So here I am now. It's been four years since my mom passed away. I feel like things are easier to handle now, but of course I have my good and bad days. I still have so many questions. So many "what ifs". I still carry so much guilt for her death...I mentioned before that she used to beg me to stay home and spend time with her, and I explained that the reason why I didn't was because I hated seeing her suffer. I look back now and realize how it must have looked from her point of view.
She spent every waking moment in that bedroom. Mind you, it was a small bedroom. She was constantly overwhelmed with endless pain and nausea. My dad was usually home, but there was only so much he could say or do to comfort her. All she wanted was a little extra attention. Just to know that I cared and that I wanted to be with her.
I see now that if I had maybe spent more time with her, even if we couldn't do much, it would have relieved her of some of the pain, in a way. Maybe if I had, she would have been happier, and would have had more motivation to eat right so she could get better faster. Maybe if that was case, her body would have been just a little stronger. Strong enough to handle what should have been a simple surgery. I blame myself so much for not checking on her sooner as well. She had just had surgery! Why didn't I go check on her first thing when I woke up that Sunday morning. Why didn't I think to find out if I could get her anything. Why didn't I just make sure she was sleeping comfortably? All I cared about was stupid Myspace......I hate myself for it. Maybe if I had found her hours earlier, there could have been a chance to save her. Maybe, maybe, maybe. But what good do maybe's do?
All I know is that now I do everything I can to not make the same mistakes with my dad that I made with my mom. My dad is all that I have left. I can't live with him, but I have to make sure that he is taken care of. I'm always nagging him about his health. I try to spend time at his apartment. I try to call him every day, even if it's just to tell him I love him and that I'll see him soon. Something tells me that these things do make a difference. You always hear about how people don't realize what they have, what they could have done, or how they could have showed a loved one that they cared, until it's too late. It was too late with my mom. But I'm closer with my dad now than I have been since I was a little girl. I can help him. I can make sure he knows that I care. And someday, I'll be able to show my mom again too. Someday, maybe I'll forgive myself. Maybe.
Sunday, November 25, 2012
Sunday, November 18, 2012
The Story I Hate Telling
It was Sunday morning, September 7, 2008. I woke up really early and couldn't get back to sleep, so I decided to go downstairs and check my myspace. I remember being upset that a friend hadn't responded to a message of mine. After myspace I watched a little TV, and around noon I decided to go back to bed. My parents weren't up yet, I wasn't surprised because my mom had just gotten back from the hospital the day before and my dad was always tired from taking care of her. Just as I started dozing off my dad started calling me. I didn't want to get out of bed but his voice started to sound frantic. Something was wrong. I heard him say my mom was unconscious, that he couldn't get her to wake up and she wouldn't move. I ran to their room. My dad was shaking my mom's arm, calling her name. She was lying on her stomach and her face was buried in her pillow. My dad asked me to help him turn her over. I walked over to the bed and placed my hands under her shoulder and took her hand.....she was cold. Why was she cold. We turned her over, her lips were blue. Why are her lips blue. Her chest isn't moving. I start to shriek her name. I lay my head on her chest and I can't find her heart beat. I look up and my dad is just standing in the doorway staring at us. I tell him to call an ambulance, he doesn't hear me at first. Dad! He snaps out of it and runs to the phone. I look back at my mom. Her mouth is open. I want to give her CPR but there is some godawful feeling in the pit of my stomach, telling me it's too late. It can't be too late. My mom. I have to save her. I don't know what I'm doing but suddenly I'm tipping her head back and forcing my breath into her lungs. Her chest rises and falls with each breath but it's not working. I beg her to breath. Please God, please no. Please mom, please God no. Don't do this. Please mom, don't leave me. Mom, please breath. God please!
The next thing I know the paramedics are there and they are peeling me off of her, I'm sobbing and screaming and pleading for someone, anyone to help. I go to the bathroom and throw up everything in my stomach. I'm laying in the bathroom doorway as I listen to all of the voices but no one is speaking English. I can't understand anyone. Someone comes to ask me a question, I try to answer but nothing sounds right, everything is blurring. Eventually, the paramedics leave. They tell us people will come back to take the body. I'm not sure what they mean by "the body." Or I don't want to be sure. They leave and somehow I bring myself off the bathroom floor. I stumble back to my parents room and my dad is sitting on the bed next to my mother, stroking her hair. He keeps saying, "Oh honey. Oh Myra."I look at her. Lying flat on her back. She is wearing the nightgown I got her a few months back. It has cats on it. I crawl in bed with her and lay my torso across hers. I pick up her lifeless arm and place it around my shoulder, part of me knowing that any second I'll feel her squeeze me tight. Part of me knowing that she'll whisper that she's fine and we're fine and everything is fine. But it doesn't happen. I make a couple of phone calls to my older sisters. I no longer remember what I said or what they said. I know they came over. I only remember lying there with my mother's arm draped across me for as long as they would let me. When they came to get her I went back to the bathroom. I watched them pass by with a large black bag. I had the strongest urge to hurl myself at them and cling onto that bag for dear life...literally. That was my mother in there. How could I let them take her away? But I sat on that floor and watched them carry her down the stairs and out the door.
