Before I begin, let's get one thing straight: when someone dies, it's not easy. It's never easy.
It was just a regular day when I found out. I was in 5th grade; I wasn't old enough to fully understand. If I'm being completely honest, I still don't. What is it? How did she get it? Why? Is there some kind of reasoning behind it? Is it a punishment? Everyone is sad. Is she going to die? Thoughts and questions raced in my brain, but for some reason, I couldn't let myself cry.
My mother was diagnosed with breast cancer that day.
No doubt about it, I knew cancer was bad. I'd seen all the movies. You get cancer, and you die. It's as simple as that. But it wasn't. In reality, you don't get cancer and die. You get cancer and you fight. That, of course, wouldn't make a good movie. My mother was the strongest woman I'd ever known. Something inside of me was telling me she would fight through it, no matter how hard it was.
Sarah Jane (my mother) became a vegetarian. Her diet consisted of fruit, vegetables, the occasional fish, whole grains, vitamins, and Barley Max (literally the most disgusting drink imaginable. Think grass, hay, and prune juice combined). If it wasn't organic, we didn't eat it. With her diet, exercise, and surgery, my mom became one of the healthiest women I'd ever met. The cancer was no match to her incredible faith, strength, and hope.
Her health wasn't a problem for a long time. I went through middle school, and began my freshman year. I was in Miss Huggins' honors English class, and we were asked to write and present a voiced-over iMovie. I wrote mine about my mother and her fight with cancer. I ended with something along the lines of, "My mother, a woman who truly overcame cancer, is my hero." I presented it to the class, and I'd never been happier to share my mother's story. That day, I came home to my dad. He was never home when I got home from school. I walked into the house, and everything that happened after that is sort of a blur.
"Your mom has a brain tumor."
Sometime during that day, my mom started feeling very odd at work. Her hand-eye coordination was lacking. She found herself struggling to write. This, doctors concluded, was a seizure. It was later determined that she had a brain tumor. My mother would undergo brain surgery the next day in order to remove it. We drove to Omaha, and my sister rushed home. Everything happened so quickly. My sister and I slept in the waiting room at Jenny Edmundson Hospital that night.
I believe this is truly when I lost my mother. After her brain surgery, her personality was different. The way she dealt with stress was different. The way she spoke was different. She never wanted to go anywhere. Because the cancer was spreading, my mother was forced to begin radiation treatment. This contradicted a lot of what she believed. She never wanted this kind of treatment. Once she started, she regretted it. She lost all of her hair and she was always exhausted. She could only eat what she could keep down, which was very little. Her pain was always present. Not only in her, but in all of us.
It was August when my mom was admitted to the hospital in Atlantic. She was placed in hospice. Family from all over came home that day. My sister, dad, and I met with a nurse early that evening. She spoke the words I was dreading: "We're not sure how much time she has left. It could be days... most likely, it will be hours." I tried to hold it together. Really, I did. But in that moment, it was as if everything was crashing down on me. Realizing that your mother, your best friend, the one person you've always been able to talk to is dying? There's nothing worse than that.
That night was the worst night of my life.
We all stayed awake. We watched her as she lost her ability to speak clearly. She was miserable, and so were we. Eventually, she was in a coma. Her breathing became slower and louder. This was the most painful thing to watch. I'll always remember holding her hand, praying that somehow she would hold mine back. Her sickness had taken over, and the only thing I wanted was for my mother to be taken out of her misery.
The morning came. My mother was still breathing, something that none of us understood. I decided I wanted to talk to her. Yes, she was in a coma. Yes, she was breathing louder than I could even speak. I had cried so much that night, my voice was almost nonexistent. I wanted to speak to her anyway. I walked into the room and took a seat next to her bed. I looked at her. Even in all of her sickness, she was still as beautiful as she always had been. I held her hand, and I prayed that she could hear me. I'll always remember the last things I said to her. "Momma, I know you're in a lot of pain right now. I know you're waiting because you don't want to let go. I know it's scary, and I'm just as scared as you are. But it's okay to go now. I'll be okay. We'll all be okay, I promise. I love you so much, Momma." Of course, through the tears, it wasn't as clear as it sounds now.
That afternoon, my momma finally let go.
It was scary to realize that my mom wasn't going to be a part of my life that I could see anymore. She would never sleep in her bed again, she would never make my breakfast again, and she would never be able to plant flowers in the spring again. She couldn't tell me goodnight, and she couldn't call me "Bubble." She couldn't tell me that I would be her precious baby always and forever. That doesn't mean I'm not.
Losing my mom was the hardest thing I ever had to do. It affects me every single day. There isn't one day that goes by that I don't think about her. In all honesty, there isn't an hour that I don't think of her. Some days are worse than others. On those days, I don't want to talk to anyone. I want to sit in my room and cry... I just want my mom back. It's hard to describe how it feels to lose someone I was so close to. It's like there are wounds on my heart that won't heal. Sometimes, they're really painful and infected. Other times, it's like they're tiny paper cuts. I try to remember that she would want me to be happy. I'm very lucky to have family and friends that are constantly there for support. If I didn't have them, I wouldn't have anything.
I'm still thankful for all of the things I'm blessed with. My family, friends, a home to live in, food, a warm bed... all of the things we try not to take advantage of. Most of all, I'm thankful to have the strongest, most amazing woman that ever walked on this earth watching over me. I hope that one day I can be just as amazing as she was... just as amazing as she is.
