P's mom is ill. She's not doing very well. On top of having a rare blood disorder there's no cure for (I can't remember the name of it), she fell and broke her hip in the shower last weekend, and had to have surgery. She's on dialysis too. She's sick and no one in the family is holding out much hope that she'll be around for very much longer.
His family lives in Dallas. That's a long way from Seattle. He's torn between going down there now, or just waiting. For the inevitable.
All of this is bringing back painful memories for me. Of learning my own mom was sick. I was the one who took the phone call from the doctor when the test results came in. I had to tell her. It wrecked me.
Seeing her pace rapidly around the room. Talking to herself, crying. Saying, "I had so many plans. So much to do." I can still see her pacing, still hear her crying.
And then knowing what was going to happen, and being helpless to stop it. It all happening as if in a dream. Not seeming real. Yet being all too real.
My mom was just 50 years old. P's mom is nearly 70. And it just doesn't matter. A mama is never old enough to die. No child is ever old enough to lose his mama. Or her mama, in my case.
I'm remembering the feelings, and the fears. I can see in P's eyes that he's afraid. Afraid of losing her, afraid for his dad, who has to go on without her after over 50 years of marriage. Afraid because it puts him a rung higher on the ladder. All those fears, and the sadness.
I feel like crying for him, because he's not crying for himself - yet. He will though. I know. After I've gone to bed, and he's downstairs by himself. That's when he cries about things. He'll come to bed exhausted and weary, eyes swollen and nose stuffy. I've seen it before.
And I'll just hold him. That's all I can do. That's all he wants me to do, I think. He knows this is hitting very close to home for me too. I hope he doesn't think he has to edit his emotions for that reason.
Yes, I'm remembering very clearly the 11 days in 1994 that altered my life in ways I can't fully exlain. 11 days from diagnosis to the awful day I arrived at the hospital, only to be met by somber nurses who took me into a little room to tell me I was too late. She'd passed away shortly before I got there.
I'm remembering the drive back to the house, seeing my aunts and brothers all sitting in chairs outside, all crying.
My dad, inside. Dreariness. Sadness. Emptiness echoeing the hallways of the house.
My then 10 year old niece, climbing onto my lap, burying her face into my neck, asking why nobody told her Grandma was that sick. Why didn't we prepare her for this?
How could we? We couldn't even prepare ourselves. 11 days. It might as well have been a car accident. There was no preparing for it.
But we did get to say goodbye to her. When the doctor made his final call, saying we could expect anything anytime, we said goodbye to her. And then she was gone.
I want P to have the chance to say goodbye to his mama. I'm trying to talk him into going down there, before it's too late. I don't know what's making him resist, but he is. Maybe he's in denial? I honestly don't know. I can't really push too hard.
So we're just waiting. And praying she gets stronger, and somehow pulls through. But if she doesn't, we're getting prepared. Not that it will do any good when the time actually comes, but we're telling ourselves it will help.
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