It smells like chicken soup. Like orange-hued broth with thick noodles, small, soft pieces of potato and little shreds of chicken that you get at the corner Chino-Latino restaurant. Or at your godmother's apartment.
I want soup. I want to be sitting at a table in a Dominican restaurant, looking across at my mom as she eats her soup. This is the kind of soup we ate together. She made much healthier soup, which i liked, too. But there's something about greasy diner chicken soup that makes me feel like a kid. And makes me miss my mom taking care of me when i feel sick.
Every day deeper into fall and closer to winter just gets harder and harder. For about a month or so, i didn't miss her every day, all day. Now i'm back to missing her with every step that i take.
Back to work...
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
The Year of Magical Thinking
The vortex. Yes, that's exactly what happens in the outside world. Exactly the way Joan Didion's words describe it. Watching Vanessa Redgrave in a benefit performance of "The Year of Magical Thinking" tonight was at times painful, at times terribly insightful but entirely what i was meant to be doing tonight.
One lesson i've learned this fall is that when i do something that someone else suggests, even when i don't want to do it or even if i very much don't feel like doing it, well sometimes that suggestion turns out to be wonderful, extraordinary, uplifting, the very thing i needed. I'm learning to trust my instincts and more importantly to trust the people i love and who love me.
And it only works in that combination. If the love isn't there, the suggestion's outcome isn't nearly as extraordinary. It happened to me with Jes (twice), with Diana, and tonight with E.J. I trusted him and bought the ticket to the benefit performance. And it was extraordinary.
I cried while i was watching it, seated in St. John the Divine. I cried especially on the way home. Past stupid St. Luke's Hospital. My memories not of my mom being there but of her being with me when i was sick there. I passed that long and wide stretch of 120th street between Amsterdam and Broadway. In the cold air i instantly was swept up by the vortex, going back to those nights my mom walked because she couldn't sleep, because she needed night air, or the night (i can't remember the day or month!) when i accompanied her, in her pajamas and coat, walking down to 116th and back, because she was so hot and she couldn't manage to get cool or comfortable. She was sick and weak and she wanted me to let her walk on her own. So i did, staying a few steps behind, watching her as a mother watches a toddler who's just starting to walk. She wasn't so steady on her feet but she walked as fast and as tall as she could. She was so strong and independent and defiant at that moment. Not defiant to me. Defiant to cancer.
She always walked. She always got up and walked. That night when she sprained her ankle in July, when she had cancer but nobody had figured it out yet. In Harlem Hospital in early October when she walked all around her floor attached to her IV stand, and the nurses told me that she'd been dancing for them earlier (because mom was a show-off and loved the attention). She walked all around the 8th floor in Mount Sinai, before the surgery that would start the beginning of the end. (But really when did it begin??) She walked even after the surgery, when the NG tube and the catheter were removed. She walked around the 10th floor at New York-Cornell, the ACE unit. She needed help but holding onto her IV or onto my arm, she walked as far as she wanted to go, further than i thought we should. She walked to the "salita," the, what did they call it? Visitor's room? It was the shortest distance from any of those other hospital floors where she had walked before. But this was the sickest she had ever been. She wrapped her red pashmina around her face and neck, looking like a bedouin on a journey across the Sahara, like she was prepared for it all, and pushed the walker they gave her around the nurse's station, over to the salita. She showed me in fact how far she liked to walk, to the other side of that floor. I think this was the 5th floor now. Now i remember that day i walked with her and she held onto the rails that line the walls and she showed me how she exercised. And she started doing something akin to bar exercises in ballet! I laughed and laughed and looked around to see if anybody was watching my mom show me her bar exercises. I'd never seen her do that in my entire life. She always found a way to make me laugh. Here she was showing me her ballet moves (always beautiful hands), eventually losing her balance (i yelled at her, gently, but by force of habit), within days of choosing hospice at home (i can't remember if this was before or after). She never wanted to stop dancing. She danced until she could no longer. She walked until she could no longer.
