Not all days are like this but I’m thankful that when they are, I can share them here and not feel judged.
I don’t want to be a broken record but I’ve discovered that grief makes you do that.
I rehash the same things in my head, over and over and over again. Usually at night when I’m trying to sleep. I think about all the times that maybe we should have asked the doctors more questions, questioned their expertise, tried to convince my mom to look for alternatives. I think about the final days, the hand holding, the incessant smiling and chipper attitude I donned when I walked into the hospital room because if nothing else my mom deserved that much. She didn’t need to see me cry; she needed me to be strong. In the final moments before I fall asleep I often see my mom’s face in her last minutes on earth. It haunts me.
I cry over the same damn things: the 16th of each month (ironically enough both her birthday day and the day she passed away); songs on the radio; the silence that fills my phone and my childhood home. All the things that I can’t share with her or that I wish we could do one last time. At the empty chair at the dinner table. I’ve become a champion at wearing my sunglasses in public so I can hide my tears.
I am selfish: I hate what she’ll miss, what I won’t get to enjoy with her, what my dad is missing out on and my brother, too. If he gets married she won’t be there for the Mother/Son dance. I’m horrible about reaching out, letting people I know that I’m thinking of them because sometimes I just don’t want to or don’t have the brain space. I’ve turned into a less than stellar friend and I don’t like that.
I get angry. Angry at how quickly her sickness took her. Angry at how little we know about cancer, angry at the companies that do research but seem to ignore the rare cancers. Angry that the money we’ve donated is just a drop in the bucket compared to what they need to find cures. Angry that I can’t call my mom to say I love you. Angry that my bonus kids don’t get to know their grandmother better, share stories with her, make her drawings, enjoy her positive influence. Angry at people who want to be unnaturally thin: my mom lost at least 40 pounds in her final weeks and was “Hollywood,” skinny; it’s a look I can’t stand as a result because I equate it with cancer and death and dying.
None of this new, none of this is something I haven’t said in some shape or form on this blog before so that’s why I’ve been quiet lately. I don’t want to be that girl who only talks about her grief and truthfully I don’t think appropriate to share it all, either. I don’t want to be a broken record but life, such as it is, has turned me into one, at least for now.