How is it the world seems to keep on turning when for one person it stands still?
It seems so strange to hear about snow days and sledding parties when my world is limited to this house and the slow creep of death. Outside the snow has fallen and the world seems fresh and new. Inside the air sits still and heavy.
We wait for the good moments… we soldier through the bad.
I lie in my mother’s bed, now stashed in the basement to make way for a hospital bed in her room. I put off going upstairs for fear of learning what news the night has brought.
When I do venture forth I find myself hesitating to go into what I find myself now mentally calling ‘the room.’ My whole purpose of being away from my kids is to be here now, to savour what little time I have, but the reality is crushing.
It somehow seems easier to sit in the kitchen lingering over a cup of coffee and let the hired caregiver take over.
It feels selfish… but it also feels necessary.
I have come to the conclusion that cancer is the manifestation of evil in this world. I have never believed in the devil but somehow now he… or it… is flexing its forked tail in the mutating cells of my mother’s brain and bones and organs.
Cancer zeros in on those things we hold most dear and strips them from us. With my father, it was his integrity and the sense of security he offered his family. In his final months we were warned the tumours could cause aggression and seizures and we lived with fear… fear of the man who gave us life and protected us. For my mother it has taken language. First it stripped her of the long passion of reading and now it is taking even the basic ability to tell us what she needs. Cancer is evil incarnate.
I have often found writing will bring me solace, that the words will bring me to some new understanding and perhaps bring peace. There is no peace this evening. There is only morphine for my mother and the quiet of the waiting for me.
I sit in the silent house knowing someday soon the silence will be permanent.