This is the time of year that is hardest for me. I’m putting it all on paper. Or Blog. Whatever.
“You should come say goodbye, Mom might not wake up.” “No. I’ll see her in the morning.” “Are you sure?” “Good night”
For future reference. Never let a 5th grader go to bed after that.
That night, after waking up to pee, I fell back asleep remembering all the horrible memories from my mother being sick, pretending not to hear the breathing. Pretending I was a normal kid, in a normal house, with a healthy mom. Pretending I didn’t hear my grandparents crying. Pretending my Dad was the hard man I knew he pretended to be. That night I fell asleep numb.
Remembering all those nights isn’t pleasant. Remembering that night is painful. Remembering tomorrow night makes me want to drink. A lot. No child should have to see a parent die of cancer. Hell, die of anything. No child should have to see the after effects of a chemo treatment. Radiation. Liver Failure. Lung Failure. Coma. Nothing. No child should have to get used to the ambulance taking his or her mother away because her O2 stats dropped too low for the upteenth time.
No children should have to have the word TERMINAL explained to them.
“Mom, are you afraid to die?” “No, I’m not, I’m afraid of missing you two.”
Those words will echo in my head until the day I have to say them to my own daughter.
So they had given her 3-6 months to live (I don’t remember which anymore). Almost 2 months later, or less, she died. Stupid doctors. I hope if I ever get a terminal diagnosis, everyone has enough sense not to tell me, or tell me how long I have. I’d rather not know. I can’t imagine having to look at my children and husband and know that I’ll leave them soon. I’d rather die on the spot.
But things never work out like that.
Instead. Children sleep the night away, while parents and husbands sit at the bedside.