It's been happening more and more over the past few days and tonight it was just ridiculous. The minute, no, the second i step into that subway car and the doors close and the train starts moving, immediately terribly sad memories descend upon me and i cannot chase them away. It doesn't matter if i'm standing or i'm sitting. It's like there's something about that shiny chrome-like surface (not sure what subway cars are made of) that triggers sadness. It's gotten to be very annoying. Well, buses do it, too. It's so weird, why does public transportation trigger my saddest memories?
I had a terrible flashback of one of mom's trips to the emergency room on the way to my tia's tonight. And, i tried so hard to push it out of my mind. The subway is just not the place where i want to break down as i recall some of the most traumatizing moments of my life. The truth is i'm so afraid to revisit those memories at all. Like Alison said on Saturday, maybe if i write it all down, tell the complete story, maybe it'll be out of my head and therefore less haunting. Because right now it is haunting. I think the horror of it all is too much for me to handle so i keep pushing the memories away, i cannot take too much at once. Not that i want to forget how everything happened, how one doctor's appointment led to the next led to the emergency room visit led to emergency surgery led to convalescing at my aunts' homes led to innumerable tumors in the liver led to ascites and cachexia.
That stupid word. I hate that stupid word. I read it very early on in my mom's diagnosis. I tried so hard to feed my mom the right foods. But it didn't work. The cancer ate her. She slowly disappeared, became the feeblest little bird. That is so horrifying. Mom was joyful and strong and full of hope and never, ever, ever gave up hope that she would live. Even when she couldn't stand by herself anymore, she would miraculously get up the next day and hobble to the living room by herself. She was nothing but bones, and i remember the look of fear on her face as she looked at herself in the mirror, touching her chest and her collarbone. But i also remember when she looked in the mirror and said, "i don't look so bad today and my hair looks good." It's confusing to me because she was so, so, so strong while she was so weak and deteriorated. She kept on getting up. She would have the most amazing surges of energy and lifeforce. But at the end it must have been pure will. She asked Diane, the nurse, on Monday, 2 days before she died, why her legs were so heavy and why she felt so tired when she tried to walk. Diane was at a loss for words. My mom understood that she was dying, i think, i'm pretty sure, but she kept insisting on understanding why her body was doing this to her. I know she asked my family to take care of me, so that tells me she was preparing to be gone. But her friend, Zoraida, saw my mom the day before she died and tells me that mom told her she had faith that she could be cured. It hurt me so much to think that she wanted so badly to stay alive and get better, even when she was already in the last 24 hours of her life. But maybe that was just her way of not going gently into that good night. Not exactly rage, but determination against the dying of the light.
Okay, that was some sobfest i just experienced. A ti suspiramos gimiendo y llorando en este valle de lagrimas. How does it go in English?
Can't say i really feel any better. I feel snotty and my throat hurts and i can't breathe through my nose. I don't know, does it feel better? I can only hope that the sobbing does help get out my grief and lead me toward healing. I'm definitely exhausted and feel my head beginning to throb.
Okay i looked it up, it's one of the prayers from the Rosary: to thee do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears.
Exactly.
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