My Mom was a positive person in all aspects of life. From the moment she was diagnosed with stage IV lung cancer, all the way until the night she lost consciousness, Mom's attitude remained, "how can I fight this? I want to live." Her optimism fueled my hope, leading me to channel every ounce of positive energy into researching clinical trials for her specific lung cancer mutation, and reading miraculous stories of end-stage lung cancer patients entering remission. Positivity fueled my belief that my Mom, who was young and healthy, stood a fighting chance.
But beneath the surface of hope, I was so, so scared. I was a mess of emotions that needed release. In those moments of vulnerability, the shower became my refuge - a place where the water masked the sound of my tears, allowing a flood of emotions to flow freely. I'd cry night after night until the hot water ran out.
Between hospital tests and appointments, Mom immersed herself in moments with family, work, and the simple joys of life (cards, French fries, puppy snuggles, etc.). I tried to convince myself that there was no way that the worst thing could happen - not to my Mom. But it did. The cancer progressed so, so fast. From unofficial diagnosis to her passing was only 9.5 weeks, leaving none of us, including Mom, time to comprehend the unfolding reality.
Mom spent the last 10 days of her life in the hospital with a mechanical ventilator breathing for her. Despite a compassionate use claim for a potentially life-saving clinical trial drug being administered by NG tube, the cancer was too much. The night Mom died was agonizingly painful - a heart-wrenching goodbye. I witnessed her last breath and felt her last heartbeat against my chest.
Returning home after that emotional night, I found myself yet again drawn to find comfort in the shower - a space where tears merged seamlessly with the water. My parents' bottomless hot water tank allowed me the luxury of time - time to grieve, to process, and to confront the reality of the loss.
The shower continues to be a sanctuary for my tears, nearly 2 years after my Mom's death. The shower has a healing power that resonates with the ebb and flow of my emotions.
Water is my sanctuary too
ReplyDelete