My mom got out of her hospital bed, in her room at home, in the middle of the night, walked to the living room where my aunt was staying, and got into bed with her. She got out of her hospital bed when Diane, the nurse, was in the living room talking with me, and walked to where we were, sat down, crossed her legs into a semi-Lotus position, as if to say, i'm still here. There were days when she hardly moved or talked. Then the next day she'd walk along the hallway, holding onto the wall, walking to where the voices were in the living room. She walked in the outside hallway, with her walker, in her white velour robe that i got her at Daffy's, trying to make it all the way down and back twice. She seemed to believe that if she pushed herself to exercise, to move her legs, then she would get stronger. She was so worried about the fact that walking was so difficult for her. Two days before she died she asked Diane why her legs felt so heavy and why she felt so tired. I translated the question to Diane and looked at her for an answer. She just looked at me, as if to say, what is there to say? The eventual answer was because my mom was so thin, it made her weak. I think that's what we told her. Whatever it was we told her, she nodded and said, "ohhhh." I think she just wanted an answer. None of this made any sense to her, as it didn't make any sense to me, because it just didn't make sense. How could she actually get cancer and die? This was not in our life plan.
I remember when Dr. - how could i forget his name? Why do i forget these things that made up all of my molecules for so many months? Dr. Cohen, i looked it up in my phone. When Dr. Cohen suggested stopping chemo and starting hospice, (what room was that? it was after the rectal bleeding that took us to the ER for the 4th time, after he stood in that room in his tshirt and jeans, having come to see mom while he was off duty, after he stood there and told mom that he didn't think she was at the end and we could pursue chemo; maybe in his office? maybe after the Tenkhoff catheter was attached?) i remember that my mom asked, without hesitation and with the utmost calm, "but doesn't that mean that the cancer will grow?" Dr. Cohen seemed a teeny bit surprised. She seemed like a child asking this question, but what more important question could there be? "Yes, it does mean the cancer grows." She was no dummy, my mom. She couldn't always communicate directly with those doctors, needed me to translate, but she always understood what was happening and needed to understand. A few minutes later she said to us, "okay yes let's stop the chemo. Maybe when i regain my strength we can try again."
She was so tired and so sick. I still don't know how much she knew. I mean, why did she always tell people she was going to get better? Why did she always say she had faith that she would beat this? I know she knew she was going to die, but then, i don't know. She and i never talked about it except one day when i asked her if she knew that i would be okay, that my family would take care of me. I think she said yes or nodded. I didn't say, "I'll be okay when you die." I just said, "you know i'll be okay, right?" I never said, "i'm okay with you dying, mom." I just said, "I want you to be fine, i don't want you to suffer anymore."
As i was walking onto Broadway, rounding 120th street, i noticed that i was clutching the packet of Kleenex in my pocket. I suddenly had a sense memory of holding someone's hand in my pocket. Was it my mom and me walking outside of the hospital? Me holding her hand in her pocket or mine? In our identical black down winter coats? Was it me holding my aunt's hand in my pocket? Did one of us not have gloves and that's why we were holding onto each other for warmth? And i cried, and i wished that i could hold my mother's hand. I wished that she could hold my hand.
Part of me is upset that i can no longer remember every single detail, date, name, medical term, time of day, location, etc. Part of me feels like there are so many terrible memories, with so many terrible parts to them, that maybe it's fortunate that i don't remember everything.
I know i'm definitely going to get my own copy of "The Year of Magical Thinking." Tonight i found so much comfort in hearing someone describe their grief, rawness and irrationality at the horror of it all. Talking to someone who knows how it is has been my saving grace this year. And hearing someone talk about exactly how i felt and still feel, it helps me to not feel alone. And that's so important.
