I'm reading Kim Stanley Robinson's book Antarctica. I just read a section that left me in tears:
It goes on for a bit like that, but I was broad-sided by:
Compared to life in the world it took no courage at all to walk across the polar cap; it was simple, it was safe, it was exhilarating. No, what too courage was staying at home and facing things, things like talking your grandma out of a tree, or reading the want ads when you know nothing is there, or running around the corner of the house when you hear the crash. Or waiting for test results to come back from the hospital. Or taking the dog to the vet to have it put down. ...
Or helping a fallen parent off the bathroom floor at four in the morning.I got though a couple more chunks before the tears started. I finished the section and just sat here processing for a bit.
What follows is a description of the most horrible experience that I can clearly remember in my life.
Mom went in for a routine check up the day after her 60th birthday. That's when they found the lung cancer. When I found out I told my boss that due to a family emergency I was going to be flying out to California for an unknown amount of time. Mom had been given 3 months, but she lasted several times that.
The time taking care of her was terrifying and wonderful, frustratingly difficult and surprisingly easy. It showed me strength that I didn't know I had while at the same time leaving me feeling weak and helpless about it all.
The defining moment of that latter feeling happened one night not long before the end. She collapsed trying to get off the toilet to her walker. The cancer had made her truly emaciated, but I found that I wasn't able to pick her up to get her back to bed. I actually dropped her once. When I realized what was happening I was able to interrupt her fall with my legs, so nothing broke, but I still dropped her back on the floor. I was able to use the rug to pull her over to the bed where I was finally able to lift her up and in. That night I went to bed feeling weak, powerless, stupid and incompetent.
The next day she made a point to make sure I knew that anything she'd said that night was said in the heat of a frustrating situation. She reminded me that I'd ultimately succeeded in getting her back in bead and that she was (remarkably) unbruised. She told me that she loved me and that she was proud that I was there taking care of her "as best you're able."
This is the first time I've written this all out, and in writing it I realize that I've rarely mentioned it to anyone. Very often when that night comes to mind I end up feeling like I did when I went to bed. I think I need to work on remembering what she tried to give me about it the next day.
Added a little later: I feel I should add that throughout her illness she was very graceful about it all. Not a Pollyanna about it, but she had a remarkable balance about the whole thing.
