Friday, July 8, 2011

20 days 'til 45 (Later than my usual late)

Eight years ago, my mom called me and said, "You're going to have to be my brave girl now. I have breast cancer. Everything is going to be fine." With those words, I lost 30 years.

I remember asking questions and finding out what was going to happen next, but remaining relatively calm. My roommate Andrea walked into the apartment during that conversation, and I grabbed her arm as she passed me. We had not been living together very long and we were still getting to know each other, so I think I kind of shocked her by holding on to her so tightly while my mother talked on the other end of the phone. When I hung up the phone, I told Andrea that my mom had cancer. She immediately dropped down in front of me and prayed with me. That's who she is. My rock when I need her. She helped me through all of the ups and down that a person experiences when she learns that her foundation might be crumbling.

My mom is my foundation. She raised my brother and me by herself, making sure we had just what we needed. We did not have much money, but you never would have known it. We always had lots of gifts under the Christmas tree and plenty of food on the table. Once, she was laid off from her job. She told us not to worry; the lord would provide. We spent that week as if our mom was on vacation: walking to the store--we did not have a car--playing games, and just having fun. By the end of the week, she was offered a job at the same place--for less money, but still, it was enough. Now, she needed me and I did not know if I could do it.

I drove to Dallas the next day to see her. Nothing was going to happen for a while, but I still needed to see her. It was Wednesday and we went to prayer meeting at church that night. During altar call, the minister asked if there was anyone suffering out there, was someone in need of prayer. Please come and tell us so we can pray for you. I looked at my mom, wondering if she would walk down that aisle. She said to me, "I don't want to call attention to myself. I'll tell people later." That's who she is--strong and humble.

On the day of her surgery, we sat in the waiting room--Mom, Leroy, and I. Our small family was used to doing things alone, away from our huge, extended family. Others were coming later, but it was just us for the moment. Mom had to fill out lots of forms, one of them was a form to tell the doctors what to do just in case something went wrong. Mom tried to tell us what she wanted; she did not come right out and say it. She looked at me and said, "I know you know what I want and that you will tell them if the time comes." I knew and I would do it if necessary. Please, God, don't make it necessary.
My mom, prepped for surgery, looked both young and old. After I prayed with her, she said that I had really grown up. At 36, I had never felt more like a little girl than I did at that moment. Helpless, fearful, and a little angry. My wonderful, faithful, mother had to go through this when there were people who never had any troubles. I'll admit it; I was feeling pretty sorry for myself, too. I still needed her to be mama.

After surgery, I slept in her hospital room overnight, listening for her breathing, staring at her face, searching for signs of pain. Every little frown was like a prick in my heart. I wanted this to be over for her. The next day, the nurse showed me how to make her breathe with the breathing machine, how and when to clear the drains from her surgery, and how to record data about what I saw. I get squeamish just looking at pictures with blood. But this was my mom, and she needed me. I did it without a second thought.

For about three days until I returned to Austin, I took care of my mother. My foundation. I did what I never thought I could do because she was my mother.

Mom has been cancer-free for the last 8 years. We talk on the phone once a week. She is who I want to be when I finally grow up.

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