Mom

My Mama died, and I’m terribly fucking sad about it. (You have to write the truth) Think I’m writing a series of these blog posts as a meditation on loss, grief, and returning back to passion and life. It’s one of the few things on my mind.  This is the first one. You write what you know, right?

It’s a terrible thing to lose a parent. It feels fucking awful. It’s also apparent that “normal people” aren’t sure how to approach how to go about talking to someone who’s experienced that kind of loss. Especially if you’re still a young(er) person. These are the lines I must walk now. 

Eight days ago, I lost my mom due to brain cancer. This was after being diagnosed with lung cancer in September and fought hard with it for nearly nine months before the cancer spread to her brain and passing away in the night on May 16th. It was 11:33 PM when she took her final breath. She was 65. Far too young to be losing any parent. Any age will seem too young because everyone wants their parent to be there. You always want your parents to be there. But alas, life is cruel and you’d be spending your whole life trying to understand it and never getting any answers for the questions you have. With it, Death claims us all in the end. 

Fuck Death. I’m here to talk about something cooler: My Mama.

I love my mom. She was truly one of the most selfless people in my life (matched only with my dad) and would’ve done anything for her children if it meant their happiness and their safety was assured. She loved being a mom. She has a kind soul and always basked in the good times. I swear, she had one of the biggest smiles that would melt any negative feelings away. She loved having a big family and having a loud house full of laughter, sharing stories, and happy people. 

She made me laugh sometimes. She would be baffled at the artistic nature of myself, my brothers Blaize and Bryce, and my sister Chellie. I would point to all the creative effort she would put into decorating for Halloween, Christmas… practically every holiday, doing neat things around the house, cooking food as an art itself, and thinking of creative gifts to give to people. She would play music constantly (and loudly!) She would recommend movies and would watch them nearly all the time. “We got it from you, Ma!” I would say. She would just laugh it off. She built a house of art and didn’t even understand how it opened the minds of her kids. Any house she was in was a home. She gave it life. 

I owe everything inside me that’s creative to her as she gave me permission to do so since I could remember. She nurtured the curiosity and the artistic that which gives much of life meaning, and for that I owe her everything, not EVEN touching on the fact that she fed us everyday, making sure we got to school, took care of us when we were sick, comforted us when we were sad, talked us back up when we were down. All of her six children. The lady was Wonder Woman, I tell you. What she and my dad managed to do with raising me and my five siblings is nothing short of worthy of sainthood.

For my whole life I would feel this guilt. I felt I needed to owe them back for what my mom and dad had done for me. It was a debt that could not be paid back, even if I was a billionaire. And it was a debt that was never put upon me in the first place. She did it because she loved me. My dad did it because he loved me. Love isn’t meant to be paid back, it’s meant to be given freely and plentifully. 

I’ll also talk about how much of a tough cookie my mom was. With her diagnosis, she wasn’t afraid. In fact she wanted to skip chemo entirely as to not go through with that burden. She only did it to make it through the holidays (She favorite time of year) and to do it for the rest of the family as she had a chance to beat it. So she did. Never in my life could I muster up that bravery or have that much confidence in my faith to tell Death itself to go kick rocks. Goddamn, my mom was hardcore.

Then came April and they got the news that the cancer returned to her brain in a much more aggressive manner. Again she had a chance of surviving, but what was the quality of life there? Not great. She pursued not to get more treatment. She was tired. She wanted some Perkins pancakes, so she did. And still, she was not afraid to die. She never was. She truly didn't give a fuck. She was looking forward to seeing her parents again. She wanted to see my brother again. She wanted the suffering to stop. 

The times I’d talk to her were pretty short, yet meaningful. I could barely talk to her without crying. I’m a big mama’s boy so it was difficult. She assured me it was fine and that she would see me again. I believed her. I still do. I could’ve written a book series on how much she meant to me, but I kept it simple. Everyday I could, I’d say, “Thank you for being my mom. I love you. Good night.” 

Then came the last day. We were told she wouldn’t make it through the night. I said what I needed to say (more longformed this time as I wouldn’t have another chance ever again.) I won’t write it here. Some things have to be private, you know? 

Then the family came and we all were around her as she had her last breaths as we told her how much we loved her. Thank you for everything, Mama. I love you. Then she was gone. This beautiful person was now gone. What a perfect ending though, right? Surrounded by your loved ones and you go peacefully in your sleep? It’s the ending all of us strive for. She deserved that. 

Every last second. 

It’s been hard since, but not as hard as dying yourself, so I don’t complain. With the loss of a loved one, it’s the living’s job to reconcile how how to pick up the pieces after they’re gone. We have all the time in the world for that. We can afford it. Time is the most valuable currency and it must be spent diligently. That’s what I’ve come to learn any way.  

I think of the Norm MacDonald quote regarding cancer. “I’m not a doctor, but I’m pretty sure that when you die, the cancer dies too. That's not a loss, that’s a draw.” You’re goddamn right, Norm. My Mom didn’t go down without taking that bitch-ass cancer with her. She was going to get one prize one way or another. She lived too hard a life without any consolation prizes. She was a fighter and an incredibly strong woman.

I hope she realized how much I loved, admired, and appreciated her. I think she did. And if not, I’ll be living the rest of my life putting more good in this world than I take and hope that she sees it beyond from this Earth. I’ll make you proud, Mama. 

I wanted to wrap this up in a more positive way, but death is a fucking bummer. So I’ll have this coda on what I learned about when someone passes away. The consolation prize to the Bereaved is that anytime someone asks you about someone you loved who are gone, you get to tell them all about how wonderful of a person they were. You get bragging rights for the rest of your life because you knew them and you loved them. That’s the deal made with grief. 

I knew my mom. I loved her. She loved me. I will miss her terribly for the rest of my life. How lucky am I? 

I miss you. I love you. I’ll always love you, Mama. Until I see you again.