You never really stop mourning
sadI might post more on this later in the month, since this is the time of year for it.
On the morning of December 31, 1994, we woke up to discover that my mother had died during the night. She may have rolled over and dislodged the oxygen tube, but it was approaching her time in any case. The night before, she had finished correcting the last of her student's papers -- she'd had to stop teaching around the end of November, but she wanted to do that much before she died. She was in a great deal of pain, and, those last two days, taking enough morphine that she didn't always seem to know where she was.
This was brought to my mind this time by a discussion of some listee family member's diagnosis of breast cancer and all of the very supportive messages telling her that people recover, that there is so much that can be done these days, that they knew a survivor. I never respond to those posts. Nobody wants to hear that my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer, and they gave her a mastectomy, and tried chemo therapy twice, and we did everything we could and she died anyway. Everyone in such a situation has my unspoken support, but it will always stay unspoken, because I do not think I can express it without adding my pain to theirs, and they don't need any more pain. It's very hard to reassure someone that everything will be ok when you know all too well that it might not be.
I think cancer is one of the most horrible plagues on earth, topped only by AIDS. I would happily deify anyone who found a real cure for it.
We all just have to light candles against the darkness and do what we can to get by, I think.
I want to give you those hugs and without sharing any of the pain, tell you something of the perspective I bring to those hugs...
My ex-hub is still dealing with the leukemia which we have thought was in complete remission twice already thanks to the bone marrow transplant and then an experimental chemo treatment which is now considered the "silver bullet" for his type of leukemia. He's going to have a stem cell infusion next, and if that doesn't knock it, he's facing a second bone marrow transplant. Luckily his brother is a match, so they have a ready donor... but the whole thing is like a really horrid rollercoaster, and one which I am now only peripherally riding on, since he is now his own primary caregiver and paperwork-deal-with-er, along with his new girlfriend. I'm just another friend, at this point, although we have all this shared history.
{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{even more hugs}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}
It's difficult to carry both hope and practicality within you sometimes, and sharing both with others is even more difficult.
"When the safety and well being of another person is more important to you than your own, then the state of love exists." --Heinlein
My sympathy, support, crying shoulder, and love goes out to you, and everyone with the pain you feel, always.
--Andy
tjekanefir
I know there's a lot of pain and sadness in what you said, but nevertheless it was beautifully said. And you're right - we never really do stop grieving, though it may ebb and flow...
(Anonymous)
You just don't say to people, "Oh, yes, my father had that same operation, and two days later HE DIED."
It sucks.
I'm so sorry, for you, and for me, and for everyone who's lost someone, which eventually will be all of us.
Love, Katja
http://brokenclay.org/journal/
I... understand. Five years, three months, and eight days ago- and she was technically in remission from metastatic breast cancer. To this day, I'm not sure whether it makes it better or worse.
There's always the desire- pressure, rather- to reassure, but it's hard when you know better. After all, when you're denied a miracle (or have one thrown back in your face), it's hard to provide false comfort. I seem to end up saying the usual empty expected things and pray that they don't come bleed all over me because "I _understand_." I feel like a horrible person, but I just can't. (Anything and everything else I'll accept with open arms.) Afterward, G-d forbid, I can talk to them. Because then _they_ understand.
Sorry. I'm not sure what my point originally was. I certainly didn't mean to bleed or, well, ooze twitchily in your general direction, but... well, you understand.
*hugs*