I knew i needed to write a lot, i haven't written for days, so i'm glad tonight i got the chance/urge/inspiration. I was going to do my homework for the workshop. Bracing for the Winter. Why I'm Dressing Up for Halloween This Year. These are the titles i was toying with. I guess i'll have to finish tomorrow. I'm exhausted. A little bit scared of all the memories to come this winter, but ultimately it feels better to have cried as much as i have while writing this entry.
One lesson i've learned this fall is that when i do something that someone else suggests, even when i don't want to do it or even if i very much don't feel like doing it, well sometimes that suggestion turns out to be wonderful, extraordinary, uplifting, the very thing i needed. I'm learning to trust my instincts and more importantly to trust the people i love and who love me.
And it only works in that combination. If the love isn't there, the suggestion's outcome isn't nearly as extraordinary. It happened to me with Jes (twice), with Diana, and tonight with E.J. I trusted him and bought the ticket to the benefit performance. And it was extraordinary.
I cried while i was watching it, seated in St. John the Divine. I cried especially on the way home. Past stupid St. Luke's Hospital. My memories not of my mom being there but of her being with me when i was sick there. I passed that long and wide stretch of 120th street between Amsterdam and Broadway. In the cold air i instantly was swept up by the vortex, going back to those nights my mom walked because she couldn't sleep, because she needed night air, or the night (i can't remember the day or month!) when i accompanied her, in her pajamas and coat, walking down to 116th and back, because she was so hot and she couldn't manage to get cool or comfortable. She was sick and weak and she wanted me to let her walk on her own. So i did, staying a few steps behind, watching her as a mother watches a toddler who's just starting to walk. She wasn't so steady on her feet but she walked as fast and as tall as she could. She was so strong and independent and defiant at that moment. Not defiant to me. Defiant to cancer.
She always walked. She always got up and walked. That night when she sprained her ankle in July, when she had cancer but nobody had figured it out yet. In Harlem Hospital in early October when she walked all around her floor attached to her IV stand, and the nurses told me that she'd been dancing for them earlier (because mom was a show-off and loved the attention). She walked all around the 8th floor in Mount Sinai, before the surgery that would start the beginning of the end. (But really when did it begin??) She walked even after the surgery, when the NG tube and the catheter were removed. She walked around the 10th floor at New York-Cornell, the ACE unit. She needed help but holding onto her IV or onto my arm, she walked as far as she wanted to go, further than i thought we should. She walked to the "salita," the, what did they call it? Visitor's room? It was the shortest distance from any of those other hospital floors where she had walked before. But this was the sickest she had ever been. She wrapped her red pashmina around her face and neck, looking like a bedouin on a journey across the Sahara, like she was prepared for it all, and pushed the walker they gave her around the nurse's station, over to the salita. She showed me in fact how far she liked to walk, to the other side of that floor. I think this was the 5th floor now. Now i remember that day i walked with her and she held onto the rails that line the walls and she showed me how she exercised. And she started doing something akin to bar exercises in ballet! I laughed and laughed and looked around to see if anybody was watching my mom show me her bar exercises. I'd never seen her do that in my entire life. She always found a way to make me laugh. Here she was showing me her ballet moves (always beautiful hands), eventually losing her balance (i yelled at her, gently, but by force of habit), within days of choosing hospice at home (i can't remember if this was before or after). She never wanted to stop dancing. She danced until she could no longer. She walked until she could no longer.
My mom got out of her hospital bed, in her room at home, in the middle of the night, walked to the living room where my aunt was staying, and got into bed with her. She got out of her hospital bed when Diane, the nurse, was in the living room talking with me, and walked to where we were, sat down, crossed her legs into a semi-Lotus position, as if to say, i'm still here. There were days when she hardly moved or talked. Then the next day she'd walk along the hallway, holding onto the wall, walking to where the voices were in the living room. She walked in the outside hallway, with her walker, in her white velour robe that i got her at Daffy's, trying to make it all the way down and back twice. She seemed to believe that if she pushed herself to exercise, to move her legs, then she would get stronger. She was so worried about the fact that walking was so difficult for her. Two days before she died she asked Diane why her legs felt so heavy and why she felt so tired. I translated the question to Diane and looked at her for an answer. She just looked at me, as if to say, what is there to say? The eventual answer was because my mom was so thin, it made her weak. I think that's what we told her. Whatever it was we told her, she nodded and said, "ohhhh." I think she just wanted an answer. None of this made any sense to her, as it didn't make any sense to me, because it just didn't make sense. How could she actually get cancer and die? This was not in our life plan.
