The Descent into Decline
by Abbie Doll
‘Twas the season of calendars crammed: too many appointments to name, let alone manage. The seeing-yet-another-physician season, the scans-and-surgeries season. The revolving-door season of hospital stays, both scheduled and unforeseen. The insufferable season of suffering, the season of wondering when—or if—you’ll make it back home. The season of asking on repeat: is this it? Is it? The season of one too many close calls, the season of pleading: please, give it to me straight. That d(r)eadful season of determining how and why and when… ‘Twas the season of staring at each clock in disbelief, willing them all to wind back. The season of constant wondering, of hope & despair warring in equal measure. The season of forsaking every last belief while wallowing in the feeling of flat-out defeat. The burdensome season of failing to cope with your new reality: the irreversible necessity of need in every minor thing. Assistance, a must. ‘Twas the season of gradual-yet-rapid deterioration. A season of too many feelings: the regrets, the longings, the never-ending negotiations, the wanting more time, the blues, the blues, those fucking relentless blues. That inescapable shame with your biology to blame. Letting everyone down, down, down…and feeling let down—by your own body no less. Welcome to the season of no autonomy, the postseason period where life itself ceases (to matter), the season where the writing on the wall is unalterable—the stains and scars permanent. The season of incessant apologies, the season where language itself atrophies into sheer inadequacy. You’ve reached the all-too-predictable season of Death approaching—Death lurking, Death bedside-lingering. The sickening season of postmortem planning, concluded by the cessation of planning entirely. Then comes the heavyhearted hassle of saying goodbye, while fickle Father Time clicks his tongue and checks his watch. Enter the unbearable season of not knowing what to say, while somehow also having too much to say. Then comes the season of solitude: of not saying anything at all—where silence descends like snow. Enter the contradictory season of trying to fit everything in, as if you hadn’t already rushed to live your whole damn life. The season of trying to secure One. Last. Taste. The oh-so-infuriating season of demanding a do-over. That back-and-forth seesaw season of wondering if you ever did anything right. That finicky assessment season. The final-countdown season, without knowing exactly when. The hoping-death-is-just-a-new-beginning season. That sucky barnyard season of being put out to pasture—having to let go of everything and everyone you ever knew…or die trying (but really, dying either way). ‘Twas the season of last reflections, the season of sorrow, the season of bargaining, and reluctantly, oh, so reluctantly, the season of acceptance. ‘Twas the final season, after all. The season of separation, the season of farewell. The season of departure, the season of burial. The season of grief, the season of reckoning.
The season of no longer being around.
The season of no longer being.
The season of no longer.
Abbie Doll is a writer residing in Columbus, OH, with an MFA from Lindenwood University and is a Fiction Editor at Identity Theory. Her work has been featured in Door Is a Jar Magazine, 3:AM Magazine, and Pinch Journal Online, among others; it has also been longlisted for The Wigleaf Top 50 and nominated for The Best Small Fictions, Best Microfiction, and the Pushcart Prize. Connect on socials @AbbieDollWrites.
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What surprising, fascinating stuff can you tell us about the origin, drafting, and/or final version of “The Descent into Decline”? The format of this piece was inspired by those famous opening lines from A Tale of Two Cities, a book I attempted much too young; said passage was further cemented in my brain by an episode of Hey Arnold! in which Oskar learns to read, and part of that process involves memorizing those lines, then performing them as proof. This was way before streaming, back when kids were subject to watching whatever reruns networks chose to air. But that’s a really lighthearted explanation for such heavy subject matter. Cartoons and literature aside, I came across a “Seasons” prompt for a submission call, and this ended up being the result. Death and grief contain too many seasons to name, and they’re always knotting and unraveling in new, unanticipated ways.
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