It sucks. I can't tell if I am in denial or acceptance. There is noise and movement, but no continuity or order in chronology. There is lots of wine and anger and brief moments of tears. There are memories of being a child and happiness and then making sushi two days before his surgery. There is valium and exhaustion, and hoping for a few moments of normality. Spell check isn't coming on, so I think that is a word. I feel like I have aged ten years. I felt like I have lost a lot. I feel like I have the best husband, the best sisters and brother and mothers in the world, and the best dad. There has been so much laughter, and so much silent horror. It's shitty, and it's beautiful, and I want to scream and punch and kick the shit out of cancer. I want to love everything to pieces and create beauty and laughter.
I am inebriated. I have a short train of thought.
End.
2 comments:
Sorry about your dad. That's got to be hard. You're in my thoughts.
I'm late in posting this. But you've been on my mind a lot lately. When my mom was diagnosed with ovarian cancer I was living at the children's home in Chiapas, Mexico. Isolation, loneliness, grief, denial, crushing sadness and that deep, deep fear my mom would die were all swarming around my insides like the insides of a beehive. I was scared to come back. Scared to see her that way. The first day back in Michigan I went wig shopping with her because her hair had already started falling out. There was no time for denial, I had to be there for her. There were so many terrible wigs. She chose a big, poofy blond one, totally different from her normal hair and I was kind of glad she could have some fun with it. It was good I was there to lighten the mood and poke fun at all the completely horrible wigs for sale. But it was scary and sad and real. The next day I shaved my mom's head in the bathroom, choking back tears and trying to stay tough. She shed some tears and I tried to make her feel better. I will never forget how little and naked, old and vulnerable my mom looked.
The first time I took her to get chemo, my mom had been there already but I hadn't. I was so scared to see all those sick, dying, hairless people and watch poison drip into my mother's veins. She was strong. She had an allergic reaction to the drugs and I couldn't find the cal button for the nurse, even though we were all in the same big room. I freaked out and the nurse came and they shot my mom full of benadryl and I completely broke down. I couldn't take it seeing her so vulnerable. Mothers take care of sick children not vice versa. Afterward I helped my wobbly, exhausted mom out to the car and drove her home. She had six more months of chemo after that one. She had two or three more allergic reactions and had to be switched from chemo drugs to other chemo drugs. My mom is in full remission now but it was a very long, hard road. My aunt had ovarian cancer and now my mom, so my risk might be pretty high. I don't think I would ever want my child to have to go through something like that. My dad had to carry my mother to the bathroom and tend to her like a little baby. My mom was sick for over a year.
I'm mentioning this because I know the pain and the terror. I know that sick feeling in the pit of your stomach and the fear you have to push aside to be there for your dad. I just wanted you to know you are not alone and that I'm praying for you, your family and your dad. I love you friend.
Post a Comment