The rest of that day....rest of the week...is a complete blur. I barely remember picking out flowers and a casket. Hardly recall getting ready for the funeral. I spoke and I sang her favorite song, "You're Not Alone". My older nephews and a few of my very close guy friends who knew my mother well carried her coffin to the hearse. We put her in the ground and that was it.
Really, I would say that the rest of that entire year was a blur. I'm pretty sure I was on auto pilot the majority of the time. I was also under a lot of medication. When I was fourteen I was diagnosed with this muscle disorder called fibromyalgia. I had spent the last four years seeing this primary care doctor who stuffed me with a new prescription every visit. Sleeping pills, pills to help me wake up, pills to calm me, pills to help me focus, pills to relax my muscles, pills to stop the pain, pills to make me happy, pills to help the pills that were supposed to make me happy. It was ridiculous. I couldn't stay awake in my classes. My teachers and friends were very sympathetic at first but after a couple of months it got old. They were tired of my crying, tired of my excuses for missing class. People forgot and I didn't get any better. I was a part of my school's Vocal Ensemble and another audition group that did music dance and theatre. After Christmas, I dropped out of the second group. I couldn't handle it anymore and frankly, the director really didn't want me anymore since I wasn't really contributing any good energy. I sort of stumbled my way through the rest of my senior year and did not end up graduating. After high school though, slowly but surely, I started to feel again. I started to wake up and find my way back into life. I got my GED, moved out of my parent's house, enrolled in college and vowed to make up for all the lost time. And here I am today four years later. Still finding my way back.
The next thing I know the paramedics are there and they are peeling me off of her, I'm sobbing and screaming and pleading for someone, anyone to help. I go to the bathroom and throw up everything in my stomach. I'm laying in the bathroom doorway as I listen to all of the voices but no one is speaking English. I can't understand anyone. Someone comes to ask me a question, I try to answer but nothing sounds right, everything is blurring. Eventually, the paramedics leave. They tell us people will come back to take the body. I'm not sure what they mean by "the body." Or I don't want to be sure. They leave and somehow I bring myself off the bathroom floor. I stumble back to my parents room and my dad is sitting on the bed next to my mother, stroking her hair. He keeps saying, "Oh honey. Oh Myra."I look at her. Lying flat on her back. She is wearing the nightgown I got her a few months back. It has cats on it. I crawl in bed with her and lay my torso across hers. I pick up her lifeless arm and place it around my shoulder, part of me knowing that any second I'll feel her squeeze me tight. Part of me knowing that she'll whisper that she's fine and we're fine and everything is fine. But it doesn't happen. I make a couple of phone calls to my older sisters. I no longer remember what I said or what they said. I know they came over. I only remember lying there with my mother's arm draped across me for as long as they would let me. When they came to get her I went back to the bathroom. I watched them pass by with a large black bag. I had the strongest urge to hurl myself at them and cling onto that bag for dear life...literally. That was my mother in there. How could I let them take her away? But I sat on that floor and watched them carry her down the stairs and out the door.
The rest of that day....rest of the week...is a complete blur. I barely remember picking out flowers and a casket. Hardly recall getting ready for the funeral. I spoke and I sang her favorite song, "You're Not Alone". My older nephews and a few of my very close guy friends who knew my mother well carried her coffin to the hearse. We put her in the ground and that was it.
Really, I would say that the rest of that entire year was a blur. I'm pretty sure I was on auto pilot the majority of the time. I was also under a lot of medication. When I was fourteen I was diagnosed with this muscle disorder called fibromyalgia. I had spent the last four years seeing this primary care doctor who stuffed me with a new prescription every visit. Sleeping pills, pills to help me wake up, pills to calm me, pills to help me focus, pills to relax my muscles, pills to stop the pain, pills to make me happy, pills to help the pills that were supposed to make me happy. It was ridiculous. I couldn't stay awake in my classes. My teachers and friends were very sympathetic at first but after a couple of months it got old. They were tired of my crying, tired of my excuses for missing class. People forgot and I didn't get any better. I was a part of my school's Vocal Ensemble and another audition group that did music dance and theatre. After Christmas, I dropped out of the second group. I couldn't handle it anymore and frankly, the director really didn't want me anymore since I wasn't really contributing any good energy. I sort of stumbled my way through the rest of my senior year and did not end up graduating. After high school though, slowly but surely, I started to feel again. I started to wake up and find my way back into life. I got my GED, moved out of my parent's house, enrolled in college and vowed to make up for all the lost time. And here I am today four years later. Still finding my way back.
