardy with Alex Trebec, followed by Wheel of Fortune with Pat Sajak at 7:30 PM. My dad participated as if he was a contestant and guessed out loud, groaning after every “Bankrupt” spin.

“What is ‘The King and I’?”

“Home Sweet Home!”

“Gimme an ‘S’!”

My mom sat on her side of the bed crocheting dishcloths from cotton yarn she found on sale at the fabric store. They’d watch whatever was featured on prime time on a major TV channel, followed by the news at 11 PM. She’d interject her shock at current events with bursts of commentary in Tagalog. Then they’d each take a break and take turns brushing whatever teeth remained as the years went by. And then the lights went out.

As I lay next door, I often heard them whispering in the dark, sometimes into the early morning hours. This was their safe space to talk things out. To share what happened that day with the kids. To express their worries for each other. To let go of any grievances and to reassure each other that things would work out regardless of whatever happened in the future.

Sometimes I can still feel their conversations and concerns through the worn cushions.

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I spent the day assessing the pathway from the bedroom to the front door. I measured the dimensions of the mattress and the split box spring. I moved a table in the kitchen and a bench in the hallway to create a wider space for the delivery people to walk through. I scanned for objects that might be knocked over during the process. 

Then, I sat in the room and talked to the mattress.

It was badly sunken on both sides. I can’t remember when I stopped using sheets. All I knew was there were bits of gold foam gathered on the floor like popcorn near the foot of the bed. The surface fabric of the mattress that once held everything together was worn and torn and peeled away to the seams.

I considered the weight it carried on my mother’s side of the bed. The load of all her worries, of moving to a new country, of watching her daughters adapt to an unfamiliar culture. The gravity of her Stage 4 cancer diagnosis and the thoughts of “who will feed my husband if I die.” Her terror when we found her in a coma, eyes wide open and unable to speak before the ambulance whisked her away.

I considered the weight it carried second on my father’s side. The responsibility of keeping a roof over his family as an immigrant dad. The tiredness of decades of blue collar night shifts. The sadness as his eyes started to fail with age, and he could no longer drive. It carried his resignation and the dizziness from maintenance medications, and finally, the heaviness of silent grief after my mother passed.

I considered my own weight it carried. Through fevers of sepsis and illnesses defined by letters and numbers strung together in infamy. Through isolation and roller coaster struggles with self-care. Through increasing pain and stiffness with every passing birthday rendering me unable to flip the mattress over. Through sleepless nights at 1 AM paralyzed by a fear of the future and crumbling identity.

The tears came.

“Thank you. For everything. You were a good mattress to both of them. And to me. Thank you.”