Today I felt the pain of mortality stab me in the heart. I have always been optimistic of my mother’s condition, knowing that with optimism and hope we could battle her cancer and finally overcome her disease. These past few years since her diagnosis of retroperitoneal liposarcoma in October/September of 2005 have been a rollercoaster of highs and lows, getting through it all. I tried to be strong for my mother, show her the strength she has within, assure her that she is doing everything she can to heal herself, and that surely she is on her way to recovery. I thought that in believing in her and her strength that she would be able to overcome anything. With every returning tumor she was better equipped to heal her body, to teach her body to heal itself. I was there supporting her through her surgeries, her trial chemo treatments, always there letting her know that she was on the road to recovery.
Today after finishing her second round of a trial chemo that seemed hopefully, she came back from her CT scan. She walked into the kitchen and upon seeing me just began to cry. I held her in my arms, her petite frail frame giving up in exhaustion and fear. She told me that her cancer had metastasized into her liver, surgery would not longer be an option. My strength disappeared as a wave of fear and shock overcame me darkening my soul. My world came crashing down. It was like reliving every terrible moment—the time I found out she had cancer, every time she found out it came back, every painstaking surgery—all at once. How could it be that this woman, so strong and kind and loving and selfless could have to suffer through so much. Where is the justice in this universe? Where is God now?
I tried to resist the tears flooding my eyes, so that my mom wouldn’t know I was terrified. At her weakest moment, I wanted to be strong for her, but was lost in the empty darkness. She knows her life is fleeting, disappearing with every second, the daunting fear of death eminent. She feels the urgency of life, and the sorrow of pain, suffering and loss. I assure her that she has time, that there are still other chemo treatments ahead to try, that we must not give up. Cancer is rough, but she is tougher than it. We have to believe and hope, because without that we are nothing.
As I say these things, I know that there is nothing that can take away her fear of what seems to be the inevitable. I know that no matter how much I believe, I too will always succumb to this fear—this paralyzing fear of having to live my life without her. I don’t want to think about it, but right now it has enveloped me. The sad truth of not knowing how long she will live and that someday sooner than we would all like she will be taken away from us. I can not accept this fact, I don’t want to. I can not begin to imagine a life without her, my mom, my friend, my hero. Just the though of it being a possibility is agonizing. I will do my best to be everything she needs, but I know I am too weak to be her cure.
These past few years have been a blessing, but right now I need a miracle.
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