Love Is . . .

Chapter 11

        My mother is going to die. I walk through the next several months in a haze, not wanting to accept the reality of her diagnosis. As soon as my father came home that Saturday night, we took her to the hospital. Even then, my mother tried to protest that she would be fine. But as if on cue, she had another coughing spell that sobered up my father real fast. She has lung cancer. A type that spreads rapidly and has done so already beyond the ability to treat it. How long had she known something was wrong but chose to ignore it?

         Guilt washed over me for not noticing. Was I so caught up with my infatuation with Ben that I missed any sign that would've made me insist she see a doctor sooner? Then maybe it could've been treated. She was in the hospital for a week to get the initial tests done and be rehydrated. I stayed by her side as much as possible, but I eventually had to go home to see things. Bullet needed to be fed and watered. I needed to wash the clothes and dishes that had piled up in her absence. Daddy would stay home or away. He didn't stay at the hospital. He said he couldn't stand to see Momma that way. But I knew it was because he needed 'the drink,' and he couldn't have it there at the hospital.

         When I first came home to tidy up, Daddy just dropped me off and said he'd be home later and that I should not wait up. As I walked into the house, the silence overtook me. I was so used to the noise of Momma. I missed the sound of the washing machine, clanging of dishes being put up, and most of all, her humming, usually old church hymns. Momma was raised by her grandparents since her parents had died in a car accident. Her grandpa was a pastor of a small country church. I never really got to know them. Momma didn't talk about her past much. All I know is that Daddy came into her life, and they were married quickly and moved away with little to no contact with her family since. One day, I found Momma crying while sitting on her bed. She had a letter in her hand. When I asked what was wrong, she just held it out to me. It simply stated:

'Your grandmother has passed away. A heart attack. Thought you should know.' - C.T.

The initials stood for Clyde Thomas, her grandfather.

           I can't be here, I thought. I can't take the silence filled only with painful memories, so I ran. I went to the only place I thought would possibly bring me peace, our secret spot. It had been a long time since I had come here, but it was like the outside world with all its tragedies couldn't enter here. The creek still flowed, the sun still shined, and the flowers still bloomed. I lay prostrate on the soft green grass and cried. I had no one now, no one to go for comfort. I thought of Ben being just a little ways away, and that old yearning set in, but I immediately squashed it with the mental picture of him kissing whom I'd guess was Julia.

         He probably doesn't even know what has happened. he probably wouldn't even care. No, that's not fair. Ben has always been kind. He would be here for me if he knew, but I don't want to burden him anymore. I don't want his pity or make him feel obligated to be with me when he would rather be with her. Our lives have always been on different roads, and I see that now. We just crossed paths, is all. He will go his way, and I will go mine. As hard as that is, I must learn to accept it. As darkness was starting to creep in, I picked up the pieces of my broken heart and went home. I needed to prepare for Momma's return. She would receive hospice care at home per her request. 

            Life took on a different routine now. She was home, and I became her caretaker. I tried to soak in every moment I had left with her, but it all was so painful. It was such a slow death, taking her away in just bits and pieces. My anger toward God was full blast. How could He do this to her, to me? I quit saying prayers. I was done with Him. What good ever came from it anyway?

        One day toward the end, Momma held out her hand to me. I obediently went to her bed.

"Yes, Momma?"

"Will you read to me, Abby?"

"Of course. What would you like?" I asked. She pointed toward her Bible. I hesitated and then shook my head slowly. "I can't, Momma, not that," I say softly. Momma closed her eyes and struggled through a couple of breaths. When she opened them, she looked at me with such clear focus and said,

"Don't blame God, Abbygail. This is not His doing. He gives us the breath of life and the gift of choice. He wants us to choose Him, but He won't make us. God is love perfected. He loves us enough to let us go but longs for our return." She took another haggared breath. "He created this world, my body, but it runs on its own accord. The bad is NOT His doing or punishment. But if you just trust in Him, the eternal reward is greater than anything this world can offer." She fell back on the pillow exhausted from the effort it took to breathe and speak. I felt so ashamed. I wish I was more like Momma. Her life mirrored the sacrificial love of God in how she gave up everything to raise me and in trying to help Daddy, staying with him, loving him when he didn't deserve it. I can't imagine a life without her in it.