Cancer, Depression, and Me
For years my mother has suffered from debilitating clinical depression, sometimes worse than others, but very rarely has she ever been really great. For almost as long, my mother has known cancer. When I was 6, she went through it the first time. I was too young to really know what was going on. My parents sheltered me from pretty much everything; the thought that my mother might not make it never seriously occurred to me. When I was 17, she went through it for the second time. All things considered, it wasn't too bad. The doctors were very optimistic. She went through surgery, through chemo. It seemed like it was over. A few months ago, we found out she was going through it for a third time. This time the doctors weren't optimistic. This time, no one was talking about a cure, only "life extension". And even that hasn't gone well. In fact, the doctors' attempts at "life extension" have gone about just as badly as they could go.
At first coping with the understanding that I was losing my mother was very difficult for me. More difficult than I could have imagined. But now, that doesn't really get to me, not like it used to anyway. Now the difficult part is seeing the mother I love go through agony and misery, cancer and depression. I'm finally old enough that no one's sheltering me from anything. I help my mother walk to the car; I give her something to throw up in when she's feeling nauseous; I sit with her when she cries about not being able to eat, not being able to walk, not being able to live. It's not easy. I don't know how my father does it, slowly losing another wife. I don't know how he can keep his composure taking care of her all the time, constantly caught in the onslaught of bad news. I don't know how he'll deal with it when she's finally gone; she's all he has.
It's funny; the thought, "why me?" never occurred to me until just now. All the bad things in the world can happen to me. I adapt. But having to see someone I love suffer so much that she wonders why she's even alive, that hurts. That hurts so much worse than anything that's ever befallen me.
At first coping with the understanding that I was losing my mother was very difficult for me. More difficult than I could have imagined. But now, that doesn't really get to me, not like it used to anyway. Now the difficult part is seeing the mother I love go through agony and misery, cancer and depression. I'm finally old enough that no one's sheltering me from anything. I help my mother walk to the car; I give her something to throw up in when she's feeling nauseous; I sit with her when she cries about not being able to eat, not being able to walk, not being able to live. It's not easy. I don't know how my father does it, slowly losing another wife. I don't know how he can keep his composure taking care of her all the time, constantly caught in the onslaught of bad news. I don't know how he'll deal with it when she's finally gone; she's all he has.
It's funny; the thought, "why me?" never occurred to me until just now. All the bad things in the world can happen to me. I adapt. But having to see someone I love suffer so much that she wonders why she's even alive, that hurts. That hurts so much worse than anything that's ever befallen me.