I remember when Dr. - how could i forget his name? Why do i forget these things that made up all of my molecules for so many months? Dr. Cohen, i looked it up in my phone. When Dr. Cohen suggested stopping chemo and starting hospice, (what room was that? it was after the rectal bleeding that took us to the ER for the 4th time, after he stood in that room in his tshirt and jeans, having come to see mom while he was off duty, after he stood there and told mom that he didn't think she was at the end and we could pursue chemo; maybe in his office? maybe after the Tenkhoff catheter was attached?) i remember that my mom asked, without hesitation and with the utmost calm, "but doesn't that mean that the cancer will grow?" Dr. Cohen seemed a teeny bit surprised. She seemed like a child asking this question, but what more important question could there be? "Yes, it does mean the cancer grows." She was no dummy, my mom. She couldn't always communicate directly with those doctors, needed me to translate, but she always understood what was happening and needed to understand. A few minutes later she said to us, "okay yes let's stop the chemo. Maybe when i regain my strength we can try again."
She was so tired and so sick. I still don't know how much she knew. I mean, why did she always tell people she was going to get better? Why did she always say she had faith that she would beat this? I know she knew she was going to die, but then, i don't know. She and i never talked about it except one day when i asked her if she knew that i would be okay, that my family would take care of me. I think she said yes or nodded. I didn't say, "I'll be okay when you die." I just said, "you know i'll be okay, right?" I never said, "i'm okay with you dying, mom." I just said, "I want you to be fine, i don't want you to suffer anymore."
As i was walking onto Broadway, rounding 120th street, i noticed that i was clutching the packet of Kleenex in my pocket. I suddenly had a sense memory of holding someone's hand in my pocket. Was it my mom and me walking outside of the hospital? Me holding her hand in her pocket or mine? In our identical black down winter coats? Was it me holding my aunt's hand in my pocket? Did one of us not have gloves and that's why we were holding onto each other for warmth? And i cried, and i wished that i could hold my mother's hand. I wished that she could hold my hand.
Part of me is upset that i can no longer remember every single detail, date, name, medical term, time of day, location, etc. Part of me feels like there are so many terrible memories, with so many terrible parts to them, that maybe it's fortunate that i don't remember everything.
I know i'm definitely going to get my own copy of "The Year of Magical Thinking." Tonight i found so much comfort in hearing someone describe their grief, rawness and irrationality at the horror of it all. Talking to someone who knows how it is has been my saving grace this year. And hearing someone talk about exactly how i felt and still feel, it helps me to not feel alone. And that's so important.
I knew i needed to write a lot, i haven't written for days, so i'm glad tonight i got the chance/urge/inspiration. I was going to do my homework for the workshop. Bracing for the Winter. Why I'm Dressing Up for Halloween This Year. These are the titles i was toying with. I guess i'll have to finish tomorrow. I'm exhausted. A little bit scared of all the memories to come this winter, but ultimately it feels better to have cried as much as i have while writing this entry.
Monday, October 19, 2009
October Monday
By the time i got to work this morning i had decided that October was destined to suck royally, that it wouldn't just be today that sucked. I'd begun feeling the lows of PMS, i lost my monthly Metrocard on Friday with about 3 weeks left on it, i fell forward going up the stairs to catch the train, narrowly missing smashing my face, and i'd just spent A LOT of money i didn't have over the weekend.
