Then I turn and see her. I stare at her face, then her head. It is true. She has a brain tumor and a horseshoe surgical scar to prove it. The fear is paralyzing and the shock is dizzying. It takes a couple minutes to reorient. But I have to get up now. Her morning pills are past due.
I sleep near her most nights to watch for seizures, operate her medical device, or take care of her restroom needs. But I mostly sleep next to her because I am terrified and need my Mom.
Two years into her diagnosis, Mom has cognitive and dementia issues. Dad falls from the top of a ladder, winding up with multiple brain injuries. Mom's tumor comes back a second time. My colitis flares up. These all happen in the same month. The universe is imploding but somehow the sun is outside.
Mom used to run marathons, Dad climbed mountains. And now I feel like I'm running up a mountain, with so many turns. How do I keep all three of us from falling? I am out of breath. Is this what Mom felt taking care of me? I can't stand that thought.
Both my parents have different types of brain trauma. But both have matching bald heads, round faces, smiley, cranky, staring at me.. they look like 2 giant babies!
I miss my giant baby. I miss my best friend more. And I miss my Mom so much, I can't breathe. Now that she’s gone, it’s different but the same. I still wake up with anxiety and heart pounding in my chest for that first minute. I am half awake, confused and flooded by shock, remembering all over again that she is not here. This isn't true. My Mom is the most alive person I know. My Mom. Am I dreaming?
Now I'm fully awake. But is she really gone!!? I play back memories of her final breaths and funeral in my head. Years ago I had psychosis from my colitis meds, and imagined my worst fear. Mom died. But it was a plane crash that time. Maybe this isn't real.
Then I see her photo in my room, the photo I printed after she passed. Proof of this new reality. I take a minute and get out of bed. With the confusion now gone, there is no tightness in my chest. There is nothing. There are no pills to prepare or therapies to research. No doctors to chase, no insurance companies to yell at. No appointments, no meals to prepare because there is no one to feed. I cannot talk to Mom or hug her today. I get back into bed.
I travelled for a few months after Mom passed. Travel is easier than being at home. I wish I could travel now. When I came back, I could not find Mom. Every day I wake up, but she is still not here. I don't understand where she is. I need my Mom.
I go through the day thinking about her. The shock follows me around. I wish I could block the bad memories but instead they spin around in my head and get bigger. I wish the good memories did that. I fall asleep at night watching the family videos we made, sometimes crying. Hopefully I will see her in my dreams.
I cling to my grief. I do not want to let it go. I don't know how to be happy again. Every time I laugh at something funny or something good happens, then I remember Mom is gone and everything seems pointless.
We believed and prayed Mom would survive. Either she survives or everything is over. But now, Mom is not here and I am. Life is not over. How is that possible when half of me is gone. If I live a long time, then that will be a really long time without her.. I am not looking forward to that.
Today, the whole world is quiet. Covid is giving me more time to spend with my grief. Dad and I are not as talkative as Mom was. The house is not filled with sounds of her training students in her studio or her laughter. It is quiet.
I hope working will give me distraction and purpose. I don’t want to move forward though, I can't leave Mom behind. But I also can’t stop the days passing by. I am worried time is taking me away from her.