"the hardest thing in this world is to live in it"
living with cancer
There is an emptiness inside me – a void that will never be filled. No one in your life will ever love you as your mother does. There is no love as pure, unconditional, and strong as a mother’s love. And I will never be loved that way again.
from Motherless Daughters: The Legacy of Loss by Hope Edelman
It occurred to me, just now, that I had not posted the poem I read at my mother’s funeral. So, I’ve fixed that:
Mother: A Cradle to Hold Me
by Maya Angelou, modified by Kelly Hills
Read at my mother’s funeral
10 November 2007
Anyhow, I keep up on research, for obvious personal interests. So today’s Match It for Pratchett, courtesy of Neil’s blog caught my eye, and I’m reprinting it here. (For those of you who missed it, Terry Pratchett has an early-onset form of Alzheimer’s, and it’s grim, grim news.)
Today, it was announced that Terry Pratchett has donated half a million pounds to Alzheimer’s research. Hearing that, it occurred to me that if half a million of us all donated a pound to Alzheimer’s research, we could match his donation and make it an even million.
So whaddaya say, guys? It’s a pound. That’s about 2 bucks US dollars, give or take a couple of (US) pennies. You can spare that much. Go here and make your donation. Tell them it’s in honour of Terry Pratchett.
Let’s do it!
Fastfwd‘s idea, gillo‘s image/icon, a fantastic idea. Pure money like this is important in medical research – it drives actual research, with actual results; we don’t have to worry about companies tweaking results because of the pharma-money backing, we don’t have to worry as much about trial results influenced by needing to please shareholders, there are no strings attached – how research should always be conducted, in an ideal world we’ll probably never live in. So contribute a couple of bucks, wouldja? It just might make a difference in someone’s life – might even be mine.
It’s not like I really needed another reason to like David Cook, but yesterday morning’s Idol recap from a Tampa affiliate actually might send me over the voting edge on America, for the first time ever.
Basic rundown for those who don’t want to watch (although you should, because it really is sweet): the person doing the wrap up was in Hollywood last week for the Fox meet’n’greet, and met Cook. While talking, he explained to Cook that his teenage daughter, Lindsey, was a huge fan. He also told him how much it meant that she got excited about the show right now, because she was diagnosed with leukemia on Christmas day. So Cook stops what he’s doing, and asks for the guy’s cell phone so he can call her and say hello.
Score one massive amount of goodwill with me.
But it doesn’t stop there. The announcer also told him about the orange bracelets her friends and family wear, with the motto Lindsey uses to get through chemo, and her name. Cook asked if he could have one, promising to wear it on the show this week, and the announcer gave him the one off his wrist.
Did he wear it? Yep. At several points during Eleanor Rigby, his jacket pulls back and you can see the bracelet. Lindsey apparently went wild through the roof, and she and her father voted a million times each.
After that, so will I.
Apparently DCook’s older brother Adam has been battling cancer (from the sounds of it, leukemia) for a while, too. It’s a big and strange club of solidarity to be initiated into.
Edited to change the few details I got wrong, per the comment below. Thanks for the clarification!
I had several more notebook entries from early November that I had not typed up – they got lost in the shuffle of the funeral and relatives and shock. They’ve been hanging over me like a shadow since I returned to Albany, the quiet presence just there, waiting. Leading me to wonder how long it would be, would I even be able to look at what I wrote, would I just ignore it?
Ignoring it won’t make it go away, and I have a narrative to finish – at least, to finish this portion of it.
Cue Scene, Stepping Sideways
posted November 5th, 2007 – around 4:30am
I’ve stepped sideways, an aware out of body experience. I’m still aware, still feeling the tears trickle down my face silently, but I see the scene as though it were a movie. I think the disconnect came from the music – we’ve been playing James Gallway since the hospice nurse left.
I got up off the couch a few minutes go, my attempt at a nap dissolving into hopeless failure. I grab my soda, book, and blanket. Cue scene: click to continue reading
photograph, all I’ve got is a photograph, and it’s not enough
posted November 5th, 2007 – around 4:45am
I wish I could take a picture of what I see before me. It’s an oddly beautiful image, and one I would love to keep external to my mind, but I’m pretty sure my sister would kill me if I even tried. She is sitting in front of the end table holding medicine and supplies, reading a pamphlet the chaplain left for us. The lamp on the table is on, catching on the edges of her glasses and eyes as she looks from pamphlet to Mom and back again.click to continue reading
6:15 AM
posted November 5th, 2007 – around 11am
The rapid flight of feet on stairs
should have pulled me out of sleep
But I’m already awake,
Woken by a touch across my forehead,
fingers tracing through my hair
mimicing my movements yesterday
The pressing against my forehead of lips
I wake to brush my sister away
To hear the rapid flight of her feet up the stairs
And my heart broken open,
aching with the words I know she’s going to say
“She’s gone.”
6:45 AM
posted November 5th, 2007 – around 11:30am
There is a difference in the room,
A silence.
A body.
The body of my mother.
Her hands are still warm.
Rigor mortis has not yet stiffened them,
they bend into my hands.
Her cheeks still slightly flushed
But there is no mistaking – she is gone.
Finally, I can do what I have wanted to do for a week.
I climb into bed with my mother,
laying my head against her shoulder,
gripping her hand tightly in my own.
It would be so easy to think she was still alive,
still there,
about to shift to put her arms around me.
But her chest no longer rises in time with my own,
And her heart no longer flutters like a tiny bird
in a cage made of bone.
I surprise myself by not crying.
I just lay there quietly,
with Mom
It’s only when I try to speak that the tears come.
I lean up to press my cheek against hers
and whisper
Goodbye, Mommy.
Goodbye.
9:00 AM
posted November 5th, 2007 – around 11:45am
We have showered, a matter of needing to be clean for Tracy, a small part of ritual for me.
I’ve picked out long sleeves, white satin, embroidered and white for her top.
Silken light blue pants.
A surprise greets us down in the sickroom.
Mom’s face has changed – her mouth is no longer hanging open, refusing to close. Instead, she has a smile, a beautiful smile, and an amazing, serene expression.
The final proof we needed – she has gone some place else. Better.
Tracy and I talk softly to her, telling her what we’re doing.
She’s cold.
She is so cold.
click here to continue reading
connection
posted November 5th, 2007 – around 11:50am
I have her earrings on now – three pearls embracing a diamond.
I have on her jade and gold Kuan Yin.
Hers.
Mine.
10:22 AM
posted November 5th, 2007 – around 12:00pm
The morgue has come, my mother’s body gone.
