6 months to live. Those are words you hear all the time. About some one ELSE. About some one ELSE'S family. You don't hear them yourself. You don't hear them about your mother. You hear stories of "I never thought that some one would be me" and agree - you never expect that kind of news to hit your family.
And then it does. What do you do? I mean, seriously. 6 months to live. How do you even begin to wrap your brain around that? What does that even mean? We all know that it's not a guarantee. Could mean 6 weeks, 6 months or 6 years. People defy the odds (in a both positive and negative way) all the time.
You know what I do? I've come to find out that I immediately regret. The first things that pop into my head are all the bad times, and the regret that comes with knowing that time is indeed finite. It makes me feel awful that I didn't spend less time being annoyed at my mom for some reason or other (because, admit it, mothers get on their children's nerves {and vice versa} on a regular basis). Here I sit...wishing I didn't waste that precious time with my mom being annoyed or saying the mean and hateful things I said as a overly hormonal teenager.
Instead I should rejoice. I got to spend an amazing nearly 30 years with my mom. Years that we spent traveling to wonderful places, living lives that not many else get to live. Who else has the story of almost getting to see Anne Frank's house, but didn't because some one had a broken toe? Who else can giggle over the time their mom knocked a tall (TALL) glass of beer across the table and into my lap and then had the mortifying experience of having a strange German woman practically strip my pants off to clean it up? Who else gets to tell their first born son the story of how his nana was so excited to meet him, she bribed her way into the delivery room with freshly baked cinnamon rolls?
I don't sit around and think "shit. my mom is dying of cancer." I really don't. It is a daily reminder; people ask how she's doing, I wonder if today is a good day or a bad day, but the death part isn't sole focus of my day. I take the attitude (often) of dealing with it when it happens.
So I hear the news of tumors found in the brain, immediate radiation and approximately 6 months to live and freak out. I cry, I'm upset, I tell my husband and my best friend and I hug my son. I'll wallow in this a bit (and who knows how long this "bit" will last - I nearly burst into tears in the middle of Hobby Lobby tonight {that's right, I took myself therapy shopping}) and then put it aside. We'll deal with that when we get to it. Until then, I am forced to be thankful to live in Idaho (even though it's no secret I mostly hate it here and really can't wait to leave - much to my mom's dismay; she loves Idaho) so that I'm a 10 minute drive from my mom.
So, I guess, don't worry about me. I'll be okay. My mom will be okay. She might have this awful death sentence and be dealing with her own regrets and "I wish I had" 's and things she's frightened of (far more than I, I'm quite sure), but she'll be okay. She has strong faith and I know she'll be well looked after when she's gone. Those I'm most worried about are being kept very close to my heart and I'll do everything I can to make things easier for them.
On that note - hug your mama's. Tell them you love them. Try to forgive them for whatever hurts they caused you. Don't wait til it's too late.
Sarah, I know what it's like to hear that your mother has 6 months to live. But, they told my mom those exact same words and she lived for another year after that. I have found that I envy other women who have their mothers there to help them, call them, give them advice, hug their kids, laugh with them...it's all so wonderful, you know? Sometimes people don't know what they have until it's threatened to be gone. And no regrets -- keep in your mind those 29 years of positive stuff. Life is all about the good and the bad and sometimes the bad things kind of make memories good (ie: Anne Frank house/broken toe?) You said it best "hug your mama's." I know that I would if I could -- each and every single day. Make sure that you do that for yours.
ReplyDeleteI am so very, very sorry that this is happening to you. I wish there was something, anything that I could do for you and your family to help aleviate the pain that you are in. You and your family are in my prayers. Please keep me posted on the happenings. {{hugs}}
I can't pretend to know what you're going through. I wish I could change the fact that you are. I wish I could be there to be a shoulder to cry on. And I wish I could send you the money to send you and your mom up in a darn hot air balloon just to add another memory to the vault. As it stands I can't do any of that. But I will pray for you, for her, and for your family. It's the most I can do.
ReplyDeletethanks to you both. as it should happen, Jamie, the hot air balloon ride is a bust anyway. I bought her one of those deals through LivingSocial and it turns out that she isn't physically able to do it, even though she still wants to (thankfully I was able to get a refund of the purchase and she was incredibly touched by the thought).
ReplyDeleteI heart you. And even though I'm far away, I'm always here. And I'll be there in 14 days and I'll invade your bubble (you know what I'm talking about).
ReplyDeleteI don't always have the right words but I'm here.