Goodnight, my angel

We arrived home from Indiana on Saturday, and I have been so busy preparing for a biochemistry exam and my thesis defense that I forgot to post anything new. The hospital called Aunt Becky to let her know that there was no cancer in the surrounding tissue or her other breast, and that the tumor itself was very small and "barely stage one." We do not have an official response to whether or not she will need chemo, but everything seems hopeful so far.

Although this is wonderful news and something I'd like to share, this is not really the reason I signed on tonight.

Tonight is March 16th, 2010, the day that marks the one-year anniversary since my mom was diagnosed with leukemia. It never occurred to me how much the realization that it has already been a year since everything has changed would hurt my heart so much. I feel nearly the same as I felt the night we were given the news. My head hurts, my eyes feel heavy, and I feel completely hopeless. My poor girl. I just can't stop thinking about her and how sad I am for her. I'm not really sad for myself anymore, I just feel numb now, about most things.

What I wouldn't have given for it to be me. Why did it have to be her? Why is everyone I love so dearly being taken away from me, and why do I have to watch them suffer? I feel like all the people I love have cancer. I feel like it's me. I don't know why. But I do. Maybe it's me. Why can't I just have it so they don't have to? I would gladly take their place.

I would give up everything to bring her back. She was my best friend, and my most favorite person on this earth. Everything she did was completely and utterly precious, from the way she laughed to the way she tied her shoes. Her little, perfectly white shoes. I wish I had them so I could lay with them right now.

This week in Indiana, we were looking at pictures on Aunt Janny's camera. She has a video saved of mom sending a message to our doctor, who we love very much and is practically a member of the family. Mom is up in the Cleveland Clinic wearing her hospital gown and her favorite sparkly ball cap, the white one. Aunt Janny, in the background, says "Go ahead and talk," and mom smiles and waves and begins to talk into the camera. Her smile did so many things to me that night that even now I'm not sure exactly how I felt. I was happy to see her face, to hear her voice, to see her move, and I almost felt like she was really there, like it was all real. That smile. The same smile I watched spread across her face every time she opened her eyes and looked at me just hours before she died. I felt sad that I associated that smile with her dying, rather than all the other millions of times she smiled in my life. I cried, and I watched it three more times.

My heart is very sad, very heavy tonight. I feel like I have taken one step forward and two steps back. The pieces that I finally began to repair feel damaged again. What I wouldn't have given for it to be me.