I turned 32 this year...


My mother died at 32.

One night we were at a friend's house for dinner. My mother became very ill and they rushed her to the emergency room. The next day they told me she had cancer. I was 12.

For the next year I watched her transform from the vibrant woman I knew, into the ghost of someone who I no longer remembered.

Her first day home from the hospital, there was a short moment when I was the only one in the house. I heard my mother cry out to me and I went to see what was wrong. She had yet to get the hang of her colostomy, and she needed my help to stop the feces pouring out from the gash in her side. It was the size of a vacuum cleaner hose. Something took over, and my normally squeemish constitution was set aside as I ran back and forth from the bathroom sink, washing out the rag and returning.

The treatments ravished her body.

One day I was home and a close friend was attending her. She went into a seizure and nearly bit her tongue off. She was vomiting and there was blood everywhere. I was 12.

I spent more time that year living in hospitals than in school. My friends were nurses. I spent my time wandering the secret passages and halls of the hospitals. I avoided my mother. I was frightened to be near her. My grandmother would always make me hold her hand. I remember when they gave her medical marijuana in a pill. She was out of control and I was terrified to be near her.

One day, during a particularly bad snowstorm, someone with a four-wheel drive truck came to get me from home and take me to the hospital. I remember the room. I remember where everyone stood. I remember watching her take her last breath. And for the first time in a year, I cried. I sobbed uncontrollably. I eventually passed out.

I remember going to the funeral home for the private viewing. I saw her lifeless, plastic body, unnaturally posed. My grandmother pushed me towards her. "Give your mom a kiss." I was mortified. Then there was the reading of the Rosary. And then came the public funeral. And then the flight back to Wisconsin. Another reading of the Rosary. Another public viewing. Another church service. And finally the burial. I refused to leave the car.

Three weeks later is was Christmas. I was 13.

Then the bills came. The fear of losing the house. Possibly having to move. We liquidated many things. We lost many things...and my stepfather and I drifted apart.

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For years I carried the shame and guilt of not being a better son. Of not spending more time with her. I could have done better. One day I finally cracked open the journal she kept during the experience. She didn't see it the same way. She remarked on how brave I was. She was sad that she missed my birthday (the only one). She was proud of me.

And so...I was able to let it go...and start to heal.

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I turned 32 this year. My mother died at 32. I have a baby daughter. Her middle name is the same as my mother's...my grandmother's, my great grandmother. I've been very fortunate to know some of the greatest women in the world...and the line continues...




Emry Ann Graham

Posted: Fri - October 3, 2003 at 03:25 PM        

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