Don't Read This at Work
There. I warned you.
I have many happy things to report and I will get to that in another post. But first there's this "geez, sometimes it is so hard to be a mom" story.
The mom of one of The Child's classmates died on Friday. She was a young woman, just turned 40, and she was taken out by frakking cancer. She'd been very ill and we knew the time was coming but it was still a shock, what with the whole praying for a miracle thing. I found out at an afternoon meeting and told The Spouse when I got home. (They worked at the same place, although he didn't realize that until it was revealed in a "small world" conversation at a volleyball game). Then I told The Child.
Frankly, I was surprised by her response. She immediately began crying and saying, "No! No!" over and over and over. She had no other words and neither did I.
I held her for a while and she cried and then I left her alone to watch a new episode of "Hannah Montana" while The Spouse and I ate Thai take-away and watched "Baby Boom". (I love Diane Keaton).
The Child seemed to settle down and after a while she did what any intelligent woman does in a time of crisis. She ran a hot bubble bath, chewed an entire pack of gum and soaked.
Later she came out, wrapped in a fluffy towel, skin prickled with heat and said, "I need to talk". She perched on the counter and started to cry it all out.
This wasn't a great aunt who she'd never really known or even a beloved pet (the sad demise of Clara the Frog is always her reference point for these things). This was someone she knew, had given hugs to, joked with. And she was also gobsmacked by the breadth of the loss. She kept talking about "all the people who are affected by this".
Gemma had 6 kids. 2 of them are so little they probably don't even understand what's happening. The Child felt sad for them. She felt sad for the older kids in the family and especially for her classmate, N., who has always been a little mother but now kinda really is. The Child was worried about all the classmates of all the children. She's concerned for the dad and how he's going to work and care for 6 children. She was trying to imagine the feelings of someone her age who's lost her mom.
She cried because the funeral is going to be on Saturday and we'll be in Chicago. "I was supposed to be having the time of my life that day and now I won't because I'll know what everyone else is dealing with". Ah...survivor guilt.
She lamented the lateness of the hour because she had a strong desire to connect with classmates. She cried because she'd never told N. in so may words that she would be there for her.
"You can still do that," I said. "She's going to need to know that for months to come".
And I told her that I felt weird, too, because the last time I talked to Gemma she had said she was going back to the doctor because of pain in her back. I'd been perky and encouraging, saying "I'm sure it's nothing. You've come so far, you're going to be fine". Because I believed it and wanted it to be true and because what else do you say? That was the day she collapsed and was rushed to the hospital and they discovered the cancer had spread to her lungs.
I reminded The Child of all the people we know, her uncle, grandpa, ChouChou, Edy...who had cancer and didn't die, of the miracles we'd seen and how part of what makes this so hard is that we were counting on another miracle.
"I know," she wailed. "That's it exactly".
Then she said, "You know how they can do all sorts of things, like fix people's hearts with pig hearts? Why can't they fix cancer?"
Why indeed. And of course I told her that lots of times they can fix cancer but this wasn't one of them. I told her there are t-shirts that say, "Cancer Sucks".
"I want one," she sobbed. "In black!"
Cancer does suck. Gemma's death sucks. It is as simple and unfathomable as that.
The Child cried and talked and raled against it all and I let her. No pat answers, no Hallmark card phrases to try and make her feel better. Last night was a night for just being pissed off about it all. And then she did what you do when you are 13 and trying to fathom the unfathomable. She asked if I could sleep with her.
So I did.
I have many happy things to report and I will get to that in another post. But first there's this "geez, sometimes it is so hard to be a mom" story.
The mom of one of The Child's classmates died on Friday. She was a young woman, just turned 40, and she was taken out by frakking cancer. She'd been very ill and we knew the time was coming but it was still a shock, what with the whole praying for a miracle thing. I found out at an afternoon meeting and told The Spouse when I got home. (They worked at the same place, although he didn't realize that until it was revealed in a "small world" conversation at a volleyball game). Then I told The Child.
Frankly, I was surprised by her response. She immediately began crying and saying, "No! No!" over and over and over. She had no other words and neither did I.
I held her for a while and she cried and then I left her alone to watch a new episode of "Hannah Montana" while The Spouse and I ate Thai take-away and watched "Baby Boom". (I love Diane Keaton).
