Seattle 2

On my birthday last week, I went for a walk to make some phonecalls (I get little to no reception in my parents' neighborhood). As I walked back to my parents' home, I saw my mom driving toward me. She stopped the car, rolled down the window, and said she would be back soon. I said, "Do you want some company?" She paused and then said, "Oh what the hell. I'm going to get you a cake." And she gestured for me to join her.

I waited in the car while she picked up the cake (that way, I told her, it would still be something like a surprise). And then we went to another store where she got some balloons for me.

This was the first time that my mom had been out of the house (other than trips to the doctor) for over a month. It will likely be the last. It was the day before she went to the emergency room. The short trip exhausted her, but she carefully arranged the balloons above the dining table as soon as we got back. That night, she was in miserable pain, but she sat at the table and, bite by bite, silently, and maybe a little forcibly, indulged in a piece of cake.

It breaks my heart that what may have been one of her final free gestures was all for me. I kick myself when I remember that I thought, however briefly, that this birthday was anything like mediocre.

It hurts to be away from her right now. It's not difficult to move, do things, distract. These things come easily. They have to. But there's a heaviness inside of me that, though shaped differently--as sometimes guilt, sometimes pain, sadness, loneliness, helplessness--is always there. It serves as odd comfort. Something concrete. A reminder.

Rereading the posts I've written thus far about my mom, it strikes me that everything I wrote while I was with her is so visceral. Now, I'm forced to think abstractly about how she is. My aunt tells me she's well. The pain is under control. She's eating what she can. Her blood pressure is high, but not worrisome--same as her temperature. But I can't see her face or touch her skin. And I need to accept that that's precisely what's comforting for her right now--to keep her daughter from pain. And I do accept it. The evening when I talked to her on the phone and she told me, through her sobbing, somehow, about the lesions on her lungs, she also said, "You are my only daughter"--so sad for what she felt she was putting me through.

This process is forever, I think. Thank you, again, so much, for wanting to help me through it.