Bon Voyage,Bon Chance

Today, Patrick Swayze died. He was 57. My mom is 58. He had pancreatic cancer. My mom has luekemia. She has also had breast cancer. While, to some people, they may look at this and say, "Yeah, so what? People have cancer...this doesn't make the stories connected." The thing is, though, unless you've experienced it in some way, you really wouldn't understand the connection. But there is a huge connection. One that, as soon as you find out that a friend's parent has cancer, or you pass a woman in the store with no hair or eyelashes or eyebrows, or you see a loved public figure like Farah Fawcett or Patrick Swayze lose their battles, you can feel it instantly. It's a weird feeling, a mix of emotions and memories, an unspoken "I know, I understand" that you can pass along simply by making eye contact. This type of struggle, this type of loss, this type of battle cannot be understood fully unless you've been there. Cancer is not an "I can totally imagine where you're coming from" type of illness. And while I sit here, perfectly healthy and cancer-free, and no, I do not know personally what my mom is going through, I can identify with the ache and worry and constant fear that lingers day-to-day when you're watching this type of battle and completely helpless. I look at other people with no hair, with daughters and husbands by their side, and I can see the fear and the stress in their face, and I can feel that connection. I see their worries of watching their loved one die, taking their last breath, like I did with aunt Polly. It's quite an experience, calming yet somehow very haunting. And worrying that you'll have to watch it again someday. Unless you've been there, you probably wouldn't understand exactly how this feels. And I can't really describe it in the way I'd really like to.

Last night, at my mom's prayer vigil, I looked at her face and I was really unsettled by this new look I've never recognized before: complete and utter fear. I've never seen anything like it, and even now, to picture it brings stinging tears to my eyes. Not the kind of tears that come from sadness but the kind that come out of anger and out of horror, if you will. Everyone stood around her, praying for her and wishing her well, and at one point, I looked up at her and I literally was rocked by her expression.

She had her eyes open, even though everyone else's eyes were closed in prayer, heads bowed. She was staring straight ahead, eyes glazed, deep in thought, tired-looking, her black ballcap over her brow. Her eyes were wide-open and physically upset, a panic across her face, all while trying to hold it back and remain composed. I'm not sure if I can do it justice. It was something I've never seen before, and made this unfortunate and sad experience feel all the more real. The whole evening "sealed the deal" for me and I think many members of my family. I think when you "send off" your family member to such an experience like a bone marrow transplant, an event like that the night before she leaves really sets it all in motion. Like when you're graduating and moving to a new state to pursue a job: "Bon voyage! Have a safe trip! Enjoy your time there! Good luck! Hope to see you again real soon!" It was all very unsettling for me.

This morning, I awoke feeling really defeated and anxious. The first thing I did was go downstairs and see my mom. She was sitting in the recliner, feet up, in her robe, no ballcap, with her glasses on. So precious. "Goodmorning, Beebee," she said. I like when she calls me "Beebee", even though I'm 23 and am certainly not her baby anymore. I can't help myself from crying right now as I write this. Sometimes, when you're distraught, and so upset that you can't even really make sense of how you feel, there's something really comforting to feel your tears roll over your cheeks and to just sit there and cry. This is what I'm doing right now, in between writing these paragraphs. In fact, I have basically been doing this, crying like this, since yesterday morning. Knowing how close it was, and now, tonight, sitting in my quiet house by myself, and it feels all too real. My family is separated, torn apart by this.

I visited with her this morning and helped her pack a few final things. I got ready to go to work in between hugging her whenever I got the chance. The final hug was the hardest of course, and I just kept saying, "I don't like this" while I tried really hard not to cry. "I don't like us being far away. I don't like going to school. I don't like not being there." Sometimes I'm really overwhelmed with how terrible things are right now. Just terrible. And this isn't a negative attitude towards life in general, but simply just a fact for me and my family. Things really are terrible now.

I followed them outside as they walked down the front porch to the car. I hugged mom one more time. I told her I'd see her in a few days. (A few days? You're going to start chemo and radiation that renders you defenseless and I'll see you in a few days?!) I watched them get in the car, but I closed the door before they pulled out of the driveway. I couldn't watch that. I couldn't watch her look at me out the window and wave to me, trying to smile, like I know she would have done. I just couldn't watch that. My heart can't really take stuff like that right now. Oh God, just to picture it, like I've seen it in the past. I couldn't have done that. Although, it apparently hasn't helped at all to try and "protect" myself like that, because I'm sitting here crying like I'm 10. Really crying hard. But that's ok.

Just to imagine something like this, something so heart-breaking...and for it to be your mother. Or whoever is close to you, one of the loves of your life. I can't believe this is happening to her. I can't believe that she's just lost her sister, watched her take her last breath, while she herself was being pumped full of chemo. I can't believe that she has to get even more chemo, even more radiation, away from home, so sick and helpless and weak and so so so susceptible and vulnerable. And I can't believe I can't be there with her everyday. Even if we don't talk or if she sleeps the whole time, I'd like to be there with her. Next to her. I miss her alot tonight.