photo credit: mattlemmon Mother and Child Sculpture Closeup via photopin (license)

June was a beautiful month. I could forgive the rain. Then came July. On Independence Day I began to have a strange inclination to see my mother and didn't know why. Nothing else mattered, not the picnics or fireworks or sitting poolside with friends, I just wanted to see Mother. It was overcast and unseasonably cold when my daughter and I drove to her house; we had a good afternoon catching up. Mother bought $5 in fireworks and we all laughed when an angry neighbor drove through an air of smoke and fire. Seeing her laugh made me feel better, though her appearance had lost its vigor--a strength that had been constant from childhood. She'd gotten through the depression, had traveled the world, survived three cesareans, had gotten us through the divorce, through meager funds, through teenage drama, high school and beyond. My mother was a strong woman.

A week goes by and I start to worry again. Gone With the Wind is on TV and it reminds me of how how she'd cry every time Scarlett returns to Tara, only to find out her mother has died. The next day, a Saturday, I call to check up on her. In my ear, a voice shaking and weak. She needs help. I drive down then rush her to the ER. 

Hour after hour goes by with no real help or answers. Bronchitis, heart issues, they all say. They never hook her up to an iv or offer medicine. Finally a nurse comes in and mentions the word 'cancer.' Stage 4. Terminal. Shadows on the lungs. It started in the ovarian and has spread. Mother keeps saying she is ready to go, but that is no relief. I don't want to hear those words and go into a cognitive dissonance. Time for miracles. Divine healing. This is not going to happen. The nurses wrap a DNR band on her wrist: Do Not Resuscitate. 

A few days they send her home. Hope. Nurses come by, there are dietary restrictions, physical therapy. Mother has to use a walker. There will be chemo, lung drains, xrays, meds. It all becomes a blur as I drive back and forth between my house and hers--my kids are veritable orphans existing on ramen noodles and Netflix. Though summer has grown hot, we never go to the pool, we never take a vacation or see a movie. My mission: save Mom. Ten more years, I say in my car to no one. Please, God, ten more. 

Chemo, more operations. They put a stint in her lungs, then the next day my siblings and I watch how to drain it ourselves. We never had to put our knowledge to the test. The next day mother is rushed to the ER again, and then hospice. If you don't know what that means, congratulations. Here's to never having to know.

Through it all there is peace in knowing that somehow this was all meant to be, and at least Mother isn't suffering too much. Hospice is calm, and ironically healing--for those in emotional turmoil. it was a fast, horrible journey. In three days she takes her last breath, her three children there with her. 

It is beyond painful to know that I'll never see or hear my mother again--in this realm. Earth. But I know she's out there. At the store a white-haired woman will walk by and I feel so damn jealous. Why do other people get to have parents still? Or grandparents? My voice of reason is gone. I'll never talk to her on the phone again, or see her on my birthday--she always took me out to lunch. She'll never knock on my door again, or complain about my hair or call me her angel. It hurts so much.

It's funny what you remember in times of chaos. At one particular appointment when she was supposed to get chemo, her doctor said she could hold on a few more months, or heal enough for two more years. Chemo could save her life for a while, or kill her now. Mom was quiet when I drove her across the street afterwards to get a new xray. I dropped her off at the door to park my car, then went into the lobby only to find her coughing. She'd swallowed wrong on a drink of water. Little comfort, people stared, a man took his baby outside even though it was July hot. Mother slumped and began to cry. She said to me, "Let's just get this over." And I knew what she meant. Then, when the nurse called her, she straightened her shoulders and we got the damn xray. On the way home I bought her a smoothie at McDonald's. That became our ritual. Appointment? Xray? Smoothie. It was about all she could eat. I bought her one two days before she went into hospice. 

My mind is playing tricks on me. I pretend she's still alive in some alternate timeline, and if I could just get to her, all will be fine. But the truth is, she's free now and I have to accept it. Never felt so painfully alive before, in the worst kind of way. Hug those you love. Don't take them for granted. Tell them how much you love them. Go buy them a smoothie.