(no subject)
my newest installment:
Thinking about my mom was always so hard for me. Most problems in my life festered in my mind and bothered the hell out of me, until I had them at least somewhat resolved. My mother was so much different, though. You see, I was only 7 when she got sick. She didn't tell us kids until a year later when she had to, because she was getting major surgery. Everyday she would go to chemotherapy, feel like shit, throw up, and then put up a front when we all came home from school. Sure, she was tired all the time, but being 7 years old, I had no idea what that meant. I doubt I even noticed.
When she started getting seriously sick, I still didn't really grasp the gravity of the situation. I wonder if I even understand it fully today. She was always in and out of surgeries, and I quickly grew used to it. It was just a part of my famnily's life. She had her one spot on the couch in the living room that she barely moved from when she was feeling weak and sick. My dad even bought her HBO, so that she would have something to entertain herself with. I loved HBO. That's pretty much all I thought about when we got it.
"Yes! HBO!" Not,
"Holy shit. My mom is so sick that she can't move from the goddamn couch." Anyway, she finally went into remission for a few months, and all we did was travel. Another thing that I didn't think much into. We were traveling so much, because she wanted us to have fun with her before she died. I can't imagine what knowing that I was dying would feel like. I'm doubting that I would ever take it with as much grace as my mother did.
The strangest thing is, I can't remember a lot about my mother, especially before she was sick. I know she was such an amazingly optimistic person. I don't know how the hell she did it. There are only a very few incidents that stick in my memory from when she was sick, because I seriously think that I didn't want to see it. I was too young to know that when she died, it was forever.
I think the first time that I knew my mother was really dying, was probably about a month before it happend. I walked downstairs from my room, and my dad was lifting her up. She was so limp and so pale, and it just didn't even register until I think back to it now. What I really remember though was why he was lifting her up. He had bought her a p[lastic seat that had some kind of bucket under it. She couldn't get up and walk the 20 feet to the bathroom. It took him so many tries to get her up onto it, because she was in so much pain he had to keep stopping and putting her back down. I was horrified . How could someone be that sick? What the hell was going on, and why weren't the damn doctors fixing her with all of their stupid sugery? I ran up the stairs to my room. That night was the first night that I actually prayed for my mom to die. I hate myself for it to this day, but all I wanted was for her to stop suffering. It was killing me.
About two days before she died, I came home from school all proud because I had gotten student of the month. I waltzed into the living room and showed it to her, obviously awaiting some praise and excitement. She nodded and smiled, but that's about all she could handle. It bothered me, but that wasn't what caught my attention.
"Hey ma... what's all that marker on your head?" Her hair fell out about two years in, because she started on those hard core chemo treatments, so it was easy to see her head.
"Don't worry about it hunny" She was still smiling and holding my stupid student of the month paper.
"Seriously, why are there circles on your head?" I touched one.
"Well, they're brain tumors. They made marks so that they could do my radiation." I really don't even remember how I responded to this. The amount of cancer that my mother had in her body was infathomable to me. Her original diagnosis was cervical cancer, and it spread all the way to her brain. There were four. Four tumors in her brain when she died. God knows how many others she had in her body. There weren't any marks on the rest of them.
Thinking about my mom was always so hard for me. Most problems in my life festered in my mind and bothered the hell out of me, until I had them at least somewhat resolved. My mother was so much different, though. You see, I was only 7 when she got sick. She didn't tell us kids until a year later when she had to, because she was getting major surgery. Everyday she would go to chemotherapy, feel like shit, throw up, and then put up a front when we all came home from school. Sure, she was tired all the time, but being 7 years old, I had no idea what that meant. I doubt I even noticed.
When she started getting seriously sick, I still didn't really grasp the gravity of the situation. I wonder if I even understand it fully today. She was always in and out of surgeries, and I quickly grew used to it. It was just a part of my famnily's life. She had her one spot on the couch in the living room that she barely moved from when she was feeling weak and sick. My dad even bought her HBO, so that she would have something to entertain herself with. I loved HBO. That's pretty much all I thought about when we got it.
"Yes! HBO!" Not,
"Holy shit. My mom is so sick that she can't move from the goddamn couch." Anyway, she finally went into remission for a few months, and all we did was travel. Another thing that I didn't think much into. We were traveling so much, because she wanted us to have fun with her before she died. I can't imagine what knowing that I was dying would feel like. I'm doubting that I would ever take it with as much grace as my mother did.
The strangest thing is, I can't remember a lot about my mother, especially before she was sick. I know she was such an amazingly optimistic person. I don't know how the hell she did it. There are only a very few incidents that stick in my memory from when she was sick, because I seriously think that I didn't want to see it. I was too young to know that when she died, it was forever.
I think the first time that I knew my mother was really dying, was probably about a month before it happend. I walked downstairs from my room, and my dad was lifting her up. She was so limp and so pale, and it just didn't even register until I think back to it now. What I really remember though was why he was lifting her up. He had bought her a p[lastic seat that had some kind of bucket under it. She couldn't get up and walk the 20 feet to the bathroom. It took him so many tries to get her up onto it, because she was in so much pain he had to keep stopping and putting her back down. I was horrified . How could someone be that sick? What the hell was going on, and why weren't the damn doctors fixing her with all of their stupid sugery? I ran up the stairs to my room. That night was the first night that I actually prayed for my mom to die. I hate myself for it to this day, but all I wanted was for her to stop suffering. It was killing me.
About two days before she died, I came home from school all proud because I had gotten student of the month. I waltzed into the living room and showed it to her, obviously awaiting some praise and excitement. She nodded and smiled, but that's about all she could handle. It bothered me, but that wasn't what caught my attention.
"Hey ma... what's all that marker on your head?" Her hair fell out about two years in, because she started on those hard core chemo treatments, so it was easy to see her head.
"Don't worry about it hunny" She was still smiling and holding my stupid student of the month paper.
"Seriously, why are there circles on your head?" I touched one.
"Well, they're brain tumors. They made marks so that they could do my radiation." I really don't even remember how I responded to this. The amount of cancer that my mother had in her body was infathomable to me. Her original diagnosis was cervical cancer, and it spread all the way to her brain. There were four. Four tumors in her brain when she died. God knows how many others she had in her body. There weren't any marks on the rest of them.