This morning I had the opportunity to talk to Mom’s oncologist on the telephone. Technically speaking, the phone rang at about 8:30am and when I saw the caller ID I had a moment of panic. What was wrong? What had happened?
Then I remembered that there was really nothing left for me to worry about with her doctor.
The doctor had called to pass along his condolences. He’d been out of the country during Mom’s final crisis and death. He called to talk to me about what had happened with her final days, at the hospital, and then at home. I would guess some of this information would help him build his experience with this type of cancer–which is still pretty rare in the grand scheme of things–and some of it was closure for him. We’ve known him for almost two years, and I really do feel he had compassion for our situation all the way through. On the phone he said pretty bluntly that he wished this had never happened to Mom, that we’d never met, that he could turn back time and change things for us. I thanked him for the thought. Then I fought back tears as I told him how much my mother liked him, how much I like him, how appreciative I was that he fought so hard for Mom. I thanked him for putting up with my brother–who questioned him at every turn and threw tons of trials and homeopathy and other things at him–when he really didn’t have to. He told me it was part of his job, but I disagreed with him and I told him as much. Not every doctor could have–or would have–put up with my brother’s tactics or attacks. My mother’s doctor did so with aplomb, and with great understanding for what my brother was dealing with. I thanked the doctor for taking such good care of Mom, and for giving us two years to be with her. It certainly wasn’t a given considering Mom’s aggressive cancer.
When I hung up the phone, the tears were stuck in my throat. Later, I spoke to my father who had called Social Security to see what he had to do in regards to my mother’s passing. He told me how hard it was to have the conversation, and I told him I understood how he was feeling. It’s hard to talk about her. It’s hard to talk about what happened. It’s hard to talk about our lives without her.
Hub’s friend was coming over tonight to hang out. He’s been Hub’s friend for a lot of years. He’s helped us move a couple of times (and we’ve helped he and his wife move a bunch of times), and he’s even helped us with things at my parents’ house over the years. He’s a good friend to Hub, and vice versa. He and his wife know my parents pretty well. I couldn’t even stay downstairs to say hello, I just wanted to come upstairs and hide. I didn’t want to have to hear another condolence. Another “I’m so sorry”. It isn’t their fault…what else do you say? What else do I say other than “thank you.” It’s just another chink in the armor every time someone approaches with that face or that voice or that head tilt that tells you what is coming. Sympathy, empathy, kind words, compassion. I know why and I understand, but I just couldn’t take it again today.
I want to hide from everyone who knows me because I don’t want to hear the sympathy. I don’t want to hear the pity. I don’t want to be reminded every time I talk to them that my mother is gone. How are you? How’s Dad doing? One day at a time.
It fucking hurts, every minute of every hour of every day. And it isn’t anyone else’s fault. I just want to live in it by myself. I don’t want to tell everyone how I’m doing or how I’m making it through.
Is this the anger? I thought the anger would be at my mother for being sick, or for dying, or for leaving. Instead I just feel ANGRY. And I just want to be alone. I know there’s no wrong way to grieve, so I’m living in it and living with it. And it so sucks.