Tears from the heart.

As long as I can remember I've worried about my Mother dying. Not just your average fear of an accident or life threatening illness happening, but true fear. The knowing that I will lose her at a young age has afflicted my thoughts for longer than I can remember them not.

To explain why these feelings have been part of my life is simple. My Mother had me at a young age; therefore my Grandmother raised me. My Mother had three children at the time of my birth and wasn't properly equipped to raise 4 children; she was afterall, only 19, and my Father was leaving her for another woman. He would die three years later anway (a whole other story). It was intended that I'd live with my Grandmother until my Mother was back on her feet. When the time came for me to reunite with my birth family my Grandmother had already decided that she would raise me. My Mother didn't/couldn't protest because my Grandmother can be so damn overbearing. So from this point forward my Grandmother will be known as my Mother; she is the woman I have the bond with.

My Mother was stricken with rheumatoid arthritis at a young age. By the time I came along it was part of her life; her pain and suffering was something I'd view and deal with throughout my entire childhood. In fact, I've never known my Mom to be a healthy, happy and thriving adult. She wasn't like the other parents who took their kids on vacations or to parks. And she certainly wasn't like the other Moms that took their daughters shopping and splurged on ice cream afterward. She was home trying different homeopathic remedies and popping pills for pain, cartiledge restoration, and praying for a miracle from God.

I vividly remember this green, putrid grass drink she tried for a spell. How dilligent she was at finding new and innovative ways to fight the disease. A disease that stiffened her body to the core each and every night as she slept. Every morning it was the same routine, the same pill popping, the same aches and pains that took hours to subside enough to allow her a jaunt to the bathroom for her morning bout with diarrhea. Gross, I know, but the truth. A side effect of all the medication I imagine.

There was this one time that she was bed ridden with the shingles. I remember this so well because she just couldn't get out of bed. Not no way, not no how. I believe I may have been 8 or 9 at the time. I took care of her before and after school; rubbing calamine lotion on her back and under her breasts. I cooked for us every evening and the only thing I really knew how to make came from a can. Mom remembers me cooking stewed tomatoes for days. Every single night I heated them in a little pot on the stove. They tasted better if you added a dab of butter and a splash of salt and pepper.

I'm a very active dreamer and would often wake up with my hands outstretched as if I was holding a palmful of pills and glass of water. That was another responsibility of mine. I kept track of her meds and helped her keep them all straight. If she couldn't get up; I was able to get her medicine and bring them to her. Sometimes she would need two or three pain meds just to hoist her tired body out of bed. I was her little helper. I went to dr.'s with her regularly and had experienced more dr's offices than I had cared to at such a young age. I would say, "Mom, do you have your medicaid card?". She would smile and say, "Yes dear, I have my medicaid card." Such a little grown up, so much to worry about already.

So yes, I've always feared my Mother's death. I've always felt that she was going to leave me, I was going to lose her and I had no one else after that. My Mother was part of my life, but she wasn't my Mother. I always had a famelial relationship with her but never the bond that Mother and Daughter have. I had that with my Grandmother. I've cried a lot over the years contimplating her death, anticipating how many more winters she would squeak through. I have run the gammit of emotions surrounding the circumstances of her even being my Mother, but have always come to the same conclusion. She is my MOTHER, nothing and no one could replace her. When she is gone; my Mother will be dead.

After I kissed my little girl goodnight on her delicate forehead and settled back on the couch to hear the last two singers on American Idol; I heard a little voice whimpering "Mommy". I went into her room to see what was the matter, like I do everytime I hear her sweet voice calling my name, and found a sobbing, six year old mess. The thought had just "popped in her head" she said. My daughter, for the first time, contimplated her own healthy, vibrant, thirty year old Mother's death and was crying her little eyes out all over her tiny hands. My heart broke at that moment to even think that some day I will die and leave her. Of course I didn't tell her that; I wrapped my arms around her vulnerable little body and hugged her like there was no tomorrow. I comforted her because I don't want her to feel the way I felt as a child; EVER. I comforted her while I comforted myself. I felt relieved at the thought that she would not live the childhood I lived. I am a Mom like the rest of the Moms. I take her on special dates; just the two of us. I stop for ice cream just because I have an extra $5 floating in my wallet that is totally yelling to me, aching to be spent on a candy shop sundae at Friendly's.

I wiped her tears and held onto her for a while. Exchanged more "I love you a lots" than I could count. I was living in the moment, reflecting on my past, and looking forward to my future all at the same time. Sweet dreams my dear daughter. May you never have to dream of medicaid cards and pain meds.