Some of the Hardest Questions
One evening, I was sitting at your bedside. Nobody was there except for us. You were in chipper spirits, yet very pensive.
“Mi, how do you think it will be on the other side?”
“Um.. I’m not sure, mom. But maybe we’re not supposed to know? Because, like, if we all found out for sure that it was totally awesome on the other side, we would cheat, and….”
“… <mom laughs>… and we all would commit suicide! <laughs again. stops and ruminates some more.> You know…. I think so, huh!!”
You had another question. A hint of sadness was in your tone this time.
“Is it likely… Will I still get better, you think?”
So many things raced through my head. I wanted you to get better. I wanted to tell you to keep fighting because you’d done it before, so why can’t you do it again? Then I realized I was being selfish. The human body is not perfect, and all of our bodies have their expiration dates. We can only handle so much sometimes. But I wasn’t ready to let you leave just yet. I had JUST become independent, and our family needed to travel around the world first. But there was something different in your tone of voice that held me back from chirping the usual “Fight! We can do this!” — our mantra.
I struggled hard to find the right words.
“I’m …. I’m not sure, mom. I would love for you to get better again like before. I don’t know anything, but I do know that God is the one who ultimately decides when it’s time to go home, right? Like you always say: cancer or none, young or old, ready or not, He will take us when He decides. Maybe it’ll be years, maybe tomorrow. But I think we should always be ready because we will never know.”
I felt like I had diarrhea mouth. I didn’t know if I was saying the right things, or if I was even coherent. Mom, I was terrified of telling you the wrong things. Terrified of pressuring you to keep fighting when you’d had enough, terrified of any blind optimism I may spill out that may end up causing you more unnecessary pain. I wasn’t sure if you were seeking encouragement to fight, or encouragement/comfort for the inevitable. Those were the most difficult questions I’d ever been asked.
After my jumbled response, I remember the calmness of your facial expression. You had a kind of soft, far-out look to your eyes, a sort of peacefulness that washed over you. My heart was beating in my throat because I was bracing myself for your reaction. But you seemed content with my partial answers.
I pray that you remain at peace in God’s presence. Even as a single mother, you had given so much of yourself to others in your 54 years on this earth, expecting absolutely nothing in return, even while concurrently battling cancer for 12. You deserve everything. I aspire to emulate your strength, determination, fortitude, grace, resourcefulness, sharp intellect, and big heart.
I look forward to seeing you again; but of course, not until I figure out my purpose here on earth and until I get it done. And don’t worry, there won’t be any “cheating” here. I love you.