February, 2000. Oscar lay on the settee, motionless. Sweating and shivering simultaneously, he ached from head to toe. The hot water bottle and blanket his mother gave him helped a little. Time seemed to stand still, as he felt like he had been lying in the same spot for days. The medicine tasted foul, but his mother gently coaxed him to take it regularly. She had turned down his grandmother’s offer to help, and had selflessly taken time off to look after him herself. Oscar had always thought it would be great to stay off school and watch television all day, but the reality was different; a man in a shiny suit was jumping on the stage with a microphone, asking inane questions to dazed contestants. The studio audience seemed to find him hilarious, but Oscar could not raise a smile. Later in the afternoon, he heard a group of familiar voices walking home from school. It seemed their crazy banter was a world away. His mother brought him his favourite meal of fish fingers, but to him, they were tasteless.
“Mum, I feel horrible”, Oscar croaked. “When will I get better?”
“Everything will be okay”, she replied, shaking the thermometer before placing it under his tongue.
That was what she always said.
November, 2012. She gave no sign; no flickering from her eyelids, no twitch from her hands, none at all. Oscar realised that his life would never be the same again; knowing what had to be done. He would be there for her for as long as she needed him. How would he feel if the doctors suggested switching off the machine? He would make this decision when the time arrived. “Everything will be okay” echoed in his mind. Oscar carefully placed his mother’s hand back under the covers. He picked up his jacket and walked back to the car park – a older and emptier man.