Cancer
2016 03 01
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My mother is dying of cancer in a hospital on the other side of the planet - in France, and I can't go there. She told us the cancer was gone. She told us all she had was sciatica, and "microbes" that she made sound like an infection that was being dealt with. She's so whacked out on morphine that I'm not certain she even knew it was me on the phone talking to her the other day.
My mind won't stop turning, won't stop grinding over my mother, her illness, arrangements, that I can't be there to say goodbye, to help with things, to hold her hand. I keep waiting for the phone to ring, and hating the fact that it will, and the news will be bad. I can't be there to help with her things, and don't know any of the people that will have to deal with this - except her husband, and we don't have a relationship of any sort. Up until last Wednesday, I hadn't spoken to the man in well over a decade or more.
I'm exhausted, keep trying to sleep and can't. I would just not go to work tomorrow, but can't afford to lose the hours.
I even tried to locate my father to tell him (I haven't spoken to him since about 2002), but he's made himself impossible to find by reasonable means.
I sang to my mother, I thanked her for my life, thanked her for all the things she's given me. I said my goodbyes. But after all the years of estrangement and bitterness and distance, it's not enough. I wish we'd made better use of our time than we did.
Fuck you, cancer. Fuck you and the horse you rode in on.