[i started writing this in May 2018, when my mom was incredibly sick, & we all thought it was 'any day now'. it is now the end of november 2018. she's still alive but in hospice care...i wanted to revisit this, and continue writing as i long as i can]
Hey Ma,
Hey Ma,
We said goodbye yesterday, probably for the last time ever. You're sick with a terminal prognosis, and I live over 1000 miles away. A is almost 3 & X will be born in about 2 months.
You got your first diagnosis while I was still recovering from delivering A a little less than 3 years ago. Back then, we thought it was regular smegular ol' breast cancer that you get once and never again. The same kind that your mom had in the 90s, the same kind that your sister had in the 00s. You found the tumor. You had chemo, surgery, radiation. Your hair fell out, and you were better. All of the pictures I have of you with Auri show you rocking your short hair. You looked *good* with your short cancer hair growing out. It suited you. In that time, you went back to the gym, you flipped tires, you jumped on boxes, you were a goddamn rock star.
2 years + 3 months later, you started getting headaches. BAD headaches. You became irritable and anxious. You kept complaining and telling your doctors, but the scans that you JUST had a few weeks ago showed that you were cancer-free. The pain remained. No amount of excedrin or tylenol or marijuana helped.
My 30th birthday came & it was hard for a lot of reasons. I was upset you hadn't called me. I called you and you didn't answer. Then your sisters called me to wish me a happy birthday, They told me you were in the ER because of your headache. I felt terrible. An hour later, your team of doctors found a tumor the size of a golf ball in your brain. You were right. Something was wrong. You were smart to go to the ER and demand another scan, even though your insurance might not cover it. The next couple of days were a whirlwind (I presume; I was in New Jersey, and you were in Texas) of scans, surgeries, and diagnoses.
After your surgery, you were loopy as hell. You had to stay in the hospital for a couple weeks to recover. You do not like the steroids (which you NEED to keep the brain swelling down) or the painkillers (they make you hallucinate and relive your most painful memories). Apparently, you were put on suicide watch.
I flew home with my family 2 weeks later to see you. You were SO MUCH BETTER. You were Angie. You were so excited to see us, to see your granddaughter. It was then, that very first night, that I found out I was pregnant. 3 weeks after you went to the hospital for a headache, found out you had a brain tumor, had brain surgery, got diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer that had spread to your brain, and began radiation treatment. I couldn't even balance out the joy of being pregnant with the fear and anxiety of your sickness. It was a tough time.
Finding out that your cancer came back after a little over 2 years’ worth of clear scans, clean bills of health, and seeing you get your life back together, thrust me deeper into a sadness that I could not, and did not WANT to explain to anyone. I didn’t WANT to talk about my sadness with friends, family, barely even my own spouse.
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[nov 2018]
Ma,
It's almost Thanksgiving and you're still alive! X is 4 months old. You haven't met him, but we've Facetimed a lot. We didn't know if you were going to make it to see your 54th birthday in May (AND YOU DID! AND I GOT TO SPEND IT WITH YOU!). You don't remember us visiting you because your brain was a big fat mess. But we did. You smiled for pictures and I got to hold your hand. I was 6 months pregnant and you liked to rub my belly.
THEN YOU GOT BETTER! Your brain/memory came back! You got your legs and body back and you were able to move back to Brownsville. You spent June, July, August, September living in the valley with your husband and your dogs and cats. I think you enjoyed it. I'm sure it was lonely, but I do think you enjoyed the freedom. The autonomy.
Your headaches came back, just as we all knew they would. You had to move back in with your parents in October and by the time November rolled around, your pain had gotten so bad, you went to go spend time in the hospital again. Your ICU psychosis came back, and if you weren't on painkillers, you were in pain and angry. Your cans came back & you had so many lesions on your brain that you were no longer a candidate for chemotherapy and radiation, so, the doctors in Harlingen and MD Anderson in Houston all agreed that it was time for hospice care. Your sister said you didn't want to go. You just wanted to go home. But I think it was because you didn't understand.
You're in hospice care right now. You've been there for about a week. Your sisters & brother have been in and out to spend time with you. Your husband, too. He brings your dog to sleep in your bed with you. I haven't talked to you, because you can't talk. You have words, sometimes, but mostly they're just grunts. You sleep a lot. Your pain is being managed. I hope you're not hallucinating. I'm sorry.
I'm sorry you're going through this. I'm sorry you're dying. You shouldn't be sick right now. You were sick for so much of your life. It's so unfair for you to be sick while you've been sober for so long.
I'm writing these letters to you, now that you're dying, and sharing them publicly, so that everyone knows what I already know:
You've been a good mom to us. Regardless of how you chose to "parent" us, regardless of the routes you took or didn't take, you've been a good mom to us. You've loved us despite our faults, despite our differences, despite our failures, despite our choices. Despite the bad, you loved us, supported us, and called us to ask how we were doing. You called for nothin', just to talk. That made you a great mom to us. You never once made any of us feel like a disappointment like so many other parents do with their kids. You never shamed us for drinking or smoking. You never got mad at me for getting so many tattoos.
You see, sometimes the guilt is overwhelming. You hear a lot about "all the things i should have said" when people talk about their loved ones who die. And that's true. There is a lot of that. But with us, at least right now, as I'm typing this, I feel like I've said a lot to you. So you knew exactly how I feel about stressful topics. I've shared with you my regrets and feelings and thoughts. I've told you I love you so many times, especially in these last 3 and a half years. I feel good about that.
So, on these last days with you...
- On this last Mother's Day to you: Happy Mother's Day, Mom. You were a great fucking mother, unconventional and all. You loved us and we felt loved. We absolutely knew we were your world. And we are better fucking people because of it.
- On this last birthday to you: Happy birthday, ma! You made it another trip around the sun! 54! I'M FIFTY! I CAN KICK! I CAN STRETCH! We all know that if you weren't stick, you'd still be in a disgusting warehouse of a gym flipping tires and jumping on boxes.
- On the day your grandson was born: I DID IT! Momma, you're a grandma again! We have a beautiful baby boy! Congratulations, Mama! I know you love Auri so so so much and now you have to share your love with Baby Xanti.
- On Auri's 3rd birthday: Thank you so much for the piano! Auri loves to sit at her little piano and press all the keys. You were so thoughtful to get her this gift. We'll put her in piano lessons soon, don't worry.
- On my 31st birthday: Aye, mama, you've officially been a mom for 31 years. THATS CRAZY! I don't know how you ever did it. Alone. With the midwives in Weslaco. No pain management. You've always been a true rock star warrior. I'll never be able to match you. Congratulations on having such an amazing daughter. You're welcome.
- On your last Thanksgiving: Mom. I'm so thankful to you. I'm thankful that you exist. That I belong to you. It's been a wild journey. We made some wild turns. I left your care when I was 8, but I know that it was for a reason. It was because you loved me so so much, that you needed to give me something you couldn't offer. I felt your love, always. I never once doubted your love for me. I never questioned it. And for that, I am endlessly thankful.
And so here we are.
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[dec 2018]
Dear Mom,
I'm so sorry you died.
This really fucking sucks.