I recently was introduced to the concept of “liminal spaces.” Liminal spaces are places of transition, somewhere you aren’t necessarily supposed to be for long periods of time, like an airport, or a rest stop. There is a lengthy post on Tumblr where people list their liminal spaces, usually describing them as places where reality is a “little altered.” Some of their examples include empty parking lots, hospitals at midnight, and schools during the summer. Every time I see this post, I experience the same uneasy feeling; a weird twisting in my gut. Nearly two years ago, I felt that weird twisting when my mom called me, crying, and told me she had cancer.
In the six weeks from her diagnosis to her death, my entire life became a liminal space. The day I received her phone call, I dropped everything I had to do that day and made the relatively quick drive to my hometown. While the Tumblr post says hospitals at midnight are a liminal space, I would argue that they are pretty consistently a liminal space, regardless of the time of day. No visitor really wants to be there, everyone crowding in the gift shop, buying overpriced trinkets and balloons, and making trips downstairs to the Oasis Cafe to numb their feelings with food. I think part of the liminality of a hospital also is due to the visitor/staff dichotomy; the have-to-be-there doctors in their long, white coats, versus the often panic-stricken families awaiting answers. The 4 East wing became my family’s liminal space home for the week.
Once my mom was released from the hospital and was allowed to come home, the liminal space uneasiness moved with her. I walked into my childhood home and something was...off. Our medicine cabinet overflowed with her medicine; multiple painkillers, nausea medicine, and syringes I used to inject saline into my mom’s stomach to reduce swelling. Her body had no idea what was happening, it merely responded as best it could. One night, my mom and I were in the living room, her wide awake from sleeping all day, me nodding off from the pain pills I was abusing at the time. That was one of the last real, sit-down conversations I had with my mom, and I can’t remember it because I was self-medicating to deal with my liminal life.
When my mom was moved to Hospice care, the uneasy gut feeling returned. I knew, way deep down, that she would never come back home. Her Hospice room became the newest liminal space, my dad barely leaving the room, watching "Grey’s Anatomy" to pass the days.
Finally, around 1:30 a.m. on December 13, my dad called me, telling me to come to Hospice as soon as I could. I remember gripping my mom’s limp hand as hard as I could as if to hold her in this life. But, at 2:15 a.m., she slipped out of my grasp and into her next life. I laid against her body and cried.
Since that night almost two years ago, my life has become a liminal space. Everything felt strange and unfamiliar, even though the world outside of my family continued as usual. I struggled to understand how I fit in, now that my biggest support and best friend was gone. I took a semester off from school and lived in my dad’s house, barely leaving my room. The house was consistently eerily quiet; my mom’s keyboard no longer clicked away in the next room. My night routine as I had known it ended. I couldn’t go into the living room and get immersed in a good TV show or movie with my mom anymore; we couldn’t share cute pictures of animals and funny memes anymore. I don’t remember really feeling anything, which I still think was strange. I think I just avoided my feelings for a long time and never especially coped in a healthy way; I still numbed myself with pain pills for a bit after her death.
It wasn’t until this past summer that I was able to feel any permanence in my life. I moved off campus with one of my best friends, secured an internship at Helpmate, and finally made the decision to be happy. It took me an extremely long time to realize that happiness really is a choice, and now that I know that, my life has improved so, so much. Granted, our duplex still feels rather liminal since it is still so new, but it’s ours for a year, and the liminal feeling will fade over the coming months. Yet, I can’t help but think about the day when I stop living out of boxes and bags, moving multiple times a year. I ache for a permanent house, for stillness, and to be surrounded by the beauty of Appalachia.
