Numb.
I didn't write yesterday. I wasn't feeling it. I wasn't really feeling anything. I was just numb. Emotionally and physically. I cried a lot less than I had in the week prior. I think maybe it was my body's way of giving me a reprieve from the searing pain we have all been in for the last 7 days.
There's no manual for this. For coping with a death sentence. I want to pretty much spend every waking moment with my Mom. I want to soak all of her in, savor every second, hang on every word. I want her to share every bit of knowledge and experience and wisdom she's been holding back (although if you know her, there's probably not much she's held back.). I want to eat big meals and drink bottles of wine and dance and sing and laugh. I want my brother to be here with us. I want us to all sit around a table and laugh until we cry about the tube socks he wore when he was 4 or about me pooping in the bed after my spinal fusion because Dad couldn't get me up out of bed. I want for us to be whole. The problem is that we won't ever be whole again. This diagnosis has taken part of my Mom already. How can you sit around a table and laugh and savor moments with this horrible disease taking your life away?
She wants to escape. I don't blame her. I would want to escape too. Go somewhere that would make the nightmare go away. Go somewhere without doctors and hospitals and cancer. I want her to go there too. I want her to be where there's no pain, no fear, no sadness. But that place doesn't exist. And this is her reality now; our reality. And it sucks.
There's no manual for this. For coping with a death sentence. I want to pretty much spend every waking moment with my Mom. I want to soak all of her in, savor every second, hang on every word. I want her to share every bit of knowledge and experience and wisdom she's been holding back (although if you know her, there's probably not much she's held back.). I want to eat big meals and drink bottles of wine and dance and sing and laugh. I want my brother to be here with us. I want us to all sit around a table and laugh until we cry about the tube socks he wore when he was 4 or about me pooping in the bed after my spinal fusion because Dad couldn't get me up out of bed. I want for us to be whole. The problem is that we won't ever be whole again. This diagnosis has taken part of my Mom already. How can you sit around a table and laugh and savor moments with this horrible disease taking your life away?
She wants to escape. I don't blame her. I would want to escape too. Go somewhere that would make the nightmare go away. Go somewhere without doctors and hospitals and cancer. I want her to go there too. I want her to be where there's no pain, no fear, no sadness. But that place doesn't exist. And this is her reality now; our reality. And it sucks.
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