Saturday, June 15, 2013

A letter to my mother.

Recently, my mother read my blogs and told me how much she loves them and that I should write more. She continued by saying that I should write about my experiences or about the people I know, just write more. So for the past few weeks I've been thinking about what my next tear jerking, tissue prompting blog would be about. But I didn't want to write about the same things I had already done, so where would my heart strings tug at next?

And then, in a moment, while listening to a song about someone having had so much to say but didn't and was left suffocating with the words they never said, I realized what my next blog would be about. Simply, my mother. I am absolutely certain that if anything ever happened to her, a blog would appear from me with expressions of all I wished I had said, to her, about her and for her. So instead, with thoughts of life and death for some reason fresh on my mind, I will express those thoughts while she can appreciate them. Maybe my emotions stem from the fact that next January will be the 10 year anniversary from the time I thought I may lose my mother to ovarian cancer, or maybe because she is currently being checked for the breast cancer/ovarian cancer gene next week. Either way, something is stirring up my emotions from that cold 2004 winter.

I have a somewhat strange habit of blocking out certain badness from my mind. By that I mean, if a certain experience isn't a good one, I black most of it out. However, the day the dr came out from that very long surgery and said "yes, there was cancer", I remember running away to a bathroom, or an elevator, I'm not sure where I was going, but I remember my husband chasing after me, I remember loosing it wherever we were. I remember the long-ass drive home, and Eric getting pulled over by a state trooper, and me mumbling some miserable words to the state trooper who could apparently see my distress and let us go. But then, I don't remember much more. What happened the next few days, weeks? Where was I? I think I went to see her again while she was recovering over an hour away, and I think she was pretty beaten up. But did I? What kind of daughter was I back then? Yes, I was working full time as a manager in a retail store, with time off being difficult, but that's no excuse. I can't recall if I really wasn't there for her, or if I was just going through the motions, struggling to exist, subconsciously blocking out the scary parts. Before we found all this out, we had been in the middle of moving. We were headed to Florida, permanently. My husband had a job lined up, and I was looking for apartments. But I couldn't leave her. I couldn't crush her spirit that was busy battling this disease. She needed me here. She needed positive, not negative feelings. So we stayed, and we're still here to this day.

But even still, guilt chokes me when I think how I should have been a better daughter. So while your still here mama, I'm sorry I didn't do more then. And though you may not know it, it was my worst nightmare. Constantly questioning how much time I had left with you. Writing this, through my tears, I am reminded of the sick heart I felt with that huge question mark we all had running through our heads. But I still have you. And I appreciate you so much more now. I also enjoy bragging to everyone how despite my naive thoughts and displeasure at the time of your choices, you beat cancer the all natural way. No chemo, no radiation. But with desire and determination, you did it. I was and I am so proud of you for kicking it the way you knew you could.

Now, ten years later, we are closer than ever. It's weird if we go a day without talking, and when we don't talk, I kind of feel-- empty. I'm not sure where you get your energy from, but you never stop. And you never ever stop caring for others. I'm constantly amazed at the amount of love you can hold in that heart. Whether its rushing to the store to get something someone needs, or creating a "cod liver oil pain patch" for someone hurting, making the best homemade chicken noodle soup for someone sick, or just listening to me complain or cry. There are even times, when I've been in such a bad place, either physically or mentally, that my husband though try with all his might to help, will at some point realize that the only one who can help, is my mother. I've seen him practically race to the phone, and it was as if he was administering a morphine drip to someone completely broken. He takes a sigh of relief and steps back as he knows my mom will fix it, whatever it is, she will make me better. Like when your little and sick, the only person in the world that you want is your mommy. She can't always fix it or take the pain away, but in her touch and her soft words, you find comfort. I hope my girls feel that way about me.... I hope I give them the same comfort you have always given me. I hope they love me, half as much as I have always loved you.

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