SONG: Forever Young, Alphaville not the Jay Z version, old school!.
But you can't squeeze a lifetime into a bedside chat.
I've been trying to write a post around that thought. I had it while sitting at a traffic light, Monday, tears streaming down my cheeks, trying not to look at my phone, I wanted to text and drive, she likes to text, cause it's hard for her to talk. This time my Mom, not my Dad, was sent to the hospital, this time she was the focus. And I couldn't bare it.
Moms aren't to be thought about, looked too closely at, if you're lucky, and I am, they're just supposed to be there. They are there to say unthinkable things to, to tell petty hurts, how you really feel about the cream your husband gave you, or the pain that friend did. She's there to yell mean things at in times of frustration, mean things you wouldn't dare speak to another breathing body and loving things you might never feel for another human being. Except maybe if you have your own child, and then well, you know what she went through loving you and you love her even more. And it is never supposed to end. But the doctors said she has COPD and it is advanced and it is ending.
All I want to do is sit with her and make it all stop but if I can't, I at least want to get all of our time together. I keep thinking of things I might want to say, but we have the relationship where I can talk to her ten times a day and then not for days and then everyday. She's just always there. I can't imagine a situation, in what if I'm lucky, and I am, will be the next forty years of my life, where I won't need to talk to her. And that's just new stuff, I wouldn't mind going back over old stuff too, that's a lifetime. And so that's how I had the thought, But you can't squeeze a lifetime into a bedside chat.
I can imagine an Oscar, a Tony and a Grammy sitting on my mantel in Bel Air, the West Coast home, (the one we bought with the Publishers Clearing House winnings) next to the framed award for Entrepreneur of the Year, (the year before I win the Pulitzer Prize) and my acceptance speeches from the podium each time, but I can't imagine a moment without my mom, that's too big.
So this is what it is, this is what it is to lose your mother. Everyone goes through it, if they're lucky, and I am. I've heard so many people talk about it, and not when it was anyone close to me but on T.V. and stuff. I've felt bored, I felt bad, but honestly, I was kinda bored. Now, my ears cock up like a retriever hearing a shot go off, "What happened? How long? Where? What do you do now? How are you upright?"
I went to see her at the hospital, Monday, I lay in bed with her, crying.
"You're going to die, how am I going to live?" I asked. She looked at me as best she could, I thought, with the I.V. and Oxygen tubes restricting her motion.
"Would you please?" She asked, her face, red, strained.
"I know, it's so hard." I said. Glad, she was taking it as bad as I was. There are six of us after all, this proved I was the favorite.
"Susan, please... you're... on... my Oxygen."
I looked around to discover I had lay on the tube that was delivering her oxygen, she couldn't breathe.
"Oh, sorry." I said, sitting up, pulling the tube from underneath me, "Sorry, whoah, let me get that."
I re-positioned myself and the tube so she could breathe. I was eager to get back to our conversation though. I desperately wanted to know what she would say to me when she wasn't here anymore, because those are the thoughts I knew I could count on. I may not know what else may come up, but I knew she was going to die and before she did, I needed her to console me as if she were in heaven.
"Okay, so as I was saying..." I said, a chuckle over cutting off her oxygen supply. "So you're going to be dead, and I'm not going to be able to live. I'm going to be so sad, and not have you to talk to. What am I going to do?"
I looked at my mother for an answer, her face now blank.
And then she smiled.
"That's perfect." She said, nodding patiently, her voice a whisper. "That's so perfect, so actressy, "You're going to die, what am I going to do?"
I didn't understand. I was nearly drowning in tears.
"Mom, I need you to tell me what I am supposed to do, how am I going to live without you, while you're dead?"
"Susan. You're telling me I'm dying, and asking ME how to help you. How do you think it makes me feel for you to tell me I'm dying?"
"I thought you knew." I said, steadfast. "Don't you?"
"NO! I'm not dying! I'm getting better!" She said. She looked at me like I was nuts.
My tears dried up. I was beginning to understand.
"Oh! I'm so sorry, I thought you were dying." I said, "and I thought it would be good if we could talk about it."
"No, I'm not dying," She said, taking a sip of water. "I'm getting better."
"What a relief!" I said, "I feel so much better. (A deep sigh and a breather). How funny about the actressy? That is so true. I would never have thought about that. So funny, Mom."
"Yes, perfect." She said.
"And the oxygen? That was like a Leslie Neilson- Airplane move! Bahahah!" I said. So happy to have her back.
"Yep." She shook her head.
"But maybe it's good to do like a dry-run anyway?" I asked.
"A dry-run of what?"
"Of when you're... you know...gone." I stammered.
"Susan."
And I knew the way you know when the conversation is over with her, that the conversation was over.
She gets out of the hospital today and I talked to one of her doctor's who explained to me that she can live for a long time as long as she doesn't have many more flare ups, infections like bronchitis or pneumonia, that will repeatedly bring her back to the hospital. I was really glad to hear that. Cause that conversation may have been over, but lots of others aren't. Thank God. Now I can put my still beating broken bloody heart back into my torn chest. But I'd hate to be dramatic;).
"
Please leave a comment here. I am trying to build a community on the blog page and can't figure out how to transfer facebook comments. Plus, as a bonus, if you post anonymous no one has to know you like me. Thanks!
But you can't squeeze a lifetime into a bedside chat.
