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Since I became a mom, Mother's Day has become a bittersweet day for me. My mom died of brain cancer in August of '95, almost twenty years ago. She had just turned forty in June. I was fourteen, and my sister was nine. A couple of weeks after she died, my freshman year of high school started.
That first year I walked around in a daze. I wasn't sad. I wasn't angry. I was just numb.
Then my sophomore year came, and everything went to hell. I lost my friends for a period of time. I nearly stopped sleeping at night - I'd get maybe three or four hours if I was lucky. When I came home from school, I'd sleep the evening away in my room. The pain from my loss was so intense, it hurt to breathe. I thought my heart was literally breaking. My grades dropped. For the first time, I began struggling in school.
I slipped into depression and anxiety. I became a cutter not long after graduating high school. I had suicidal thoughts and overwhelming feelings of helplessness and loneliness. I could be in a crowd of people and feel completely alone. I've been in and out of therapy since I was fifteen. None of it has worked.
I was scared cancer was coming after me next. My maternal grandfather had died of the same type of brain cancer not terribly long before my mom was diagnosed. I remember thinking, how much more can one family take? It's coming for me, it has to be - I'm next in line. The nightmare of watching someone you love being attacked by an unseen enemy all over again seemed too much to bear.
That first year I walked around in a daze. I wasn't sad. I wasn't angry. I was just numb.
Then my sophomore year came, and everything went to hell. I lost my friends for a period of time. I nearly stopped sleeping at night - I'd get maybe three or four hours if I was lucky. When I came home from school, I'd sleep the evening away in my room. The pain from my loss was so intense, it hurt to breathe. I thought my heart was literally breaking. My grades dropped. For the first time, I began struggling in school.
My mom in high school, I think her
freshman year of high school
I slipped into depression and anxiety. I became a cutter not long after graduating high school. I had suicidal thoughts and overwhelming feelings of helplessness and loneliness. I could be in a crowd of people and feel completely alone. I've been in and out of therapy since I was fifteen. None of it has worked.
I was scared cancer was coming after me next. My maternal grandfather had died of the same type of brain cancer not terribly long before my mom was diagnosed. I remember thinking, how much more can one family take? It's coming for me, it has to be - I'm next in line. The nightmare of watching someone you love being attacked by an unseen enemy all over again seemed too much to bear.
My mom's senior year photo
I had fourteen years with her, but it wasn't enough. It will never be enough. She wasn't there when I graduated from high school or college, when I got married and had kids. I remember thinking both times I was in labor all I wanted was my mom there to coach me through it. I didn't want anyone else but her.
My parents - taken at Christmas when
they were dating in high school
When my grandpa died of brain cancer, she sat down on the living room floor with me and my sister. I crawled onto her lap, she hugged me, and we cried. She kept a journal while he was going through radiation and later chemotherapy. I read all of it though I knew it was meant to be private. Everything she wrote was how I felt later on when she went through radiation and chemo herself.
I want to scream sometimes at the unfairness of it all. So many things I didn't get to do with her, so much time that slipped through our grasp. It's hard not to be bitter.
After finding this picture of my
mom, I bought a jacket similar to hers
and had my friends take a photo
of me making the same face as her.
I still struggle with depression and anxiety. My cutting days ended not long before I found out I was pregnant with my daughter. I knew I had to find some other way to deal with the hurt and anger, so I began writing on my arms and legs with a Sharpie.
The closer I get to forty, the more anxious I feel. She was thirty-eight years old when she was diagnosed, and that age makes me anxious, too. It feels like I won't make it past forty, either. I guess I hope I do although sometimes I wonder what the point of it all is - all the pain and suffering. I don't get it. Maybe it's about the good times. Maybe it's to see how we handle things, although I think that's pretty fucked up.
While I still feel empty inside without her, I'm grateful I had the time with her that I did and that I'm still here to be with my kids. I wouldn't trade that time for anything.
Happy Mother's Day, Mom. I miss you everyday.
