Thursday, April 05, 2007

Time knows your done

I'm an idiot. Seriously. Who else, but me, uses their fingers to count out six months? Most could do the math in their head. Not me. I am an idiot. Which is why I sat, hands under the table, and counted on my fingers the six months Mom had left to live.

March. That was the answer. Not that it mattered. Mom died in October, six weeks after she told me she had six months. Not that that matters. Six week. Six months. Only looking back do you get an understanding of what happened and why.

I certainly didn't have a clue then. I suck in real time.

Which is why I sat in awkward silence after Mom told me her dire prognosis. Life isn't like TV or the movies. There was no sad music. No fade to black. We didn't cut to commercial. I just sat there, at that table, which incredulously was the same from my youth.

I had seen Mom smoke countless cigarettes at that table. It was (and is) one of the few tangible things that remain from my childhood home. Physical proof of a place that no longer exists, except in memory. Since my childhood that table has been in El Paso, TX. Jackson, TN. Birmingham, AL. Kingwood, TX. Finally ending up in Humble, TX, as the setting where I learned that lung cancer was going to kill my Mom. Fuck me. Irony.

I don't think Mom was bothered by my silence. She was trying to get from the kitchen, where she had been looking through a myriad of pill bottles, to the table. At that point, the cancer was in her bones. Her ischium. That's a fancy way of saying ass bone. The lesion on her ischium was where her hamstring attached. That made walking painful, and limited her range of motion. It was so limited that she had to use a walker. A week or so later she'd be in a wheelchair. A few weeks after that, well, she was dead.

I didn't know any of that then though. I just wanted to help her, literally, get to the table. She didn't like help with the walker. It pissed her off. I guess it affirmed her worse fears, and she knew in her heart there would soon come a time when she couldn't refuse help. For now, which was then, she didn't want or need it.

You would think that her slow pace would give me enough time to figure out what to say. It did not. Even now, with hindsight, I'm not sure what you should say to that kind of news. I knew enough, even then, to not ask inane questions. What good was asking if she was sure, or had a second opinion. That would only cause her to try and reassure me, when she was the one living with the fact that she had six months left to live. I would not, I did not, do that to her. I just sat in silence, searching for the right thing to say.

It never came. Not that it mattered, Mom knew what she wanted to say, when she finally arrived at the table. She wanted to apologize. Seriously. She took my hand, and said she was sorry that she was putting me, Dad, all of us through this. She blamed herself for smoking so many years, not quitting sooner. She believed she had done this to herself, and in doing that, caused her family a great deal of pain, and possible hardship. Not only emotional, also financial. Dying of cancer in our fucked up medical system isn't cheap. Finally, fighting hard to hold back the tears that were welling in her eyes, she told me she was the most sorry that she would not be around to see the Boy(s) grow.

Then we cried.

Not for long though. Soon enough Pops, My Lovely Bride, and the Boy(s) returned from buying donuts which we all ate as a family at that damn table.

Last week, I was cleaning up my work email when I stumbled upon a ghost. An email from my Mom. I had to force myself not to hit reply. As if. The email, which I have posted below, unedited, was written six months to the day before her 65 birthday. She was dead a week later. Rereading it, I wonder if Mom had any idea that she truly had six months to live when she wrote it? Did she know? Even if, did it matter?
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From: Joyce Tinsley
Date: Mon, 10 Apr 2006 18:06:57 -0500
Subject: Hi...Ethan and Wyatt

Stuart, got you phone call yesterday, anyway, didn't return it figured you was busy, said you get back later. I have been doing OK, took chemo tues, after you guys left, did miss all the action and going on with the boys, was fun to have them for a few days, hope they had a good time and maybe we can do this in the summer when they get out of school. Love you guys and Happy Easter

Ethan & Wyatt;

Ethan granny loves you and Wyatt, was so fun to have you both stay with granny and pops while mom and daddy went on honeymoon, Granny and pops know you will have fun on Easter, hope you and Wyatt have fun hunting easter eags and seeing the easter bunny. E-mail granny, Lots of hugs and kisses and our love....granny and pops

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Even though I'd like nothing better than to stick my foot up the ass of Kübler or Ross, I think she was correct. Nearly six months after Mom died, I've finally hit stage five. Not that it makes it any easier. Just different.

This, Dear Reader, is my last recount of your Granny's demise. I have other stories, but for now, they are mine alone. In the Buck Rogers future, if you want to hear them (God willing and knocking on wood,) I will tell you. Face to face.

Hopefully then, I won't be such an idiot. Or at least, not suck as hard in real time.

Until I BLOG again...And in the Satellite Rides a Star.

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