Where Is All This Coming From?

Someone has been blogging about their grandmother who is very ill, and it brought back some memories of how I spent my mom's last few months with her. That led to this... I feel almost like I should apologize because it is so much for a Thursday afternoon. But it is what it is.

She loved me especially special. She looked at me all the time, but I used to think she never saw me. We argued. We screamed. We gave each other the silent treatment (well, actually she gave it to me!). But then she would get bored of having no one to talk to in the house, and we were back to normal again. She loved me in spite of. She loved me because of. She loved me in addition to. She loved me regardless of. She just loved me. And I loved her.

Dr. SFWW. I remember the day she told me that she had cancer and that the doctors weren't especially hopeful. I ran. Up the stairs, out the back door, into the garage until I was stopped by my granmother's slow ass garage door. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't speak. When I came back in, I took one look at her and realized that I had to pull it together. I had to save her. I held her face in my hands and said, "Tell me what you want me to do. I am here for you. We will be alright." I believed that in that moment, but she didn't. She had seen the CT scans, the lab reports, the blood levels, the xrays, the doctors' faces. She had sat through the chemotherapy sessions, the examinations, the second opinions. She knew better. But she loved me. And so she said, "Okay. You and me. We will do this together." She was so strong, so courageous, so beautiful, so worried, so in love. With me.

Months came and went. She was better. She was worse. She was better. She was much worse. April 2003. She left me. She thought that I would be better off if she moved back home with her parents so that I could focus on my school work. All I wanted to do was take care of her. Help her. Hold her hand. Love her. Before that, I would drive over to her house and crawl into bed beside her. She would sleep, and I would prop myself up on one elbow just to make sure she hadn't stopped breathing. I would encourage her to take her medication and run to the store for Dairy Queen milkshakes when she wouldn't touch anything else. I would watch silly sitcoms and Sunday morning gospel shows and Lifetime movies and Chris Tucker (she LOVED Chris Tucker) with her on the left side and me on the right. When she said she was hungry but only wanted a spoonful of mashed potatoes and three or four string beans, I would drive to Golden Corral and get JUST that because I knew if it were any more, she wouldn't touch it. I would jerk awake in the middle of the night when I heard the phone rang because I knew it was her calling to beg me to come over. And then she left.

When my grandmother drove away and I saw the back of my mother's head in the bakseat of the Cadillac, I knew that she would never be home again. She cried and begged us to let her go. She was in so much pain. But she was in so much more worry. Worry for me. How would I cope? How would I move on? Would I drop out of school? Would I need help? Would I thrive? Would I survive? She loved me. She lived for me. Even when I told her to go because I knew she was ready, she lived for me. She ached for me. She struggled for me. She choked for me. She went blind for me. She lost weight for me. She lost her hair for me. Because I couldn't let her go. Because I was still that same little girl who couldn't survie the silent treatments. She loved me.

And then the hurricane came. Isabel. September 17, 2003. I decided to go to North Carolina to see her becuse it had been a few weeks. I wasn't worried about the hurricane, but it was the perfect excuse. I brought my books so she wouldn't be angry with me for leaving my school work. I got there at 10:00 p.m. Wednesday night. I walked to the back of the house where she was sleeping and I screamed. I dropped my purse and I ran. Again. Out of the back door, into the garage. Only this time, that slow ass door was open, and I ran out into the night and the rain. Where did she go? Who was that person in that bed with my mother's feet and hands but not her face or voice or eyes or hair or light or life? I knew it then. It was time. She was leaving. She couldn't do it for me anymore. And I couldn't ask her to. I went back in and laid on the bed beside her. Me on the right side, her on the left. And I talked. And I laughed. And I gossiped. And I cried. And I remembered. And I loved her. I loved her. I loved her. I loved her. I loved her. And then it was morning. September 18, 2003.

She was breathing. Slowly, raggedly. I spoke so she would know I was there. I pulled out my Med Chem notes and studied for my test. Well, not really. Just a show for the schoolteacher who rested within her tired body. I said that I loved her and that if she was ready, then so was I. If she was ready to leave, then I was ready to say goodbye. If she couldn't fight anymore, then I would stop fighting too. Then I must have fallen asleep because I felt someone shaking my arm. I opened my eyes, but no one was there. She couldn't move, so it wasn't her. No one was there. No one was there. I looked at her. I said, "Mommy I'm here. You're not alone. I love you. Please go." She sighed. And then she did. She went. But I didn't. I'm here. But she's not.

Dr. Sharon Faye White-Williams. What an experience. What a woman. Strong. Beautiful. Lovely. Generous. Kind. Warm. Loving. Brilliant. Fabulous. I loved her. And she loved me.