The prognosis is....envelope please....you have cancer and we can't do jack!

According to Douglas Adams, writing should be easy, I should keep staring at this blank screen until my forehead bleeds.  Right now, my heart is bleeding.  Not literally, just metaphorically.  Literally would be far too messy and I would be unable to string together any coherent thought due to the blood loss, I think.  Or at least, I might be dizzy and faint.  That will definitely guarantee a derailment of my train of thought.  I’m trying in vain to search for words that would somehow help me explain my current status, to myself at least.  I’m a writer.  Bleeding words on a page should be easy.  

The short end of the story is my mother has cancer.  She had surgery to remove the tumor in her colon three years ago.  I remember having lunch with my parents, on my anniversary, with my oldest son when my dad informed me that my mother was ill and he was going to take her to the emergency room as the doctor suggested.  My son was coming up on his 2^nd birthday when she started to undergo the first of two surgeries that would eventually leave her cancer free for at least three years it turned out.

So now it’s back.  I’m tempted to curse at this point but the English lit major in me just won’t give me the satisfaction.  Besides, what would it accomplish?  Sometimes, rage and anger are just useless emotions.  I just found out today that it has spread too far for her to consider chemo.  I suppose that’s good in a way because frankly, the idea of chemo and its side effects scares the hell out of her.  Funny how we are all at peace with her decision to not do chemo.  

I made a big decision over the weekend, during my sleepover at the hospital with my mom.  It was my other half’s idea actually.  I’m taking my little family and moving back home.  I hope I am up to the task because when this season is done, my mother will be in heaven and I will no longer be her doll.  

She told me once, when she was pregnant with me, she had prayed for a doll of her very own.  You see, she was the oldest of my grandmother’s 6 children and most her life, she played the role of surrogate mother.  She said, that she had never been able to play with dolls so when I was born, she was very happy.  I was her doll.  At 36, I still am.  I recently made a comment to her that considering her current circumstances, she will soon get to see her mother.  She replied that until that time, she had her mother here.  She referred to me as her “Ma.”  

It nearly broke me.  But I can’t break in front of her.  That’s what my husband’s arms are for.  Then I pick myself up, dust off my dried flecks of blood from my heart, and pretend that I’m functioning.  Truth is, I can barely walk, barely stand up, much less handle what’s before me.  It is here that I understand her gift to me has always been the gift of faith.  It is the one thing we have always shared.

When I was young, I used to be terrified of losing my mom.  I’ve accepted that I have to let her go.  But I’m learning that even in this situation, God is still in the midst of this.  I see his hand on me and my family in ways I can’t explain.  I know I have to let her go and I will.  But until that moment when she takes her last breath and leaves me, I am looking forward to simply loving her and laughing with her.  Death is a transition from life to eternity.  When she leaves me, I will spend my whole life with an emptiness within me that will never be quite filled.  Until then, I will stand my ground and keep hoping for my miracle and savor every moment I get with her.  

I hope, if nothing else, at least you’ll allow me to share this journey with you.  I’m not sure this is a journey I can take alone.