As usual, my bad mood dissipated, against my will, as i interacted with coworkers and laughed or commented about lighthearted, unimportant things.
Later in the afternoon, i commented aloud that i couldn't believe it was going so well. I had called 5 schools and actually reached someone and actually got the information i needed. I couldn't complain anymore because the day was actually going kind of well.
The book club meeting was nice. We all agreed that we HATED the book, i mean HATED. How Candace Bushnell got a publishing deal i'll never know.
On the way home i listened to Kristeen Young's "Enemy" which i just bought today from Amazon as a digital download, then to "Music for Strippers, Hookers, and the Odd On-Looker" which i have been loving for the past week and a half.
I looked at an older woman who was sitting across from me on the subway ride home and i thought that her wrinkles made her look beautiful. She was dressed in a kind of cool, modern way, not exactly youthful but not conservative either. She was eating a pastry or something and the wrinkles around her lips and her smile lines were accentuated as she chewed. She looked so relaxed and un-self-conscious that it made her look more beautiful. And in a split second i thought of my mom and how her face had aged and how she cared about the wrinkles on her face and how the passage of time equals more wrinkles. And the tears started to well up in my eyes.
I imagined i could look across at my mom sitting there, with her wrinkles showing the passage of her years on Earth, marking all her smiles and all her frowns. I remembered how my mom looked so cute and confident in her aloof way. She had style and purpose. I miss her coat with her rose pin and the way she tied her red pashmina scarf around her neck and how she positioned her beret just so on her head. I'll miss her so much this winter. She hated the cold and always wanted to live in a warmer climate, but i loved her style in the winter.
As usual, my bad mood dissipated, against my will, as i interacted with coworkers and laughed or commented about lighthearted, unimportant things.
Later in the afternoon, i commented aloud that i couldn't believe it was going so well. I had called 5 schools and actually reached someone and actually got the information i needed. I couldn't complain anymore because the day was actually going kind of well.
The book club meeting was nice. We all agreed that we HATED the book, i mean HATED. How Candace Bushnell got a publishing deal i'll never know.
On the way home i listened to Kristeen Young's "Enemy" which i just bought today from Amazon as a digital download, then to "Music for Strippers, Hookers, and the Odd On-Looker" which i have been loving for the past week and a half.
I looked at an older woman who was sitting across from me on the subway ride home and i thought that her wrinkles made her look beautiful. She was dressed in a kind of cool, modern way, not exactly youthful but not conservative either. She was eating a pastry or something and the wrinkles around her lips and her smile lines were accentuated as she chewed. She looked so relaxed and un-self-conscious that it made her look more beautiful. And in a split second i thought of my mom and how her face had aged and how she cared about the wrinkles on her face and how the passage of time equals more wrinkles. And the tears started to well up in my eyes.
I imagined i could look across at my mom sitting there, with her wrinkles showing the passage of her years on Earth, marking all her smiles and all her frowns. I remembered how my mom looked so cute and confident in her aloof way. She had style and purpose. I miss her coat with her rose pin and the way she tied her red pashmina scarf around her neck and how she positioned her beret just so on her head. I'll miss her so much this winter. She hated the cold and always wanted to live in a warmer climate, but i loved her style in the winter.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Afraid
Soon after my mom died, my aunts would ask me how i was doing, concerned about my mental state in my grief i suppose. They would ask me if i was dreaming with my mom and i would say no. They were concerned especially because i was still sleeping in my mom's room or the couple of nights after she died when i slept in her hospital bed (before it was returned). And i told them then what i still tell them today. That being in the same apartment where my mom lived and died doesn't make me sad. It doesn't really hurt me more than any other place. (Although i've discovered recently that i've been quite resentful toward the kitchen - the kitchen where the foods we prepared for my mom failed to save her.) I tell my aunts that being outside, on the street, on Broadway, on the crosstown bus, riding the subway, these places hurt much more and hurt intensely. The memories triggered by all of New York City cause me intense pain and longing.
