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Terminal Illness


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This past Monday, I found out that my mother is terminally ill. We thought she only had bone cancer, which radiation would help with. Sadly, that is not the only place she’s got cancer. She’s got cancerous cells everywhere, and can no longer take care of herself. I am going home to Baltimore on July 3 and coming home on the seventh. That is probably the last time I will see my mother alive. I’m devastated. 
 

My sister has been there for the whole thing. She’s handling the majority of it, despite the fact that I have offered to make phone calls. She feels like she’s got to do it all. I keep offering my help, anyway. She

is going into her apartment this weekend to get rid of expired food and anything else that would be considered garbage. On the fifth and the sixth, she, Jeff, and I will be going in there to bag up donations for Goodwill, as well as anything else that needs to be donated. we are also taking what we want. 

 

I can’t get past that part. She still alive, but I’m supposed to go take her shit? I’m doing it because of the memories and the meanings behind them, but I hate it. I fucking hate it with a passion. The timing is so weird, too. in 2007, my dad found out he had lung cancer. He also found out that he had emphysema, but didn’t tell us that he was terminal. We didn’t find out that he was terminal until he fell and ruptured his spleen. Two days after I got back to Maryland with my daughter, he died. We watched it happen. 

 

And here we are. The same time as 16 years ago. This time it’s my mom. I hope that she’s going to be able to hold on until July 3. I just can’t believe this is happening. It hurts my soul. It hurts my heart. I go through crying jags, mixed with terrible jokes about death because that’s how I deal with it. Between my trip to the hospital last week and this new knowledge, I’m lost. I’m not worried about me. But I’m worried about my mom. I’m worried about my sister. She will be 81 on July 9. That’s the same day that the people who are taking her furniture donations will arrive  to take her shit. 

 

I’m not ready. I’m just not ready.

Edited by Anna Phylaxis
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What everyone else has said.  I'm no stranger to loss.

A loved one dying is like a 9/11 joke, it's always too soon.

 

IIRC my grandfather had bone or blood cancer.  I don't really remember, but I do remember he drank a half gallon of milk for years and they broke two drill bits trying to give him a spinal tap.

The last time I saw him he was completely out of it and got rail thin because the cancer was eating at him.  I am happy I got his ring, and a bunch of other things from his house, but I really never wanted to get it/them in this way.

Same with my mother who I found.  She was a huge drunk and fell down the stairs about 14 years ago.  Constant pain after that and hardly ever wanted to get out of bed or go out.  Wouldn't get the surgery and just dealt with it.  The pain of her cancer made that feel like it was nothing.

Fuck cancer, but sometimes death is a good thing because it's at least a release from all that pain.  Time heals shit, but it does make it hurt a little less as it passes.  Though it's kind of a pain I'd rather not ever forget, and feel a certain duty to hold onto until I am no longer able, either through dementia or death.

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