Break me

The most terrible day of my life

December 7, 2013

 Am I ready for this? NO. Absolutely not.

Just looking at the day makes me shudder. December seventh. Bells go ringing, and lights go blinking.

Fun fact about the day. Did you know that today is also Pearl Harbor Day?

Well, that's not a fun fact, idiot. That's just lame and depressing. I didn't know you died on Pearl Harbor Day until 11th grade when I was sitting in American History and that date came up and I felt myself go pale. Then I realized my teacher wasn't talking about you at all.

The world doesn't revolve around you.

So cool. You died on Pearl Harbor Day, one of the worst days in history. I am not kidding when I say the day you died was the worst day in the world. It was the worst day of my life. The WORST. I can't imagine how anything can get worse than that. Well, maybe things could be worse, but as far as I'm concerned, it was a nightmare.

Deep breath. I'm going to tell you everything about the worst day of my life.

Deep breath. Breathe deeply. I can do this. I should have done this a long time ago.

I'm going to start by admitting that I was looking forward to this day. Crazy right?

I was looking forward to it because December 7th, 2008 was a Sunday. And you were too sick to go to church anymore, so you didn't go. You would have one of your kids stay home to take care of you, and december seventh was my day to stay with you. I was looking forward to it because I was looking forward to being with you.

 I'm sorry that I was looking forward to it. I'm really sorry.

Usually I sleep in on weekends. But I remember that terrible morning, my sister woke me up at 3:30. In the morning.

It was all dark outside, and I remember hearing my older sister saying to one of my other sisters "MOMMY THINKS SHE'S DYING."

Me and all of my sisters slept in the same room then because you didn't want any of us sleeping downstairs. Mom thinks she's dying? What? Oh no oh no that can't be right. She's just trying to scare us. Wake up. Wake up. WAKE UP.

I tore myself out of my precious sleep. I was certain that I must have heard wrong. There was no way for you to know if you were dying.

The room was deserted before I could find my glasses. Oh well did I really need them? The answer was no. You were more important. What time is it? It was 3:35.

The hallway light was on. You were in the bathroom with dad, shaking and struggling just to stand.

You had just thrown up all over the bathroom, and it looked like you had tried to take a shower but never made it. You didn't even have your clothes on, and you looked a mess.

Your arms and legs were so scrawny. And your gut was bulging from the cancer. And you were crying and coughing. You had puke dried on your skin. And I thought I had never seen my mom look like such a mess.

Dad was trying to clean up the mess, and I tried to help too. I wiped off the dried puke, and I got you your fluffy pink bathrobe so you weren't naked.

Then I helped you into the living room where you collapsed in the old brown lazy-boy and coughed some more. I hate that chair so much.

"Mom what is this? You really don't think you're dying, do you?"

"Yeah I do." You managed.

"Mom, don't say that. You know better. You're going to live." Please don't say that. Please please. I need you not to say that. Please, never say you are dying.