Sunday, November 11, 2012
Here and Then Gone
My mom started getting really sick when I turned about fourteen years old. It started out with simple things like stomach aches, loss of appetite, fatigue, etc. It seemed like no matter how many tests they did or doctors she went to they couldn't figure out what was going on. We eventually found out that she had type 2 diabetes and although it would take a little effort to make some diet changes and she would need to take insulin medication, we were relieved that it was something manageable. She felt better for about a year and then things really went down hill. She started getting sick all the time and we soon found out she had breast cancer. She was to go through a series of radiation treatments first, and if those didn't work then we would go to chemotherapy.
Turns out the radiation wasn't strong enough and the cancer spread to her lymph nodes under her left arm. She began chemo treatments and also had the first of two biopsies and mastectomy of her chest. She started losing her hair and decided that she would rather just shave it off. We actually had a shaving party and she let all of the grandkids come over and each take a turn with the buzzer. It was an extremely long and difficult journey ahead, but she was optimistic and we were soon shopping for colorful scarves and hats and all kinds of breast cancer paraphernalia. As the weeks turned into months she became very ill. Eventually she couldn't work, and could hardly leave the house. She spent the vast majority of her time in her room trying to read or watch movies or sleep to escape the endless nausea from the chemo treatments. Her immune system had completely shut down and she couldn't find the energy to be optimistic anymore.
I began spending as much time as I could away from the house. I couldn't stand to see her suffering. She cried all the time now and I felt so helpless. There was nothing I could do to take away the pain, or so I thought. She begged me to stay home sometimes, but all I wanted was to be anywhere where I didn't have to hear her or see my mother deteriorating before my eyes. I now know that she thought I didn't care....she thought I had no sympathy for her, but the truth is is that I just couldn't handle it. I was confused and lost and angry and sometimes mistakenly let her see it...
I knew she was sick. How could I not? But never once in the entire time that she was going through this did the thought of losing her ever cross my mind. I knew she would get better, she had to. It just seemed logical. I knew she was suffering, and I knew that she was sad and felt like she had no chance to heal, but I told myself it was in her head...that if she wanted to get better she could make it happen. She also wasn't taking care of her diabetes. She hardly ate and when we could convince her to, all she wanted were things that make her blood sugar sky rocket, which made her all the more ill.
Turns out....things did eventually get better. We were nearing the end of two years of chemotherapy. She had lost the entire left side of her chest. She came home from the doctors one day and seemed happier than I had seen her since before the diagnosis. She sat me down and told me that her last treatment was scheduled and they had done a scan and found no more cancer. She would be done. She would start healing. We- could start healing. I was so excited to have her back. She was still sick, but she smiled now. She talked about what we could do when she got better, trips we would take, places we would go. She told me she would never miss another performance. About a month went by and she was scheduled to go in for re-constructional surgery so she would look normal again...it wasn't a big deal, basically just plastic surgery.
She went in on a Friday....came home Saturday and other than being pretty sedated from the anesthetics, incredibly happy....then I found her Sunday morning...gone.
Turns out the radiation wasn't strong enough and the cancer spread to her lymph nodes under her left arm. She began chemo treatments and also had the first of two biopsies and mastectomy of her chest. She started losing her hair and decided that she would rather just shave it off. We actually had a shaving party and she let all of the grandkids come over and each take a turn with the buzzer. It was an extremely long and difficult journey ahead, but she was optimistic and we were soon shopping for colorful scarves and hats and all kinds of breast cancer paraphernalia. As the weeks turned into months she became very ill. Eventually she couldn't work, and could hardly leave the house. She spent the vast majority of her time in her room trying to read or watch movies or sleep to escape the endless nausea from the chemo treatments. Her immune system had completely shut down and she couldn't find the energy to be optimistic anymore.
I began spending as much time as I could away from the house. I couldn't stand to see her suffering. She cried all the time now and I felt so helpless. There was nothing I could do to take away the pain, or so I thought. She begged me to stay home sometimes, but all I wanted was to be anywhere where I didn't have to hear her or see my mother deteriorating before my eyes. I now know that she thought I didn't care....she thought I had no sympathy for her, but the truth is is that I just couldn't handle it. I was confused and lost and angry and sometimes mistakenly let her see it...
I knew she was sick. How could I not? But never once in the entire time that she was going through this did the thought of losing her ever cross my mind. I knew she would get better, she had to. It just seemed logical. I knew she was suffering, and I knew that she was sad and felt like she had no chance to heal, but I told myself it was in her head...that if she wanted to get better she could make it happen. She also wasn't taking care of her diabetes. She hardly ate and when we could convince her to, all she wanted were things that make her blood sugar sky rocket, which made her all the more ill.