Sometimes a place will trigger a memory from our past, sometimes it will trigger a reminder of what will never be. I'm baffled by the innumerable combinations (innumerable tumors they said) of triggers. Looking at winter coats in JC Penney = shopping for coats WITHOUT mom?! she never saw this JC Penney. she would have told me if it looked good on me. we didn't get to do coat shopping in her last winter alive.
Sitting in Madison Square Garden with Corey at a Keith Urban concert, surrounded by thousands of fans = i want to call her right now and tell her how cool it is. i want to go to another concert with her. i wish i had taken her to the opera. i wish we could go to the Dog Show again.
I fought SO much with my tears on Thursday night during that concert. And i was just blindsided by it all. Something about experiencing a beautiful, emotional, energy-filled moment made me yearn to share it with her. I wanted her to know this was happening, i wanted her to be there. Something about the lights flashing and the screaming fans and the music blasting through the sound system made me want her HERE. I cried terribly during the opening act. I hid it from Corey, who was sitting next to me. Having such an intense experience of live performance, with electricity filling the air, seemed to reinforce the fact that, despite my enjoyment, there was a void in me that was unimaginably huge. Almost like it grows whenever i'm experiencing life.
I think that's what scares me. I'm afraid that there's more terrible grief to come. I can say that i feel better than i did in June and July. It's different, i'm not triggered 25 times a day. But i'm afraid that i'm not actually better, that maybe i've just gotten better at avoiding the hurt. Maybe that's what coping is. I do reiterate to myself the words of Dr. Hirsh when he said that i should "just feel." And in those moments when the tidal wave comes and i'm suddenly being tossed by an angry, violent storm in the ocean on a black night lit only by lightning (but i'm really on the subway, or in Bed, Bath & Beyond), i just grip - myself, i guess, and i hold on and i think, okay just feel, just let it be. And sometimes i have what i call a mini-panic attack. I think, i'm gonna die, i'm not going to make it home, i'm gonna lose it, i'm gonna fall apart, i'm gonna vomit. Yet somehow every time i HAVE made it home. And usually i'm left exhausted from all the emotional tossing and storming.
I wish i knew for sure that one day i will close the door on the room of that terrifying pain and longing. That one day, in the Victorian apartment of my mind, i'll be sitting in the parlor and be in control of the grief, and the memories will be good, and i'll be drinking tea, and having polite conversation with guests and i won't be afraid of that door opening up ever again.
Sometimes a place will trigger a memory from our past, sometimes it will trigger a reminder of what will never be. I'm baffled by the innumerable combinations (innumerable tumors they said) of triggers. Looking at winter coats in JC Penney = shopping for coats WITHOUT mom?! she never saw this JC Penney. she would have told me if it looked good on me. we didn't get to do coat shopping in her last winter alive.
Sitting in Madison Square Garden with Corey at a Keith Urban concert, surrounded by thousands of fans = i want to call her right now and tell her how cool it is. i want to go to another concert with her. i wish i had taken her to the opera. i wish we could go to the Dog Show again.
I fought SO much with my tears on Thursday night during that concert. And i was just blindsided by it all. Something about experiencing a beautiful, emotional, energy-filled moment made me yearn to share it with her. I wanted her to know this was happening, i wanted her to be there. Something about the lights flashing and the screaming fans and the music blasting through the sound system made me want her HERE. I cried terribly during the opening act. I hid it from Corey, who was sitting next to me. Having such an intense experience of live performance, with electricity filling the air, seemed to reinforce the fact that, despite my enjoyment, there was a void in me that was unimaginably huge. Almost like it grows whenever i'm experiencing life.
