Mom.

Is it coincidence that I write this chapter on Mother’s Day?

I’ve held off for a few years since I began writing to do this one. I loved my mom and everything she stood for but I also came to realize later in life that I had some resentment towards her as well.

When we moved back to Canada from Greece, my mom entered the workforce for the first time since I had been born.

I don’t remember much from then except that I thought about how lucky we were to be living with my grandparents so that both my parents could work and eventually provide us with our own place.

When mom was diagnosed she continued to work and would leave early on Mondays and Thursdays for chemo. When she was home, she would be violently ill and sleep a lot. At the beginning it didn’t phase me.

Later in life and close to the end of hers, I would work at the bakery during the day, head home to shower and then head out with friends, like all teenagers did once they got their license.

If we were planning to go to a dance club, then I would wait until after 11pm to head out so that I could give my mom a foot rub and talk about anything on our minds.

One evening, I headed go-carting with friends out of town. After go-carts they wanted to go bowling. I called my mom after bowling and told her I would be late getting home because we were going to go grab a bite to eat.

She snapped.

Told me that I disappointed her because I wasn’t going to be home for the 11pm foot rub and that “it’s fine, you’ll understand one day, I hope”

My heart sank and I wanted to throw up.

Disappointed?!

That’s the worst thing my parents could ever say to me.

I told my friends I had to head home. While driving the 45 minutes back I rushed through emotions. I cried, because I felt total guilt that I disappointed my mom. Then suddenly the tears stopped and I became angry.

Why does my mom having cancer mean that I can’t live like a regular teenager?

When do I get to love my life? What is this thing that she says I will understand when I’m older?

As I pulled in the driveway the anger grew more.

I immediately rushed up the stairs in the wee hours of the morning and opened my moms bedroom door. “Oh, you’re home?!” She said in a chipper voice.

Tears rolling down my face, I stood holding the door and said, “mom at some point you need to stop waiting to die and start living the life you do have left” and slammed the door.

I laid in bed all night hoping that I would never disappoint her again.

The next morning, my sister came down to my room and woke me up to tell me that she thought mom was losing it.

I went upstairs and saw my mom walking with her cane, outside, in the cold, around our circle.

I opened the door and yelled out to her, “What are you doing?!”

She stopped, turned around, and yelled back, “I’m living!”

I smiled and closed the door.

We never spoke of that night again- and then in my journal she wrote this;

January 12, 2001

As usual you’ve gone out and it’s only 2:00pm. (You’re missing Passions!)

I worry when you’re all over the place but you’ll manage. You’ll be just fine.

I remember what you said this morning about not dwelling on “dying” and to get on with living. This, I will do my best to do. It’s been a long haul and yesterday was just seeing things as they are “supposed” to or may be. I will try harder. Thanks.