I've been trying to write a post around that thought. I had it while sitting at a traffic light, Monday, tears streaming down my cheeks, trying not to look at my phone, I wanted to text and drive, she likes to text, cause it's hard for her to talk. This time my Mom, not my Dad, was sent to the hospital, this time she was the focus. And I couldn't bare it.
Moms aren't to be thought about, looked too closely at, if you're lucky, and I am, they're just supposed to be there. They are there to say unthinkable things to, to tell petty hurts, how you really feel about the cream your husband gave you, or the pain that friend did. She's there to yell mean things at in times of frustration, mean things you wouldn't dare speak to another breathing body and loving things you might never feel for another human being. Except maybe if you have your own child, and then well, you know what she went through loving you and you love her even more. And it is never supposed to end. But the doctors said she has COPD and it is advanced and it is ending.
All I want to do is sit with her and make it all stop but if I can't, I at least want to get all of our time together. I keep thinking of things I might want to say, but we have the relationship where I can talk to her ten times a day and then not for days and then everyday. She's just always there. I can't imagine a situation, in what if I'm lucky, and I am, will be the next forty years of my life, where I won't need to talk to her. And that's just new stuff, I wouldn't mind going back over old stuff too, that's a lifetime. And so that's how I had the thought, But you can't squeeze a lifetime into a bedside chat.
I can imagine an Oscar, a Tony and a Grammy sitting on my mantel in Bel Air, the West Coast home, (the one we bought with the Publishers Clearing House winnings) next to the framed award for Entrepreneur of the Year, (the year before I win the Pulitzer Prize) and my acceptance speeches from the podium each time, but I can't imagine a moment without my mom, that's too big.
So this is what it is, this is what it is to lose your mother. Everyone goes through it, if they're lucky, and I am. I've heard so many people talk about it, and not when it was anyone close to me but on T.V. and stuff. I've felt bored, I felt bad, but honestly, I was kinda bored. Now, my ears cock up like a retriever hearing a shot go off, "What happened? How long? Where? What do you do now? How are you upright?"
I went to see her at the hospital, Monday, I lay in bed with her, crying.
"You're going to die, how am I going to live?" I asked. She looked at me as best she could, I thought, with the I.V. and Oxygen tubes restricting her motion.
"Would you please?" She asked, her face, red, strained.
"I know, it's so hard." I said. Glad, she was taking it as bad as I was. There are six of us after all, this proved I was the favorite.
"Susan, please... you're... on... my Oxygen."
I looked around to discover I had lay on the tube that was delivering her oxygen, she couldn't breathe.
"Oh, sorry." I said, sitting up, pulling the tube from underneath me, "Sorry, whoah, let me get that."
I re-positioned myself and the tube so she could breathe. I was eager to get back to our conversation though. I desperately wanted to know what she would say to me when she wasn't here anymore, because those are the thoughts I knew I could count on. I may not know what else may come up, but I knew she was going to die and before she did, I needed her to console me as if she were in heaven.
"Okay, so as I was saying..." I said, a chuckle over cutting off her oxygen supply. "So you're going to be dead, and I'm not going to be able to live. I'm going to be so sad, and not have you to talk to. What am I going to do?"
I looked at my mother for an answer, her face now blank.
And then she smiled.
"That's perfect." She said, nodding patiently, her voice a whisper. "That's so perfect, so actressy, "You're going to die, what am I going to do?"
I didn't understand. I was nearly drowning in tears.
"Mom, I need you to tell me what I am supposed to do, how am I going to live without you, while you're dead?"
"Susan. You're telling me I'm dying, and asking ME how to help you. How do you think it makes me feel for you to tell me I'm dying?"
"I thought you knew." I said, steadfast. "Don't you?"
"NO! I'm not dying! I'm getting better!" She said. She looked at me like I was nuts.
My tears dried up. I was beginning to understand.
"Oh! I'm so sorry, I thought you were dying." I said, "and I thought it would be good if we could talk about it."
"No, I'm not dying," She said, taking a sip of water. "I'm getting better."
"What a relief!" I said, "I feel so much better. (A deep sigh and a breather). How funny about the actressy? That is so true. I would never have thought about that. So funny, Mom."
"Yes, perfect." She said.
"And the oxygen? That was like a Leslie Neilson- Airplane move! Bahahah!" I said. So happy to have her back.
"Yep." She shook her head.
"But maybe it's good to do like a dry-run anyway?" I asked.
"A dry-run of what?"
"Of when you're... you know...gone." I stammered.
"Susan."
And I knew the way you know when the conversation is over with her, that the conversation was over.
She gets out of the hospital today and I talked to one of her doctor's who explained to me that she can live for a long time as long as she doesn't have many more flare ups, infections like bronchitis or pneumonia, that will repeatedly bring her back to the hospital. I was really glad to hear that. Cause that conversation may have been over, but lots of others aren't. Thank God. Now I can put my still beating broken bloody heart back into my torn chest. But I'd hate to be dramatic;).
"
Please leave a comment here. I am trying to build a community on the blog page and can't figure out how to transfer facebook comments. Plus, as a bonus, if you post anonymous no one has to know you like me. Thanks!
1 comment:
Awww Susie. You had me crying and then laughing. SOOOOO glad she is coming home today! Yeah! Sending love to you and your Mama.
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