I think that's what scares me. I'm afraid that there's more terrible grief to come. I can say that i feel better than i did in June and July. It's different, i'm not triggered 25 times a day. But i'm afraid that i'm not actually better, that maybe i've just gotten better at avoiding the hurt. Maybe that's what coping is. I do reiterate to myself the words of Dr. Hirsh when he said that i should "just feel." And in those moments when the tidal wave comes and i'm suddenly being tossed by an angry, violent storm in the ocean on a black night lit only by lightning (but i'm really on the subway, or in Bed, Bath & Beyond), i just grip - myself, i guess, and i hold on and i think, okay just feel, just let it be. And sometimes i have what i call a mini-panic attack. I think, i'm gonna die, i'm not going to make it home, i'm gonna lose it, i'm gonna fall apart, i'm gonna vomit. Yet somehow every time i HAVE made it home. And usually i'm left exhausted from all the emotional tossing and storming.
I wish i knew for sure that one day i will close the door on the room of that terrifying pain and longing. That one day, in the Victorian apartment of my mind, i'll be sitting in the parlor and be in control of the grief, and the memories will be good, and i'll be drinking tea, and having polite conversation with guests and i won't be afraid of that door opening up ever again.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
A date with today
I was sitting at Rafaella tonight, listening to Alison give a small update on her week, at Jenna's request, when she pronounced a sentence that stopped me cold. "I look at the date," she said, explaining how she gets by from day to day, while gesturing to her watch. I looked down at it and suddenly the date hit me. HIT me. October 6th. OCTOBER 6th. I'd been looking at it all day long at work and nothing occurred to me. I can't believe i forgot. I can't believe it didn't ring in my head all day. It really makes me sad.
I've been talking about October 6th for practically a whole year. Last year, on Monday, October 6th, i met my mom at the emergency room in Harlem Hospital and a young, black medicine resident with a bald head told us, rather coldly but determinedly, that they were looking for possible cancer. I've been telling that story for so long now. Even though it wasn't her official diagnosis, i still think of it as The Day They Told Us She Had Cancer. The FIRST time ANYBODY said ANYTHING about that.
I'm angry because i thought that this day would have more importance, like it would be louder and more solemn. I did feel completely crappy all day long, but for different reasons. I think i'm angry because a year went by, and i couldn't do anything to reverse the events that happened after this date. There's a part of me that wants to relive every day, every minute of her sickness and there's a part of me that is terrified of reliving it. I wish that i could change things. I wish that by reliving it i could make the outcome different but i can't.
I'm so angry that October is here. I'm angry that October came back, without my mother. That the fall is here and winter is coming and my mother is not. I've wondered before when the pain would cease to be so intense. Now i wonder when i'll stop being angry.
I'm worried that by reliving the memories i'm trying to hold on to my mom. Wait, that's not clear. I'm afraid that i'm afraid that if i don't remember every single, gory detail of my mother's illness that she'll be gone. That i won't remember her at all. But she's not her illness. So why do i feel like i need to keep her in it? Why can't i keep her alive in the memories of the good times? In part it's because my relationship with her grew during the illness and i grew to love and respect her in different ways than ever before. I spent a lot of my childhood being ashamed of my mother and in her illness and death i've grown to be so proud of her.
Even though my mother was slowly dying, and the cancer was eating her alive, i saw my mother transform in some ways. She was so beautiful and cute and cheerful and peaceful and energetic and positive and inspirational and forgiving and brave and strong and loving, and so funny. That's why i can't let go of the end, of the bad times. Because the good times, in the midst of the bad times were amazing.
I've been talking about October 6th for practically a whole year. Last year, on Monday, October 6th, i met my mom at the emergency room in Harlem Hospital and a young, black medicine resident with a bald head told us, rather coldly but determinedly, that they were looking for possible cancer. I've been telling that story for so long now. Even though it wasn't her official diagnosis, i still think of it as The Day They Told Us She Had Cancer. The FIRST time ANYBODY said ANYTHING about that.
