(no subject)

[thejunipertree]

So, tomorrow morning I have to skip work for a while and head to the doctor's office to discuss possible feeding tube options for my mother. She's not ingesting nearly enough food to sustain her, let alone enough to get her system pumping again.

The head nurse of the nursing home called me today and we had a small discussion regarding this. Slowly but surely, I am beginning to think that this is never going to end. Never going to get better. And my mother is never going to see the inside of this apartment ever again. I hate thinking like that. Words give power. And it's one of the reasons why I almost never vocalize anything remotely like that. But...I'm beginning to think it's true.

I don't want to say that I'm losing hope, but I always hope that things will get better and she'll pull through. But, shit. Let's face facts, shall we? I'm still hoping for that pony I asked for from God when I was six. Never got that, either.

I visit her practially every day and every day, it's like another piece of her has left. She's so doped up on Ativan right now, that it's difficult to hold a conversation and when my visiting time is up, she gets upset and asks me to stay with her. I don't know how much she's understanding right now. She knows that the situation is dire, but I'm unsure if she truly comprehends how bad it really is.

And it's like we're met with obstacles at every single turn.

The vitamin therapy that had been recommended for her really seemed to help, but the goddamn insurance company refuses to approve ambulance transportation to get her to it. The physical therapy looked like it was getting somewhere, but then she got the blood clot in her leg and is usually unable to do the exercises. She was starting to eat okay, but then that came crashing down as well.

My father keeps saying to me, "Jesus Christ, what could possibly happen next?" And I shush him quickly, because I don't wish to tempt Fate.

She's so fucking young to be going through this. She's not even sixty.

Where the fuck has my mother gone?
I go to see her, but she's not there anymore.
Not really.

I'll always remember her as this golden, laughing demi-goddess figure. With a glass of wine in one long fingered hand, a cigarette in the other, and men at her feet. I remember her dancing in a red velvet dress. I remember her give-them-hell grin and her green eyes. I remember our trips to the ocean and the zoo, where we would hold hands and walk under my parasol. I remember her belly dancing, coming home to our tiny apartment full of incense and music and the clinking of her zills as she tried to teach me the proper hand movements. I still have the zills, somewhere.

I know there were bad times, everyone has them. Everyone. But, right now I'm only remembering the good stuff. The past is in the past and it deserves to stay there. Get the fuck over it and move on. It serves no purpose now.

My brothers and I talk, we make contingency plans. We discuss the possibilities of the future. We plan what's going to happen. But, what's going to really happen?

And what's going to happen to me?

When she's gone, who's going to braid my hair because I can't reach and fuck it up every time?
What am I going to do the next time I try to make her spaghetti sauce and she's not there to tell me how to do it, because I forgot again?
Who's going to tell me what various ailments are and the home remedies to fix them?
Who's going to call me Tara-Love, when they're pissed off at something stupid I've done?
How am I going to know what to do with the goddamn Christmas tree, come December, if she's not here?
She taught me how to look for Cape May diamonds. Who am I going to show them to, when I've come home with fistfuls of them?

What the fuck am I supposed to do?

All of this pain and she's not even gone.

I was doing okay for most of the night. I sat upstairs and helped the Engineer file and sandpaper his new resin casts for the horror convention at the end of August. I smiled at him, I laughed, I talked shit about stupid people I dealt with today. I felt okay. Not as stressed as I have been lately. He makes things better for me.

Then I came downstairs, sat at the computer, and it all hit me, like a sledgehammer. Like a speeding truck.

Reality.

Crash.

And despite all of this, despite the tears and scariness and selfishness, I'm still harbouring that tiny spark that everything is going to be all right. Stupidly, blindly clasping that brief flame to my heart and refusing to let go. The feeding tube will bring her around. She'll be able to do the physical therapy. She'll get released from the home and be able to get chemotherapy. The tumours will vanish. She'll be in the clear.

Everything will go back to normal.
I'll get my life back.
I'll get my mother back.
I won't be walking around every day, waiting for the worst phone call of my life.

People beat this goddamn disease every fucking day. Why can't we?
My family needs a miracle.

Just this once.
Just this fucking once, please let something good happen to this fucked up, unlucky family of mine.

Please.
Just this one time.

Comments

[serpent-sky.livejournal.com]

That's beautiful and sad and I wish I could do something, anything, to make it all better for you. But all of you are in my thoughts, and I really do hope for the absolute best for you.

I feel lucky to have met your mother, and god, she just deserves so much more. And so do you. I'm sorry.......