Blog Post #2: Monologue

If you asked someone what the worst day of their life was, you’d probably get an answer consisting of something rather embarrassing and, in some ways, trivial. When I think about the worst day of my life, I think all the way back to 2007. A regular school day attended by little 13 year old me. Walking home six blocks with a ten pound book-bag on my back and stressing out over the tons of homework due by tomorrow was actually pretty normal for me. Dragging myself up those stairs, fumbling with the keys, and struggling to open the door was usually the highlight of my day. Usually. That day I walked through the door and everything seemed normal, except for the quietude that seemed to pervade the entire two story house. My mom was seated at the computer desk, which wasn’t out of the ordinary. She turned towards me and when I seen her face was red like a tomato, I knew she was crying. And then she said it. She told me the doctor called and said she was showing early signs of cancer. My Mom would always get tested for cancer but it would always come back negative and now all of a sudden it was detected. I couldn’t believe it and I felt like I was going to cry. I never liked crying in front of people, even at a time like this, so I placed my book-bag on the floor where I usually put it and went upstairs to my room. On my way up the stairs I kept fighting back the tears until I got to my room. If I had known then what I know now, I wouldn’t have rushed inside with such internal excitement. I would’ve waited outside that door a little longer. To take a moment to actually appreciate that life. That life in which the only worries I burdened myself with were negligible. I sat on my bed and literally broke down. I cried because my Mom was diagnosed with cancer; an incurable disease, a direct notion of death. I cried because my life would never be the same. I cried because in that moment I knew my time with her, here in this world, was limited. Will she be there when I get married? Have kids? Will my children have a grandmother? At the time, all I could think of was that my mom was going to die. Plain and simple. It wasn’t until 2008 that my mother was officially diagnosed with a slow growing multiple myeloma cancer, which is basically a cancer that attacks the bone marrow.

Now, six years later, my mother is still very much alive and, thank god, still hasn’t had to go for any chemotherapy as her blood levels seem to be at a decent range. Aside from the apparent exhaustion and tiredness, she’s actually doing quite fine for the time being. However, I know this is only temporary. There’s only a handful of people who actually know about this, so it’s actually quite strange of me to share this story with everyone. I don’t talk about it very often, I don’t even think about it very often, therefore I don’t cry about it very often. But when I do think about it, when I do cry, I don’t cry because my mother is going to die. I cry because I know how my mother is going to die. My mother is going to die an agonizing death. She is going to live a life consisting of mostly hospital visits where she will undergo treatments which will only further prolong her inevitable demise. Right before my very eyes, she will wither away until there is nothing left of her. I know this. And I don’t know how to prepare for that. I don’t think there is a way to prepare for something like that. I’ve never lost a loved one. Someone who I truly love and care about; who has cared for me. I don’t know what that’s like. And when the time comes, I don’t know how I’m going to deal with that.