I'm angry because i thought that this day would have more importance, like it would be louder and more solemn. I did feel completely crappy all day long, but for different reasons. I think i'm angry because a year went by, and i couldn't do anything to reverse the events that happened after this date. There's a part of me that wants to relive every day, every minute of her sickness and there's a part of me that is terrified of reliving it. I wish that i could change things. I wish that by reliving it i could make the outcome different but i can't.
I'm so angry that October is here. I'm angry that October came back, without my mother. That the fall is here and winter is coming and my mother is not. I've wondered before when the pain would cease to be so intense. Now i wonder when i'll stop being angry.
I'm worried that by reliving the memories i'm trying to hold on to my mom. Wait, that's not clear. I'm afraid that i'm afraid that if i don't remember every single, gory detail of my mother's illness that she'll be gone. That i won't remember her at all. But she's not her illness. So why do i feel like i need to keep her in it? Why can't i keep her alive in the memories of the good times? In part it's because my relationship with her grew during the illness and i grew to love and respect her in different ways than ever before. I spent a lot of my childhood being ashamed of my mother and in her illness and death i've grown to be so proud of her.
Even though my mother was slowly dying, and the cancer was eating her alive, i saw my mother transform in some ways. She was so beautiful and cute and cheerful and peaceful and energetic and positive and inspirational and forgiving and brave and strong and loving, and so funny. That's why i can't let go of the end, of the bad times. Because the good times, in the midst of the bad times were amazing.
Monday, October 5, 2009
now i have to write?
I feel like i fell out of the hot air balloon of blogging. Well, like i tumbled out of the basket but hung on to the side and now i'm scrambling back in. I'm terrified of heights! But i'm picturing the Muppets in The Great Muppet Caper so that makes me feel safer.
MUST GO TO SLEEP AT A DECENT HOUR. But first, here.
I can't believe i lost my notebook that i took to the first writing workshop last week. I really hope i didn't leave it lying around just anywhere. Oh well.
I had a full week. If only i could remember it (which proves why i need to write in here at least every other day).
I loved meeting Corey's mom Wanda and sister Billie Jo on Sunday. LOVED.
I discovered that i really am good at the whole doctor (or vet) appointment thing, having accompanied Jes to the vet with Clem. I might say i'm suited for it. Though tonight i couldn't watch more than 10 seconds of a new show called "Trauma" on NBC. I do NOT want to see another ER please. The place, not the show.
I haven't been really, REALLY sad in about 3 days.
I watched Dancing with the Stars with tia Beatriz and it was a chill, sweet evening. She doesn't criticize me as much as my other tia. I guess she's just as needy, though. As much as my mom, too. They could be millionaires if there was some way to bottle the guilt trip and sell it.
Arturo gave me one of his Guayaki energy shots and i'm really excited to try it out tomorrow! So maybe i should stay up until 3am again today? Nah.
And now i shall do my homework.
MUST GO TO SLEEP AT A DECENT HOUR. But first, here.
I can't believe i lost my notebook that i took to the first writing workshop last week. I really hope i didn't leave it lying around just anywhere. Oh well.
I had a full week. If only i could remember it (which proves why i need to write in here at least every other day).
I loved meeting Corey's mom Wanda and sister Billie Jo on Sunday. LOVED.
I discovered that i really am good at the whole doctor (or vet) appointment thing, having accompanied Jes to the vet with Clem. I might say i'm suited for it. Though tonight i couldn't watch more than 10 seconds of a new show called "Trauma" on NBC. I do NOT want to see another ER please. The place, not the show.
I haven't been really, REALLY sad in about 3 days.
I watched Dancing with the Stars with tia Beatriz and it was a chill, sweet evening. She doesn't criticize me as much as my other tia. I guess she's just as needy, though. As much as my mom, too. They could be millionaires if there was some way to bottle the guilt trip and sell it.
Arturo gave me one of his Guayaki energy shots and i'm really excited to try it out tomorrow! So maybe i should stay up until 3am again today? Nah.
And now i shall do my homework.
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