I received news today that a former employee of mine had just lost his father. His father was a heavy smoker, and had been diagnosed with Lung Cancer in the last year- taking a serious decline in the last six months to which he succumbed to the illness yesterday.
This young man is survived by his mother, his brothers and an abundance of family and friends to support him through his loss.
It wasn't that long ago that my mother died, from cancer also. She was fifty-five years old.
My mother had always suffered from some ailment since my childhood. Whether it was fibroid tumors, issues with her sinuses causing migraines, skin allergies, colitis, IBS or something there of-- one may have believed that she was a hypochondriac. That title may have held true to a number of doctors as she became ill with the cancer that consumed her body and went undetected until she passed in 2007.
I got the call on December 18, 2006 that she was in the Emergency Room. Her good friend had called first and left a voice mail. This was not an unusual occurrence, because from time to time she would call me and leave a message to "call your mother". The message was clear. She had bronchitis, it had become worse- she's in Emergency and we will call you later.
Later was 6:30pm that same day. This time my cousin made the call. Her lung had collapsed. She needed to have the fluid drained from her lungs. She was going to be there overnight, and under observation through the next 24 hours. You need to get here now.
My mother and I had a very strange relationship. I am an only child, born as the last of five pregnancies to my mother and father from 1970 to 1976. My mother had suffered from 2 stillbirths and 2 miscarriages before she became pregnant with me. It truly was a miracle that I served full term and was born healthy. She used to tell me about how her pregnancy with me was so different because of my movements, her cravings, the calmness she felt- and lastly, when she knew I was ready to make my appearance, even three weeks before my due date. I just wanted out.
My mother and father separated three weeks after I was born. My father, probably after believing that my mother could never bear him a child had become a womanizer. He had an affair while my mother was pregnant with me, and as my mother came home early from work one day- my father and his mistress were found in the house. My father, being surprised did what any irrational, guilty man would do and went to work on my mother- beating her to an unrecognizable point-- leaving her in her own blood in the living room. He left the door open; the neighbor was the one who found me screaming in my crib and my mother in a pool of blood in the living room.
We lived with my Grandma and Grandpa since I could remember. I never met my father. I never cared to. Although I knew he would pursue my mother for an opportunity to see me, or come to my Grandpa's house unannounced (where my Grandpa had no problem telling him to F@%K off and show him his gun)- there was never an attempt by him to be a father. I understand that he has a family, rather close by- and I have half brothers and sisters (one six months younger than me, a girl). It's was my experience that my family was just me, my mother, Grandma and Grandpa- and my Uncle who was killed in a motorcycle accident when I was six months old.
Anyhow, my mother who was twenty-five when she had me seemed to go through her own midlife crisis after her divorce. She went on her own accord, and left me with my Grandparents. In hindsight, this was the best option because of the nature of her sorted life as she continued to determine who she was. She ended up remarrying my stepfather when I was eight and moved to the high desert.
While I can clearly remember the times in my childhood when I would wake up missing her, or wondering why she had left me-- I can't say enough about the love my Grandma and Grandpa gave me. They were my parents. They made me who I am today. Contrary to the only child "spoiled" syndrome, I worked for everything, while growing up faster than I had ever imagined. Everything I am is because of them.
Needless to say, my relationship with my mother was strained. After all, she had left me for a man. She was dependent on men. She needed a man to make her feel complete. (Probably the reason why I refuse to depend on one today, right? So much irony in life isn't there?) It was when I was sixteen that she came back into my life when my Grandma died. That was when our real relationship began.
My mother was in Kaiser Medical Center from December 18, 2006 until her death on January 6, 2007. She suffered a deep depression following my Grandpa's death in 2004. She had been diagnosed with IBS, which was a misdiagnosis-- or perhaps she always knew. Her cancer started in her liver, spread to her stomach and pancreas.
On December 19, 2006, my mother's other lung collapsed. They immediately rushed her into emergency surgery, and performed a biopsy on white spots that were noticed on her lungs. The entire tubing procedure and biopsy took three hours- and from that night on, my mother was on a respirator in ICU.
On December 20, 2006, it was confirmed that my mother's cancer had spread to her lungs and it was stage 4. From this point forward, it was about comfort.
Everyday I arrived at the hospital at 8am when visiting hours began, and left when they either told me I had to leave or when my mother finally fell asleep from the drugs or plain exhaustion. It was in the final nineteen days of my mother's life, in that tiny ICU room via notebooks, napkins and dry erase boards that we reconciled after all those years.
I had never seen her so vulnerable. I had never seen so many people who she loved, and loved her in return. I had never seen her be human. That was the part that I hadn't expected at all. She allowed herself to reconcile everything that had ever been good and bad in her life, because there was no use in being angry anymore.
She asked me if I would forgive her. I did. For everything- and I stayed, every night. Even the night she told me she was scared, until I couldn't anymore. I had watched The Devil Wears Prada one too many times on that tiny TV. We celebrated Christmas and New Year's in that little room- She even had presents.
On January 5th, I had planned on being there late into the night- so my cousin took the morning shift. My mom had been pretty talkative most of the day until around 7pm.
We administered last rites that evening. She made her peace with God. It was early that morning that she her soul left her body. I felt it, because that was the exact moment that I felt like an orphan. You just don't understand that feeling until you lose a parent yourself.
She was pronounced at 11am on January 6th, 2007. She was surrounded by her family, friends and those that loved her.
I would never wish on anyone the pain of losing a parent. I would never wish the pain on anyone of losing a child. It's hard enough to deal with the death of someone you love. It's another to realize you're alone.
Mom; may you rest in peace; there is not a day where I don't refer to you or miss you. Somehow, I always know what you're thinking- good and bad. And know that I love you with all my heart.
To A.L. and his family; may your father rest in peace, and know that you loved him as much as he loved you. You have just gained another angel in heaven.
"In company with Christ,
Who died and now lives,
may they rejoice in Your kingdom,
where all our tears are wiped away.
Unite us together again in one family,
to sing Your praise forever and ever. Amen." |
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