ink & illness

Mom

Dear Mom,

You once told me, "Always reach for the stars, and never lose hope." I think about that a lot, not losing hope. It's really hard not to when everyone views you as a ticking time bomb. Waiting for your countdown to go off and destroy everything around you. I see the way you and dad look at each other, eyes glossy and tired, every time I'm in pain, or crying, or just breathing. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I'm sick and won't get better. I'm sorry that you'll have to carry an indescribable, unnamable pain when I'm gone. I'm sorry that you didn't get to experience motherhood the way you wanted, the way you deserve. I'm sorry that I'll be your first and last child. I'm sorry that you won't get to see me get married, that I can't make you a grandmother. I know it's not my fault, how could I not, when I get told constantly "I don't deserve this" and "It's not my fault." I know it's not my fault, but I'm still sorry. I know it's not my fault and I don't deserve this, but you don't deserve to see my pain and suffering. You don't deserve this.

Writing this letter is arguably one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. I think it's so hard because I'm finally accepting that this is my goodbye. I don't know how much longer I have left, but I know it's not long. But, I guess this is, in a way, good for me. It's forcing me to confront what I've been ignoring for the last 10 years. I remember the day I was diagnosed. It was three weeks after I had turned 6. You had thrown me a big party and all my friends came over. We ate cake and danced and jumped in a bouncy castle for hours. I remember hugging you so tight that night, thanking you over and over again for the best day of my life. It wasn't even a week later when we went to the ER for the first time.

I remember how we spent those three weeks in and out of different hospitals and clinics, looking for some kind of explanation. I remember the way you screamed when the doctor finally told you what was wrong with me. I remember the way dad held you as you sobbed and pleaded with God for it not to be true. I remember staring at the CT scan, a mass just noticeable for someone to see. I remember seeing dad cry for the first time. I remember everything. Lung cancer. Lung Adenocarcinoma, to be specific, the most common type. The doctor rambled on as you cried; somewhat curable, clinical trial, chemotherapy; all you heard was cancer.

I remember the following weeks spent between the hospital and house as they prepped me for a clinical treatment trial. I remember watching as you and dad tried to act like everything was normal, but I heard you sob at night and I watched dad pray from the crack in your bedroom door. He never did that before. I remember the first chemo treatment. It didn't hurt, but you held my hand the whole time, telling me it was going to be okay and that I was going to get better. I still don't know if you were trying to convince me or you. What did hurt were the days after. I felt sick and weak and helpless, and that was only the start. I remember how the doctor said it was working after the first few weeks, that if we kept going I had a high chance of being able to get surgery and have it removed completely. I remember you cried tears of joy that night at the dinner table, our hands linked, as you prayed and asked God to watch over me during the last of the treatment. I remember how hopeful you were, that you truly believed it was going to be over. I remember hoping it was over too.

Six weeks, that's all we got after the surgery, six weeks of recovery and normalcy. The cells reappeared. It came back six times stronger. I remember your face when the doctor said I would be lucky to live 5 more years, and that was only with treatment. More chemo, which meant more nausea, fatigue, hair loss, pain. I was 6, but I knew we didn't really have a choice when they offered us one; chemo and possibly have 5 years at most or no treatment and live every moment not knowing when it would be my last. We chose chemo. I remember how you asked me what I wanted to do, you were giving me the choice, but I saw the hope in your eyes. The hope, that if I couldn't live a full life then maybe I could at least have 5 more years. The hope that you could have 5 more years with me and not take a single moment for granted knowing what was around the corner. So of course, I picked chemo. I was 6, and knew that I couldn't leave you yet. I was 6, and spent weeks in hospital rooms watching the IV drip, holding your hand as you slept on a chair next to me. I was 6, and fully prepared to die any day.

When I made it past the 5-year mark, the doctors were shocked, they weren't prepared for me to live past that. Less than 50% do, yet I was part of that 50%. I saw the hope it gave you, and that gave me some too. I was living on borrowed time after that, everyone was ready for me to go at any moment. I guess I still am living on borrowed time, but I couldn't be more grateful for it. I don't know if it was your nightly begging and hoping for it to go away, or my sheer stubbornness to not let go, or dad with his new-found faith that has brought me this far. Whatever it was, it gave us more time, and that is enough for me. I love you so much, and I always will. No matter where I am, I will never stop loving you mom. You have filled me with nothing but love and hope and kindness. I cannot, will not, ever be able to thank you enough for being my mother. I don't know what will happen to me after I leave, but I do know that my body will be left behind and buried and mourned and cried over. I do know that no matter what happens after, I will always watch over you and dad. This is me, reaching for the stars and not losing hope. I will wait for you. I will find you in every lifetime. I will always love you with all of my heart.

- Your Angel Baby