44
My mother was 44 when she was diagnosed with a slow death.
They told her she had five years maybe, and then she took those years and stretched them with her strong arms into 18 years, but those 18 years were filled with doctors appointments and poisons and medicines and surgeries and long recoveries and support groups and so much monitoring and measuring and dry, cracking skin and scars.
She was a fighter.
But when my mom was 44, she was given a prognosis, told she had about five years to live. Then one of her breasts was cut off her body, making her even more unbalanced.
When my mom was 44, her hair fell out in the shower. Large clumps of hair fell down her body and down the drain, along with her tears. Her hair (and head) was a hatchet job.
When my mom was 44, her body turned against her. Then she turned against us.
I think she had already been turning against us, if I am honest.
Cancer may have been her out.
When my mom was 44, she took off. She no longer wanted to be a mom. She looked at death and it made her run away from us.
I am 44.
My husband was 44 when he took his own life.
He had celebrated his birthday in April by leaving the house and filling his body with as much alcohol as it would take, and putting our family money on a poker table in large piles of colored chips, as if we didn't have two children in daycare, and letting it ride. I heard him stumbling around in our basement at 5 am, I found him in our basement, holding on to the poles to keep his balance. And then he locked himself in the tiny blue tiled downstairs bathroom and passed out on the floor, barely breathing, for 10 hours. I monitored him through the tiny window on our porch to make sure he was alive on his birthday.
That was his celebration.
It was similar to many other days, just more.
The doctors didn't give him a prognosis because he never went to see the doctors.
I gave him a prognosis.
When he was conscious enough to stand, I told him I couldn't anymore.
I told him I couldn't be his wife through a locked door.
That his absence was destroying me, and his presence was a danger to our children.
I begged him to get help.
Three months later he was dead. He took off. He no longer wanted to be a dad. He looked at death and it made him run away from them.
I am 44.
I am 44, and I am here.
I am 44, and all I want, more than anything, is to get safely to 45.
They told her she had five years maybe, and then she took those years and stretched them with her strong arms into 18 years, but those 18 years were filled with doctors appointments and poisons and medicines and surgeries and long recoveries and support groups and so much monitoring and measuring and dry, cracking skin and scars.
She was a fighter.
But when my mom was 44, she was given a prognosis, told she had about five years to live. Then one of her breasts was cut off her body, making her even more unbalanced.
When my mom was 44, her hair fell out in the shower. Large clumps of hair fell down her body and down the drain, along with her tears. Her hair (and head) was a hatchet job.
When my mom was 44, her body turned against her. Then she turned against us.
I think she had already been turning against us, if I am honest.
Cancer may have been her out.
When my mom was 44, she took off. She no longer wanted to be a mom. She looked at death and it made her run away from us.
I am 44.
My husband was 44 when he took his own life.
He had celebrated his birthday in April by leaving the house and filling his body with as much alcohol as it would take, and putting our family money on a poker table in large piles of colored chips, as if we didn't have two children in daycare, and letting it ride. I heard him stumbling around in our basement at 5 am, I found him in our basement, holding on to the poles to keep his balance. And then he locked himself in the tiny blue tiled downstairs bathroom and passed out on the floor, barely breathing, for 10 hours. I monitored him through the tiny window on our porch to make sure he was alive on his birthday.
That was his celebration.
It was similar to many other days, just more.
The doctors didn't give him a prognosis because he never went to see the doctors.
I gave him a prognosis.
When he was conscious enough to stand, I told him I couldn't anymore.
I told him I couldn't be his wife through a locked door.
That his absence was destroying me, and his presence was a danger to our children.
I begged him to get help.
Three months later he was dead. He took off. He no longer wanted to be a dad. He looked at death and it made him run away from them.
I am 44.
I am 44, and I am here.
I am 44, and all I want, more than anything, is to get safely to 45.
https://youtu.be/6fnNsKmpMQU
ReplyDeleteWatch, listen, dance...
I'm sorry that you've had to deal with so much pain, but I'm glad for the obvious joy you share with your kids. You are a wonderful mother, and you're an inspiration.
ReplyDeleteYours has been a horrific road. Your rearview mirror. Look through the windshield now. Future. Going forward. Glance back once in a while if only to validate your progress towards your personal 45 and beyond.
ReplyDeleteOne day at a time. 😁
ReplyDeleteI am 46. My mother was diagnosed at 40 and gone by 51. It was in her sinuses at first, then everywhere. My sister was next. She was 38 with twin babies and a psychotic husband. She only got ten months. I was gifted life, but the price was my breasts. It was an easy bill to pay. Today I fought and won temporary custody of those baby twins, now 5. Their dad is too drunk and drugged to feed them or remember they need love. They will join our family until he can pull together this life, but I lost faith in things like this long ago.
ReplyDeletePain like ours is unrelenting. Others watch it like movies they can turn away from when it gets too scary or close. The isolation can be crushing. I felt crushed by it today. Then I stumbled upon your twitter (thanks to a shared distaste for being called a suburban housewife) and found your writing.
Thank you. I cannot tell you how much I needed your words tonight.
@jmgwrites