Why I am who I am

This morning, my friend's dad passed away from colon cancer. Oddly enough, it felt as though my mom died all over again. I saw her update on Facebook. I took my computer in the bathroom, sat on the floor, cried for about 20 minutes, and then sent her a message of how sorry I was for her and her family. She, and her four siblings, are now the newest members of the "club." My heart is broken for her, and actually, for myself still. He was only 49. I will never understand why these things happen.

I am told that in Heaven, you finally understand all the things you've always wondered. This question, of course, would be the first thing I would like to be enlightened on. I would also like to know why it takes certain people and not others. Why do people that rape and murder rot to death in prison for years and good, wholesome, loving people like my mom and aunt Polly and my friend's dad die so early from a miserable disease? Cancer knows no age, no boundaries, no gender, no nothing. It just takes and takes. It never gives. I will never understand why. My heart is so sad for her, and also for everyone in this terrible club.

Tomorrow afternoon we are finally laying my mom to rest. Her urn has been on our mantle, above our fireplace, just sitting there watching over us like an angel. She will be placed in her "niche," as they call it. That's kind of a cute name for a little whole you stick an urn in for all of eternity. "Time to go in your niche, momma." It almost makes it sound fun, or even comforting. A niche. Alright.

Today I was thinking about bravery, and what it means to be given such a title. When I used to think of bravery, I thought of soldiers during war, being brave and defending our country. Over the past several months, my idea of bravery has changed drastically. I think of my aunt Polly and my mom.

My aunt Polly was so brave. She faced death, literally, and still managed to continue living her life to the fullest every single day. I cannot imagine being told that your time on Earth is limited to only a few months. In January of this year, she was placed on hospice. Her chemo stopped working, and they predicted she would not make it to her 56th birthday, March 18th. She made it to April 24th. From January, she knew that each month could be her last. Before too long, each day was potentially her last. She wrote letters to her friends. She also wrote them to her brothers and sisters. She picked out things of hers with sentimental value for us, and she wrapped them and kept them in her guest bedroom closet. She planned her funeral. Can you imagine that? She planned her own funeral. She and I spent many evenings at her kitchen table discussing music to be played, pictures to be shown, the mood she wanted to be felt at that occasion. We looked through boxes of old pictures and laughed hysterically. She talked and reminisced and I wrote what she said without her noticing. Later on, as I put together the pictures into a "slide show eulogy," I used her quotes to narrate the pictures. One day, she showed me a letter. She said, "Do you think you could read this at the funeral? I don't want to put any pressure on you or anything, but do you think you could do it?" I looked at the heading of the paper. It started with, "My dear family..." It was a letter to her brothers and sisters, and as it went through and described her love for them and how they changed her for the better, she addressed each one individually and thanked them for all they did. I have never read anything like this letter. I promised her I would read it, and I also made a promise to myself that I would read this letter and look at each brother and sister as I read it, to make it as personal and as meaningful as I possibly could. On Thursday, April 30th, I did just that. I had to do it for her, and somehow I found the strength. My mom said it was aunt Polly—she was helping me that night. Besides facing death head on, she also agreed to be featured in a photo story. This is where a person takes pictures of you and tries to tell a story with them. She agreed to be featured, and she was so gracious about it, and she did it with so much dignity. I can’t image allowing someone so personally into your life, and the whole time you know the exact purpose for the project. I can’t fathom that. I can’t image that type of bravery, that exploitation of such a terrible, personal thing like dying. When this person asked her if she could take the pictures, aunt Polly shrugged her shoulders and said, “What the hell’s the difference? I’ll be dead!” And then she laughed. Can you imagine having that type of outlook? That type of attitude towards your own mortality, something as private as the end of your life? I cannot. If this isn’t bravery, I do not know what is.

My mom was brave on a completely different side of dying. In the back of her head she knew that dying was a potential, but she never let it take control of her. She faced all of her treatments with such a positive attitude, always comforting everyone else and trying to reassure them that everything would turn out alright. As the transplant grew closer, she was horrified, and while she acted this way at home, she was so gracious and so accepting of other people’s prayers and kind words. She would always thank them with a big smile, all the while worrying and internalizing her fears. I can’t grasp the idea of being told you have cancer, of being told you will die within a month without treatment, of being told all of the frightening side effects of chemotherapy, the very drug that could save your life. Nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, mouth sores, life-threatening infections, weight loss, skin rashes, stroke, heart attack, cancer. Yes, a side-effect of chemotherapy is cancer, just to add injury to insult. She accepted all of these things and walked into the hospital with her head held high to be admitted for treatment. Five times. And if that wasn’t enough, she walked into the Cleveland Clinic, knowing what lie ahead for her with the bone marrow transplant. All of the same side-effects, only intensified. How could you walk through the doors knowing they were going to completely eradicate your immune system to a non-existent status? To brave through the risk of having another person’s bone marrow pumped into your veins while your body is completely defenseless with no means to protect itself? With the knowledge that she could either go into remission and live for several more years or possibly lose her life within just a few weeks? She never flinched. She walked in, took the chemo, took the bone marrow, and that night, sat in her bed like nothing ever even happened. She laughed, she ate, she told funny stories. Besides her little bald head, there was no inclination of what her body was going through. She was so brave, and she faced every threat to her life with such grace and inspiration from the love of her family. She wanted to live so much, she wanted to put cancer behind her, she wanted so many more years with her family. With me. I knew she worried about missing the big things that are coming up in my life. Graduation. Getting married. Welcoming children into the world. She worried, but she never let any of it stop her from trying to live. I would be so frightened to know that a chemical is in my body that kills both the good and the bad cells, that makes my hair fall out, that puts my body at risk every time it is injected. I would be so devastated to hear the word “leukemia,” to know that I have no choice but to have the treatment. Or the outcome would be the same. I can’t imagine being so trapped, with no choices, no control over the situation. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy. She was so brave. I am so proud of her. I often wonder if I could do what she did. Face all the things she faced. Endure all the things she endured. I’m not sure that I could. Or that many people could. But she did. Twice. She was stronger than she ever knew, which makes her bravery all the more amazing. She never knew the things she could do, the things she could face and conquer. She called herself a “big chicken,” which is hardly the case. Five bone marrow biopsies. Five chemo treatments. A bone marrow transplant. The threat of losing her battle. I can’t even imagine that kind of fear and facing that kind of challenge in my life.

She was absolutely amazing. So was aunt Polly. I hope that I even have half of the courage and bravery that they possessed. Their spirits were so full, so beautiful. I am so lucky and so happy to have known them and to have been touched by them in so many special ways. They are the reason why I am who I am. Why I like the Beatles and the Turtles, why the song “Eleanor” makes me smile, why Mariachi music makes me laugh every time I hear it, and why I dedicate my free time to the American Cancer Society. They are the reason why I am so appreciative of my life, why I see beauty in small things like the turning leaves of Fall or a sunny day, why I want to enter into a career field helping others, and why I love my family to no end. They possessed so many qualities that I am thankful to have inside me also, and to even be half as brave as them would be the greatest gift they could have given me. I am so happy to be me, and so happy to have the life I have, despite all of the loss and tragedy that has occurred. While they are no longer in my life, I am left with all of the memories and love they have left behind. They were the two most influential people in my life, and to watch them both lose their lives within only months of each other, I will never understand why or how, but I do understand that I am me because of them. I do not understand why I am meant to be on this Earth without them, and why I am supposed to experience all of the major things in my life while they are gone. I will forever be thankful to have had them for even the short time I did.