boy.”
*****
The months passed, and the holidays came and went. Mom got sicker and was unable to attend to any of her own needs without practically debilitating pain most days. The sicker she got, the more binges Dad went on. I did my best to avoid him because each time I came across him drunk and feeling sorry for himself, a hot rage burned inside my chest until I was almost afraid that I wouldn’t be able to control it. I spent most of my time—when I wasn’t at school—at home with Mom. Ariana did the same, to the chagrin of her own parents.
Mom’s treatments weren’t working. The tumor wasn’t responding to the chemo or the radiation and it was in a spot that was too dangerous to operate on. Her oncologist had upgraded the stage to IV and he’d told her the two years he’d given her when she was first diagnosed may have been “overly optimistic.” She was losing weight—it seemed—on a daily basis. She could hardly hold anything down any longer. They were now calling the care she received from the nurses “hospice care.” I wasn’t by any means a medical professional, but I’d done enough research on cancer since Mom got sick to know what that meant. It meant that her days were becoming more and more numbered.
I was with her the day the doctor had given her that bit of news. His words had splintered inside of me, causing real, physical pain in my chest. What he was telling us was that—for Mom—there would be no more of the walks in the park she loved. No more birthdays or parties at the club. This winter would be her last and her life from then on out would consist of four walls and lots of pain medication. As he spoke, Mom had listened quietly to him and when he finished she said, “Do you have a form I can sign for a Do Not Resuscitate order?”
I watched in private agony as my mother signed the paperwork that would tell her care providers that when it was time…she should just be let go. On the one hand, I understood her not wanting her chest pounded on and split open. On the other, I felt angry, mostly at myself. I hated that she was signing it because anything they did to her or for her would be extending her time on this earth just a little bit longer. I felt guilty about that, but it was so hard to be unselfish and understanding when it was your mother they were talking about dying.
Two days before Ariana’s seventeenth birthday, as I sat at Mom’s bedside and we both stared at a game show on television she said, “What are you doing to celebrate Ariana’s birthday?”
“I was hoping you wouldn’t mind if I cooked her dinner here?” Mom no longer made the trip downstairs to the dining room. She pretty much did everything from the master bedroom. Dad had begun sleeping on the couch when he was home, and only entering the bedroom for his brief daily visits with her.
“That’s a wonderful idea. You won’t burn down the kitchen, will you?”
I grinned at her and said, “I might set off the smoke alarm like some people I know.”
She laughed. She had made her first Thanksgiving dinner from scratch when I was about five years old. She hadn’t covered the turkey pan with a lid or foil and she’d cooked it too long. As the skin turned to ash and dripped down onto the bottom of the oven, it began to smoke. Every smoke detector downstairs began going off. I remember Dad teasing her about it, and when he saw that she had actual tears in her eyes, he’d taken her into his arms and told her how amazing she was. “ You don’t have to cook a perfect turkey. I’m actually glad that you didn’t.” That was when he was still more flesh and blood than he was alcohol.
Looking confused and with tears rolling down her cheeks, Mom asked him, “Why?”
Dad had kissed the side of her face and said, “Because then you would have been too perfect.” He’d taken us all out to dinner that night, and it was one of the best
*****
The months passed, and the holidays came and went. Mom got sicker and was unable to attend to any of her own needs without practically debilitating pain most days. The sicker she got, the more binges Dad went on. I did my best to avoid him because each time I came across him drunk and feeling sorry for himself, a hot rage burned inside my chest until I was almost afraid that I wouldn’t be able to control it. I spent most of my time—when I wasn’t at school—at home with Mom. Ariana did the same, to the chagrin of her own parents.
Mom’s treatments weren’t working. The tumor wasn’t responding to the chemo or the radiation and it was in a spot that was too dangerous to operate on. Her oncologist had upgraded the stage to IV and he’d told her the two years he’d given her when she was first diagnosed may have been “overly optimistic.” She was losing weight—it seemed—on a daily basis. She could hardly hold anything down any longer. They were now calling the care she received from the nurses “hospice care.” I wasn’t by any means a medical professional, but I’d done enough research on cancer since Mom got sick to know what that meant. It meant that her days were becoming more and more numbered.
I was with her the day the doctor had given her that bit of news. His words had splintered inside of me, causing real, physical pain in my chest. What he was telling us was that—for Mom—there would be no more of the walks in the park she loved. No more birthdays or parties at the club. This winter would be her last and her life from then on out would consist of four walls and lots of pain medication. As he spoke, Mom had listened quietly to him and when he finished she said, “Do you have a form I can sign for a Do Not Resuscitate order?”
I watched in private agony as my mother signed the paperwork that would tell her care providers that when it was time…she should just be let go. On the one hand, I understood her not wanting her chest pounded on and split open. On the other, I felt angry, mostly at myself. I hated that she was signing it because anything they did to her or for her would be extending her time on this earth just a little bit longer. I felt guilty about that, but it was so hard to be unselfish and understanding when it was your mother they were talking about dying.
Two days before Ariana’s seventeenth birthday, as I sat at Mom’s bedside and we both stared at a game show on television she said, “What are you doing to celebrate Ariana’s birthday?”
“I was hoping you wouldn’t mind if I cooked her dinner here?” Mom no longer made the trip downstairs to the dining room. She pretty much did everything from the master bedroom. Dad had begun sleeping on the couch when he was home, and only entering the bedroom for his brief daily visits with her.
“That’s a wonderful idea. You won’t burn down the kitchen, will you?”
I grinned at her and said, “I might set off the smoke alarm like some people I know.”
She laughed. She had made her first Thanksgiving dinner from scratch when I was about five years old. She hadn’t covered the turkey pan with a lid or foil and she’d cooked it too long. As the skin turned to ash and dripped down onto the bottom of the oven, it began to smoke. Every smoke detector downstairs began going off. I remember Dad teasing her about it, and when he saw that she had actual tears in her eyes, he’d taken her into his arms and told her how amazing she was. “ You don’t have to cook a perfect turkey. I’m actually glad that you didn’t.” That was when he was still more flesh and blood than he was alcohol.
Looking confused and with tears rolling down her cheeks, Mom asked him, “Why?”
Dad had kissed the side of her face and said, “Because then you would have been too perfect.” He’d taken us all out to dinner that night, and it was one of the best
Similar Books
