Monday, January 30, 2006

It's weird, because I don't know what to say.

I never intended to wax philosophical about my mom and her condition. I guess we all thought it would never interfere with her life. She refused to believe she had it, until it was too late. That is cruel, indeed - not being aware of what you know you will have until you are at a point where you cease to be able to be aware.

Death would be welcomed at this point, for what she is living can hardly be called a life. How sad it is to see her, for the vibrant and smiling woman is not there anymore. She has left us, little by little, without so much as a goodbye. People here ask if I want to go back home before she goes, so I can say farewell.

I've said bye 100 different times. In 100 different ways. The last time, over Christmas, I leaned down to whisper in her ear. This woman, who gave me life, leaning over in her wheelchair, staring off into the distance, a glazed look over her eyes, talking about a wedding she is about to attend. Talking about her children yet to be born. Worried about men in the corner trying to kill her. Glimpses of her life sputtering out of her mouth like a scratched CD.

I lean down, take her hand, and say, "I'm going now, Mom. I love you. I'll miss you."

Her head keeps nodding, her eyes looking past me. "Okay."

Every day that passes, the less I remember of her former self. We, her family, are losing our memory, too. Her memory loss, her entrapment inside a prison of her own making, creates a reverberation of forgetfulness for all those around her.

Nancy Cobb, in her book, points out that for most of us, our mind is what keeps us sane in the worst of circumstances. We can fly away on our imagination from whatever ails us. So ironic, it is, that what frees me is what imprisons my mom.

She is responding again, and woke up yesterday morning and ate a big breakfast. Part of me prayed that she didn't wake up at all. I'm tired of thinking of her like this. I know she would freak out if she saw herself.

Thank you, readers, for going with me on this journey. I expect nothing from you, and only appreciate the opportunity to write my feelings on this blog. To get them out of my head, so they don't stay embedded in there, going nowhere.

I didn't know what to do yesterday, and I waited for a phone call from my family. I went to the Y, I watched Gladiator. I felt nothing and everything at the same time. I wanted to scream, cry, yell, sleep, fall away.

I want to celebrate her life, instead of being surrounded by her death and her near-death.

I want my dad to not have to see his beloved like this anymore.

In December, I told my mom it was okay for her to go, if she wanted to.

I just hope, if she's ready, her mind will let her go.

May she find peace.

1 Comments:

At 1:30 PM , Anonymous Bethany said...

I 'heart' your blog, even though it makes me cry. You have an amazing soul -- one that I thoroughly enjoy having around.

I know you know this - but I'm just a few minutes away if ever a conversation, call, silence, beer or cig is in order! No matter the time of day I'm free for anything - I'm 'crazy' like that.

 

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