Turns out....things did eventually get better. We were nearing the end of two years of chemotherapy. She had lost the entire left side of her chest. She came home from the doctors one day and seemed happier than I had seen her since before the diagnosis. She sat me down and told me that her last treatment was scheduled and they had done a scan and found no more cancer. She would be done. She would start healing. We- could start healing. I was so excited to have her back. She was still sick, but she smiled now. She talked about what we could do when she got better, trips we would take, places we would go. She told me she would never miss another performance. About a month went by and she was scheduled to go in for re-constructional surgery so she would look normal again...it wasn't a big deal, basically just plastic surgery.
She went in on a Friday....came home Saturday and other than being pretty sedated from the anesthetics, incredibly happy....then I found her Sunday morning...gone.
Sunday, November 4, 2012
Opposites Attract
I wanted to tell a little more about my parents and how they met.
My mom grew up in New York. She had two older brothers and they were they only Mormons (LDS) in their entire school. Her mother was an immigrant from Germany, and was the only grandparent I had when I was born-though she died when I was two. My mother moved to Utah with her family when she was an adolescent.
My dad grew up in California. He had two older sisters and was raised in a tightly knit Christian community. He began showing symptoms of mental illness after high school and ended up moving to Utah.
My mom ended up marrying and having three children. She was married for over twenty years when one day her husband sat her down and explained that he was having an affair and wanted a divorce. She was devastated-obviously. Her kids were out of the house, she had just hit forty, and had no intention of dating ever again.
My dad came to Utah, and within the first few months he was converted and baptized into the LDS church. He smoked at least a pack a day, and drank more than just socially, but somehow felt it was right. So he set out for change.
One of my mom's girlfriends had been begging her to go to an adult singles dance at on of the LDS church buildings. My mom wanted nothing to do with it but after a while, was worn down and finally said she would accompany her friend, though she would do absolutely no dancing, and was purely there for moral support. As she sat along the wall she watched the other couples dancing and laughing, wanting nothing more than to just go home and be alone herself. Then the unthinkable happened. A man came up and asked her to dance. First thing she noticed- he REEKED of cigarette smoke. She really didn't want to dance, especially with him, but he seemed nice and she felt bad so she said yes. As she danced with him she learned that he had just moved to Utah and didn't know anyone. When he asked for her number, she had told him that she wasn't interested in dating. He told her that he understood, and all he was really looking for was a friend. She thought about it for a second and figured there was no harm in friendship, and he did seem like a nice guy despite the smoke smell. A few days later she received a call in the middle of the night from a hospital in Park City. My dad was working at one of the ski resorts at the time and had a bad fall down one of the ski slopes. Her number was the only contact information they found in his wallet and asked if she could come pick him up. She did and spent the next few weeks taking care of him. The rest just sort of happened. They fell in love, he proposed, she said yes, and a year and a half later she had me. The end.:)
My mom grew up in New York. She had two older brothers and they were they only Mormons (LDS) in their entire school. Her mother was an immigrant from Germany, and was the only grandparent I had when I was born-though she died when I was two. My mother moved to Utah with her family when she was an adolescent.
My dad grew up in California. He had two older sisters and was raised in a tightly knit Christian community. He began showing symptoms of mental illness after high school and ended up moving to Utah.
My mom ended up marrying and having three children. She was married for over twenty years when one day her husband sat her down and explained that he was having an affair and wanted a divorce. She was devastated-obviously. Her kids were out of the house, she had just hit forty, and had no intention of dating ever again.
My dad came to Utah, and within the first few months he was converted and baptized into the LDS church. He smoked at least a pack a day, and drank more than just socially, but somehow felt it was right. So he set out for change.
One of my mom's girlfriends had been begging her to go to an adult singles dance at on of the LDS church buildings. My mom wanted nothing to do with it but after a while, was worn down and finally said she would accompany her friend, though she would do absolutely no dancing, and was purely there for moral support. As she sat along the wall she watched the other couples dancing and laughing, wanting nothing more than to just go home and be alone herself. Then the unthinkable happened. A man came up and asked her to dance. First thing she noticed- he REEKED of cigarette smoke. She really didn't want to dance, especially with him, but he seemed nice and she felt bad so she said yes. As she danced with him she learned that he had just moved to Utah and didn't know anyone. When he asked for her number, she had told him that she wasn't interested in dating. He told her that he understood, and all he was really looking for was a friend. She thought about it for a second and figured there was no harm in friendship, and he did seem like a nice guy despite the smoke smell. A few days later she received a call in the middle of the night from a hospital in Park City. My dad was working at one of the ski resorts at the time and had a bad fall down one of the ski slopes. Her number was the only contact information they found in his wallet and asked if she could come pick him up. She did and spent the next few weeks taking care of him. The rest just sort of happened. They fell in love, he proposed, she said yes, and a year and a half later she had me. The end.:)
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