It’s hard to look forward to the future when you fear your mom might not be there for it.
June 28th, 2010 — The last day I received a hug from my dad. The last day I looked at his face, and he was looking back at me. The last day he told me he loved me, just before leaving on his motorcycle to see a car with a friend.
July 6th, 2010 — The day my dad took his last breath, with the help of machines, in a hospital bed where he had lain unconscious for eight days.
Since 2010, these dates refuse to pass unacknowledged.
Some years, they loom, creeping up slowly, in plain sight. Forced to witness their approach, I anticipate the pain and sadness as it creeps closer, day by day. I quietly pity myself, unable to shake the grey grief cloud that stalks me.
Some years, I avoid the calendar altogether. So, instead, they are stealthy. Sneaking up from behind, a surprise attack. They knock the wind out of me when they strike, leaving me a pummeled heap, sobbing on an otherwise ordinary summer day.
Thirteen years have passed. Yet no matter how well I manage my grief every other day of the year, these dates have a profound effect on me now.
I know at some point on June 28th, without fail, I’ll relive my last conversation with my dad. Most vividly I’ll recall him telling me he was going out but he’d be home in a few hours, then hugging me goodbye with a quick “Love you, see ya in a bit,” a smile on his face as he turned to go.
I’ll relive the horror of walking up to the scene of the accident, seeing his motorcycle crumpled in a ditch, and being told “he was alive when he left here.”
I will relive the doctors listing his numerous injuries and their careful explanation of Traumatic Brain Injuries.
And I will once again hear the heartwrenching sobs of my mother and my sister, and I will join them again in the present because now I know how the story ends.
Eight days later, on July 6th, I’ll relive the moment the doctors asked our consent to stop the machines keeping him alive.
I’ll relive my turn to tell him goodbye. I’ll once again be at his bedside, taking his rough hand in mine, kissing his beard-stubbled cheek, telling him I love him, and thanking him for making me strong enough to promise him I would make sure we would be okay.
Finally, I will relive the moment they stopped the machines. Though the doctors had cautioned us it could take hours or even days, he passed immediately, the color draining from his once lively face, that just eight days before had smiled and told me he loved me for the last time.
As 2024 approached I couldn’t help wondering what traumatic memories will haunt me on a particular in the future, and whether that date will end 2024.
This New Years Eve was the second since my mom was diagnosed with stage 4 Glioblastoma Multiforme (GBM), a terminal diagnosis.
But “miracles happen every day,” so they say. I have my doubts. I prayed for a miracle every day in that hospital room in the summer of 2010. So, I know better than to rely on miracles. I know science and statistics can be depended upon, while miracles can be frivolous and fleeting.
Still, I do hold out hope for a breakthrough or a cure, but the data is clear: “Only 5% of (GBM) patients survive more than five years.”
As 2023 began, and again as it gave way 2024, I’ve feared the new year could be my last with a mom. Will my Mom still call just before midnight as I ring in 2025, or will 2024 someday haunt me the way 2010 does?
After my experience with my dad, I worry about what tragic memories will be forever etched into my mind. How will I recall our last conversation, our last “I love you,” our last goodbye?
It seems my mom’s terminal diagnosis means another date will haunt me annually. But until I know that date, instead, I will fear each new year.
BLEW WRITING LLC 