by Larissa FastHorse

Fight, my sister.

Fight for your life.

I would do it for you if I could. I cannot. I cannot touch you. I cannot visit you except on a screen and now we all know how incredibly inadequate that is.

Fight.

Fight for your life or you will lose it. 

I know it has been 40 days on the ventilator. I cannot imagine what that feels like inside your body. I understand why today you wanted to stop.  

But fight.

For the first 20 days as the 11am update loomed I got sick inside. “Is this the day that they tell us you died? That it is already over. That I have been eating oatmeal and complaining about my face mask fogging my sunglasses when I go out into a sun that you will never see again.”

But you woke up. You smiled. You said your back hurt. You asked for ice cream. All without a voice. Because you don’t have one. Because of the vent, the endless vent.

You gave me hope.

You have survived so much. Covid cannot be the one that takes you. 

It’s absurd.  

Fight.

I promise I will not make you call my husband to tell me something because I never answer my phone. No matter how busy I am I will rejoice when I see it is your call because I get to hear your voice. 

Fight.  

Fight.

I need you to fight.

“a monologue to my sister because she can’t have a dialog”

by Larissa FastHorse. Written on the day she no longer wanted to fight, 5/5/20.