"What's the matter, love? You scared?" she asks, pulling back the covers and patting the mattress beside her. I am five and I have arrived at her bedside in search of safety from the shadows on my walls that look like ghouls, from the various creeks around the house that sound like intruders, or from any other imaginary thing that threatens my well-being. She welcomes me with open arms, and the minute I curl up next to her, every little fear dissipates. And just like that, I am safe.
Fast forward 35 years. I am standing next to the bed in my guest room as I watch her sleep. She has retired early after a long day of activities. She and my sister have come down to Texas for a visit. She stirs to the sounds of my sniffles.
"What's the matter, love? You scared?" She pulls back the covers, and I crawl in next to her. But this time, I am careful not to put too much weight against her; she is frail and I do not want to hurt her. I snuggle in next to her, my head resting against her shoulder. She has her arm wrapped around me and she is stroking my brow with her thumb.
"Huh? What's wrong, darling?"
It is a loaded question, and my sobs make it difficult for me to say all the things I want to say. How do I tell her about everything that scares the shit out me without addressing the elephant in the room—that pancreatic cancer, no matter how much treatment or positive thinking, is the Grim Reaper of all cancers.
Fast forward 35 years. I am standing next to the bed in my guest room as I watch her sleep. She has retired early after a long day of activities. She and my sister have come down to Texas for a visit. She stirs to the sounds of my sniffles.
"What's the matter, love? You scared?" She pulls back the covers, and I crawl in next to her. But this time, I am careful not to put too much weight against her; she is frail and I do not want to hurt her. I snuggle in next to her, my head resting against her shoulder. She has her arm wrapped around me and she is stroking my brow with her thumb.
"Huh? What's wrong, darling?"
It is a loaded question, and my sobs make it difficult for me to say all the things I want to say. How do I tell her about everything that scares the shit out me without addressing the elephant in the room—that pancreatic cancer, no matter how much treatment or positive thinking, is the Grim Reaper of all cancers.
- I'm scared that you will never know how much I love you... how when I was young, I hated being away from you... how the affection you gave to us kids set the bar so high that I know I will never feel that kind of love again unless I have children of my own.
-I'm scared that if I ever do have children, they will never have the privilege of knowing you. It will feel so empty without you.
-I'm scared that I can never convey to you how sorry I am for all the times, especially as a teenager, I tested your spirit and patience. If I could take back all the crap I put you through, I would.
-I'm scared of how lost I will feel when I want to call you for advice, but you will no longer be there.
-I'm scared that in the end you will be in pain.
-I'm scared that I am not strong enough to handle "the end."
-I'm scared that when the end comes, we will not be strong enough to let you go, and you will hold on longer than necessary just to ease our pain.
-I'm scared that this so-called "afterlife" we all hope for is just a facade, and this is the last time we will truly be together.
-Selfishly, I am scared about my own demise, and how I will never be able to face it with the courage and graciousness with which you have faced yours.
-But most of all, Mom, I am scared of the day when my fears can not be allayed by your embrace. I am scared of carrying on the rest of my life as me without you...
as a daughter without her mother.
4 comments:
Rachel,
I lost my dad 3 weeks before my first child was born. And through no fault of her own, she is almost exactly like him... even 25 years later. I lost my dad without the luxury of time to tell him all the things you just said about your mom... as bad as this is, that my dear is what I call the luxury of time. Use it... all of it. And don't leave any leftovers.
Thanks,
Bill
Thanks, Bill. How tragic to have lost your dad without the luxury of time. I am taking in every little moment I have with her. You are right: as hard as this is, I am very fortunate to have this time with her and I do not take it for granted.
As usual, thanks for reading.
R
p.s. You don't look old enough to have a 25 year old;)
Oh honey, I'm so sorry. I wish I had a magic wand. And I really don't know what else to say. Love to you and yours.
Thanks, Aldra. I wish you had a magic wand too:( But, unfortunately, this is part of life. Your kind words help, though.
R
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