Nothing is ever going to make me stop reliving this moment…
A couple days ago I flew to London as the news of your cancer had spread. It was time. I waited 8 months since the diagnosis, for you to need or want me here. I waited patiently for your permission to come.
And then once it had spread, I needed to come for you but also for me. Trying desperately not to be selfish, but knowing we would both have life long regrets had I not come and the inevitable happened quicker.
When I walked in your hospital room I first saw your feet. You are so tall, your bio Dads trait, not mine. I came around the corner and you immediately stood up even though I told you it was unnecessary. The hug was strong and beautiful and warm. I just wanted to live in it.
Your face is still partially paralyzed from the lymphoma infecting your facial nerves so you were shy about your appearance and kept covering your face.
You are beautiful to me. The most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. I see past the paralysis and just see you. I sat quietly in a chair beside you, mostly nervous but also not wanting to cross any boundaries.
I didn’t want to steal one moment of your joy. So I just sat. I let you take the lead. I was just grateful to be there, grateful that you lit up the moment I came around the curtain.
We talked and reminisced. You asked so many questions about my life, about my step children (which by the way, I am appalled by the term ‘step’) in our family we call each other a bonus. I’m their bonus mom and they are my bonus children.
We talked about my family, your Bio family. You have so many memories and questions and feelings for them. This is tremendously sad for me in a way because I view my family as toxic.
However I respect your need to connect to your roots and will always offer you any information I can that you want.
I loved sitting beside you. Going to get you lunch before the chemo started. I didn’t think I could have ever endured another visit to a hospital after my father passing 2 years ago. I guess it’s different when it’s your child.
The doctor came in and there was just such an overload of information and planning. You are such an amazing woman. Your character and perseverance is just astounding. You listened you asked questions, but I would imagine you’ve heard this all so many times before.
I was just consumed by terror and trying to keep myself from crumbling on the floor like a pile of useless mush. I asked questions. But honestly nothing that doctor could have said would ever have assuaged my worst fears.
All I heard, all I took in was the key point. And the key point was nailed to my heart as if it were a cross. They have 3 weeks to get this new chemo drug to attack your central nervous system which will hopefully throw you into remission enough to get a stem cell transplant. Which would save your life. This new drug has a 40% success rate. If it does not work, there’s nothing left. No stem cell transplant, no more life saving measures.
My heart broke in that very moment. I could literally feel the weight and pain in my chest and the tears began to flow. I watched you, you already knew this information. You were comfortable with the information and you said you’re not scared to die.
I know I made you, but in that moment you seemed super human to me. Beautiful, beautiful child of mine. You amaze me.
Your chemo left you tired and I always know when you need space, so I left. All the way out of the hospital I was on a roller coaster.
(No picture of her out of respect)