A Memoir

Thursday, January 14 2011.
As I laid wide awake staring at my mother’s serene figure, exhausted from exhaustion, an eerie sense of foreboding filled me. Maybe it was the raspy breaths that she was taking that alarmed me, or the three distinct pill bottles sitting on top of the mahogany desk, just within arm’s reach. Whatever the feeling was, it compelled me to reach out and stroke my mother’s head, and feel its prickly stubble – the proof of a steady recuperation. Or so I thought. Except for the soft neon green light being cast by my timer, the room was dark, it was six a.m. I had about an hour before I left for school. I got up, went through my hygienic necessities, and dressed in a daze – quite reluctant to leave. A worry that was semi- dormant in the back of my mind resurfaced, distracting me. The same worry followed me throughout the day; I was about half absent in all my classes.
I’m a creature of habit, so when I arrived home from school I did what I regularly do. I went to the kitchen to go greet my mother with a customary kiss – she’s usually cooking dinner at this time, however, my mother wasn’t there and for some strange I wasn’t quite surprised. I went to the living room and asked my cousin where my mother was and she suggested that I call her because she was at the hospital. I knew that this wasn’t a good sign because since my mother’s surgery back in June, she has only returned to the hospital for required check-ups and to receive her chemotherapy treatments. The chemotherapy has been on hold for a couple weeks now because my mother’s system can’t handle the drugs, her white blood cells are too low. I called my mother to see how’s she’s doing and told her that I’d there as soon as possible, but in her soothing voice she told me not to worry and to stay home. She was running a 40 degree fever and was receiving intravenous drug therapy, and I was being advised not to worry. I guess my frazzled nerves made me listen her, I don’t think my presence at the hospital would have calmed down anyone; I’m always all over the place. But a clear image popped up in my mind, that of my mom propped up in an intuitional bed trying to maintain a semblance of tranquility, for my sake. Perhaps my stay was for the best.

When something like this happens, I’m reminded of how sensitive human beings actually are. We are tremendously vulnerable creatures that rely on the sanity of others to remain sane ourselves. I always see a little bit of myself in the way my mother deals with adversity; she’s headstrong and resilient. We need, we love, and we always hope – hoping that the ones we are care for are being cared for.