Hi everyone.
When I was last here, my mother had recently been diagnosed with cancer. There were potential issues regarding transfusion, none of which eventuated. She undertook a course of chemo which worked quickly and effectively, with minimal side-effects. She tolerated it beautifully and I was amazed as her condition improved without the harrowing toll that one expects chemo to inevitably take on a human body. She enjoyed several months of restoration to her former self, albeit thinner and wearing a wig. In that sliver of time she was truly happy. She was as capable as ever and believed she had recovered, as did I. Then pain suddenly overwhelmed her - it literally happened overnight, and she soon learned that cancer had metastasised into her bones, and she suffered a steady decline until her death in early 2011.
I didn't handle it well. She and I were very close in spite of the JW devide. She remained devout throughout her illness and I have no doubt it comforted her, particularly the sentiments she shared with her JW friends during her last days. There were many exchanges of the phrase "the best is yet to come."
Caring for her was physically and emotionally overwhelming. I became frazzled and harried and worried and think back on myself as being not at all the person I wanted to be for her. I missed opportunities to just sit quitely with her, instead of racing around worrying about what needed to be done, and worrying about things that were going on in my life. I wish I could have pressed pause on the rest of the world during that time, or had the forethought to understand that the most important thing was to be present with her in every available moment, and to make her feel loved.
We never had a conversation that acknowledged she was dying. I regret it. I never told her that I'd be devastated to lose her and would miss her every day for the rest of my life. I never told her she was utterly irreplacable and that I'd truly feel alone in the world without her. Likewise, she never told me what she hoped might become of me after she was gone, and there was no final attempt to lure me back into the fold so she could see me in the alleged "New World." At one point during my grief I even had the audacity to feel angry about that. But more than anything, I've been angry with myself. I'm angry that I couldn't see the obvious. She was wasting away in front of my eyes and I didn't even realise she was dying. It must have been denial, if not absolute stupidity, but I couldn't conceive of the possibility that she would die. I couldn't see past the day-to-day.
I'm angry with myself for having felt that part of my life as a struggle, rather than a beautiful chance to love someone properly. Hindsight, I know. But it still hurts.
Thank you for reading.