Losing Mothers and Keeping Life Open

I woke tired this morning, after a deliberately early bedtime and a seemingly comfortable night’s sleep.  It was a struggle to be ready in time for the 9 a.m. expected arrival of a workman, but I made it, and was disappointed when he did not.  He appeared two hours late, bringing a helper so that he could finish the task of washing my house in one day.  My brick-and-siding exterior was begging for that pressure washing and soapy scrub after four years of sloppy rain baths. 

I was also begging for something – what?!  I forced myself to put some things in the Pod, finish laundry, clean up the kitchen.  After some restful time on the couch watching Milk and knitting chemocaps, I gave in to a nap.  I am still tired.  The flare, barely disguised by a modest prednisone increase?  I’m seeing my rheumatologist tomorrow, then getting my first of two chemo doses on Wednesday.  This cycle will move on. 

Last June I talked about the loss of mothers that my daughter’s group of friends has sustained (https://essiewb.wordpress.com/2008/06/08/post-mortem/), and today we’ve hit another of those days.  We heard about the loss of another mom from our old neighborhood and her high school group, as well as the grandmother of a good friend of hers.  I think I pointed out before that the parental losses she has witnessed have been overwhelmingly mothers, with only the rare father dying.  We have no explanation for this. 

The other explanation I don’t have is why they are gone and I am still here.  I have 17 years of lupus behind me, marked by a distinct improvement over the past year when I began rituximab treatment (the B cell killer).  Most of the women we lost were affected by such acute conditions, or by relatively short illnesses with fatal courses.  For the second time in my life, I feel that I’m still here for a reason. 

The first time I was overwhelmed with this feeling was when I was a medical resident rotating through the bone marrow transplant unit.  At that time, mortality from the procedure was 50%, and the patients were all younger than 40.  Children were coming to the hospital, staying long enough for me to become attached (weeks, sometimes months), and then dying.  I had one special buddy who was a preteen girl that I visited when I was on call.  I recently found a card that she wrote me after her discharge, thanking me for a hamburger I brought her on a slow night.  She died soon after, and I felt galvanized to work harder and throw myself into my clinical career.  I had to work “extra” and be better to make up for the dying children. 

Now my feelings about being spared are different.  There’s not the notion that I must make up for someone else, but that there are fruits of life I am to experience, good things.  I am not complaining about my life, or saying that I’ve earned anything better.  It’s just that somewhere inside me is the feeling that the best is yet to come.  Maybe it’s just my innate hopefulness and optimism, but I’m keeping my life open for it. 

Peace.

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One Response

  1. Bring on the Best!!!! Yipee!!

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