Today, April 26, marks 22 years since my mom died at the young age of 50. But yesterday marked the final time I actually had a conversation with her, as her last day on this earth was spent in a coma state for the most part. I remember that last day when she was awake and talking. I remember hugging her good-bye and my dad walking me and my then twenty month old daughter to the parking garage at the Cleveland Clinic.
I remember her last words to me, simple then, but profound now. "Baby be careful driving home, I love you and goodness sake will you please smile and be happy, you always look so sad"? I thought about what she said all the way home and was bothered that she would request me to smile and be happy. I wanted to scream, "you're dying, and I will never be happy again". Was she crazy? How could she even mutter the word, "happy".
All I wanted was for her to get better. I wanted her to hold me and be there to see my daughter grow up. I wanted Thanksgiving Dinners and Christmas Eves and birthdays. I wanted Sunday dinners, cookouts and Easter egg hunts. I wanted cancer to be defeated by some miraculous drug or new discovery.
I realized over the years that life is a collection of roles and that with each role we play a part. And even though we are the same player, the parts are all different. The tears I shed then and now are the tears of a child. Regardless of my age when I think about my mom or dad for that matter I am one-hundred percent a child, scared, sad and craving their arms. When I see my own children worried about something or unhappy, I am a mom, telling them like she told me, "smile, be happy, it will be okay". I want more than anything for them to be happy even if things are a mess.
At the time I was baffled how my mom could for one second be concerned with my countenance and sadness when she was literally dying with each passing day. I would wonder, does she not know, does she not care, why does it matter to her right now if I'm happy or sad? The truth is she completely knew how sick she was. She saw it in the mirror, she saw it on the scales, in the faces of doctors, nurses and family members. But despite her situation and the fact that life was slipping away everyday, her top priority was still her kids. The week before she had reminded me three times from her hospital bed, to please make sure my younger sister had a cake the next day for her 21st birthday. I promised she would but again kept thinking, why? Why does a birthday matter when you have such bad cancer? Would my sister even want a cake? Would anyone care or think about her birthday? Well, my mom did and to her it was a moment to celebrate.
I know now that parents really can't help putting their children first even if they are facing uphill battles themselves. Two days before my dad died it was Déjà vu, as he struggled to breathe but said in short, quick words, "I'm worried about you, will you be okay? Read your Bible." I thought then that even though I would soon be without any parent at all, I had been so blessed and lucky to have the ones I had. Even in death they loved me, my sisters and brother so much. Our emotional state and well being was more important to them both than the disease ravishing their bodies.
I am grateful I had them as long as I did. I learned as much about love and life during their final hours as I did during their entire lifetime. I believe with all my heart I will see them again. I look at photos of them often, think about them daily and hope they know I am happy and okay.
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