I'm extremely thankful to see March as February was full of some dark days. I wrote the following on one of those days, but decided to tuck those feelings away until I was in a better place. I'm thankful for March and the peace that came with it.
(February 2015)
It was tax day, April 15, 2011, I was at work when I received the phone call that I knew was coming, I anxiously awaited and dreaded to my core all at the same time. It was Jessica, the results were in and my Mom asked us to meet her at my Grandma's house. I knew. I think we all did.
We walked in and a moment later she choked on the words, "I have cancer."
I have chosen not to share much about what the past 4 years have been like for our family for many reasons, but mainly because it wasn't really fair for me to share the details of someone else's life and I wanted to be sensitive to that.
The cancer was terminal. We knew that early on. I was there when the Dr. told her that. There are so many things about this experience that I won't or can't forget, like going wig shopping, like how every day she seemed to be able to do less and less, or seeing her without her wig for the fist time, everyone kept telling her how great she looked, but when I looked at her I saw my weak, sick, dying Mother, or being nervous that she would never meet London or that my kids would never remember her and when London did come, feeling like I needed my Mom, but she couldn't be there, or sitting on my kitchen floor in my husbands arms and sobbing, "I don't want my Mom to die", or the fact that our conversations became superficial there was no talking to my Mom about what was really going on in my life, about the time the cancer spread to her brain we started keeping things really simple, eventually she called less and less and sometimes I called her less too just to convince myself that I was going to be ok without her. I missed her taking us to lunch when it was one of our birthdays or talking about meaningless stuff like shopping or home décor. I hated the realization that she would never be able to come to my house again. I hated the fact that we would never go on another family vacation, I can't forget wondering if I had given up hope or just accepted the fact that my Mom was dying. I can't forget her being in the nursing home or sitting there with her every day. I can't forget being 15 minutes late to pick Brinley up from school because I was trying to calm my Mom down and convince her that my Grandma had not died and no I was not lying to her, wiping the tears from her face as she sobbed, "I wish I could believe you, but I know you are lying to me.", I'll never forget sitting across from my big, strong Dad and watching the tears stream down his face. I'll never forget the day that was so bad that I looked at her and silently spoke these words to God, "Please just let her go" and then realized that I had just prayed for my Mom to die, So many things that I won't forget, but one thing that I hope to always remember are the people who served, not only her, but me.
Tomorrow she will be going home. Not because she's getting better, because she's going on hospice. Yesterday we met with them and developed a plan. Today we would re-arrange the furniture in their home so they can get a hospital bed in there and tomorrow we will bring her home. I went to bed feeling heavy, life was getting to me and I was preparing for a busy month at work among other things, the realization that we will be the ones caring for her in her final days was a lot to bare. I looked forward to "sleeping in." Once a week Dustin works out in the morning which means once a week my alarm doesn't go off at 4:45 am. I felt like I needed this, but like clock work I was awake at 5:00 am, not to the sound of my alarm, but to the sound of London, "Mom! Mom! Mommmm, I puked!" I took the day off of work, cleaned up more puke, got Brinley off to school and so went our day... I was on my fourth load of laundry for the day, London was on her second bath and was cleaning diarrhea out of the new carpet when London pooped in the tub (diarrhea), It was one of those moments that you almost have to laugh at the fact that life can be so cruel yet deep down I was silently screaming, "Doesn't anyone care that my life sucks right now? Don't you care that my life sucks right now?" I was so sick of well meaning friends telling me how "passing really is a beautiful thing" or telling me "you don't want her to suffer" like I don't already know that or people that didn't acknowledge it at all. I just wanted to be allowed to grieve, to be allowed to feel what I was really feeling, to be pissed that my kids won't have a Grandma and to just miss my Mom because although she's still here, SHE is already gone. So somewhere between running from one end of the house to the other cleaning poop out of the bathtub, comforting my moaning toddler, cleaning poop out of the carpet, running armfuls of soiled clothes to the laundry room and starting London's third bath for the day my phone chimed that I had a text, I don't know why in the midst of all of that chaos I decided to look at it, but I did. I didn't take the time to read the text at that moment, but the message that came up on the screen was enough, it told me who it was from and the first line. It made me cry. Because I knew in that moment that He was aware of my needs, God had heard my silent cry for help, "Doesn't anyone care that my life sucks right now?" He cared. And my friend who sent me the message cared. She probably didn't know that her simple message telling me that she was thinking about me, offering to watch my girls and sending me a "virtual hug" was an answer to my prayer, but I'm grateful she acted on her prompting. I'm grateful for a living God who cares about me. I'm grateful for angels on earth who are a beacon of light on the darkest of days. And through all of this, that is what I hope to remember. I hope to remember them so that I too can be a beacon of light to others on their dark days.
My feelings today were selfish, my trials are minute compared to most of the world. None of us are exempt from trials or grief. There is light in each day. It's up to us to look for that light.