The Child seemed to settle down and after a while she did what any intelligent woman does in a time of crisis. She ran a hot bubble bath, chewed an entire pack of gum and soaked.
Later she came out, wrapped in a fluffy towel, skin prickled with heat and said, "I need to talk". She perched on the counter and started to cry it all out.
This wasn't a great aunt who she'd never really known or even a beloved pet (the sad demise of Clara the Frog is always her reference point for these things). This was someone she knew, had given hugs to, joked with. And she was also gobsmacked by the breadth of the loss. She kept talking about "all the people who are affected by this".
Gemma had 6 kids. 2 of them are so little they probably don't even understand what's happening. The Child felt sad for them. She felt sad for the older kids in the family and especially for her classmate, N., who has always been a little mother but now kinda really is. The Child was worried about all the classmates of all the children. She's concerned for the dad and how he's going to work and care for 6 children. She was trying to imagine the feelings of someone her age who's lost her mom.
She cried because the funeral is going to be on Saturday and we'll be in Chicago. "I was supposed to be having the time of my life that day and now I won't because I'll know what everyone else is dealing with". Ah...survivor guilt.
She lamented the lateness of the hour because she had a strong desire to connect with classmates. She cried because she'd never told N. in so may words that she would be there for her.
"You can still do that," I said. "She's going to need to know that for months to come".
And I told her that I felt weird, too, because the last time I talked to Gemma she had said she was going back to the doctor because of pain in her back. I'd been perky and encouraging, saying "I'm sure it's nothing. You've come so far, you're going to be fine". Because I believed it and wanted it to be true and because what else do you say? That was the day she collapsed and was rushed to the hospital and they discovered the cancer had spread to her lungs.
I reminded The Child of all the people we know, her uncle, grandpa, ChouChou, Edy...who had cancer and didn't die, of the miracles we'd seen and how part of what makes this so hard is that we were counting on another miracle.
"I know," she wailed. "That's it exactly".
Then she said, "You know how they can do all sorts of things, like fix people's hearts with pig hearts? Why can't they fix cancer?"
Why indeed. And of course I told her that lots of times they can fix cancer but this wasn't one of them. I told her there are t-shirts that say, "Cancer Sucks".
"I want one," she sobbed. "In black!"
Cancer does suck. Gemma's death sucks. It is as simple and unfathomable as that.
The Child cried and talked and raled against it all and I let her. No pat answers, no Hallmark card phrases to try and make her feel better. Last night was a night for just being pissed off about it all. And then she did what you do when you are 13 and trying to fathom the unfathomable. She asked if I could sleep with her.
So I did.
Labels: bad things, sadness and woe, The Child
cobbled together by Moi at 11:47 AM
10 Comments:
I'm proud (again.)
I'd be more concerned if she shrugged it off without another thought, or even a "at least it's not me" attitude.
I'm sad that she's hurting but happy that she knows how to feel someone else's pain. The world needs more of that.
[big hugs]
Yeah, empathy is a good thing. It's just sort of amazing to see it coming in that way from your own kid.
She appreciates the hugs. You're such a good uncle.
Of course, I didn't heed your warning. :'( You are raising one heck of an awesome kid there, Lorraine. I'm so sorry for her loss, for your loss, for THE loss, but wow, what a terrific kid who, at that tender age, can see the big picture, all who are affected, feel so much, and be able and willing to verbalize it with you. She is a really amazing kid and I'm proud to be her cyber-auntie (cuz since you and I were separated at birth, well, I am, y'know). Hugs, hugs, hugs to you all - and the 6 kids and the spouse. So, so, so sad.
Gina, dammit! Next time it's going to have to say "Do Not Read This at Work, GINA, and I Mean It!"
Thanks for all the kind words. Please just keep that sweet family in your prayers.
You're such a good auntie.
The first time someone you love dies, it just gobsmacks you and there's just no way around that pain. Virtual hugs to you and yours all around.
Thanks, Red.
unfathomably sad.
what a good heart on your girl. xo
Pamelamama, Yep. She's a good kid, that one.
Well, I did read this at work--and thanks for the warning! Life can be SO sad sometimes...but it is good, like JP said, that the child is grieving like this. It's very important...
Anyway, I'm SO sorry to hear about this...we'll make sure the Child has a great time, anyway, on Saturday night!! I'm sure that Gemma would want it that way.
-MHP :)
I think you're right, Aunt Healthypants.
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