I’ve been home from vacation for almost two weeks and it’s been…tough. For several reasons:
- Horrible eye strain
- Mood swings
- Thoughts on mortality
- Attempting to juggle multiple outlines for new projects while thinking about a WIP I’m almost done with
- My mom, who is ill
The end of July to present has felt like a blur of emotional fluctuation, mostly because it was. My mom being diagnosed with AML (a type of leukemia) really threw everything out of whack. It was a disorienting gut punch that I’m only now coming to accept. And it’s been extremely hard. I’ve had days where it’s been almost impossible for me to focus on anything other than the TV in my living room or the notebook in front of me. Some days it’s been easy: if I don’t focus on the profound severity of reality then, for a time, it doesn’t actually exist (even though it actually does, if that makes sense).
Doing the latter feels great in the moment, but it sucks afterward. I feel guilty for being able to have that finite peace of mind. I feel guilty for being able to go to work for seven hours a day and occupy my mind while my father stays home to care for my mother. Sometimes I feel guilty for being healthy while my mother is home in bed, severely, terminally ill.
I feel sad, angry, sorry, furious at the world, at reality.
Because I don’t know how much time I have left with my mom.
Because this fucking cancer is taking her away from us all.
Because it’s taking her far too fucking early.
Because she’ll never be able to see her grand children, and god damn it she would have been a great grandmother.
Because it’s terribly painful to think about what my father is going through.
Because I can’t imagine how fucking anguishing it feels to watch your wife deteriorating despite your best efforts.
Because my father is losing his best friend.
Because my sister is losing her best friend.
Because I’m losing my best friend.
Because my sister and I are losing our mom, and that really fucking sucks.
My head space is a fucking disaster right now. It’s a labyrinth of confusion, of feelings, of what-the-fuck, of disbelief and acceptance.
I guess this is grief.
It really fucking sucks.
I’m not going to let my grief control me; I’m not going to let it drag me into the abyss because I swore from the onset that I wouldn’t.
I am and will continue to focus on the almost three-decades worth of memories I have of my family, of my mom because there is strength to be found there. Joy. Laughter. Catharsis.
I will continue to write, and I will write with more passion, discipline, and sincerity than ever before because I want and need to. For myself and my mom, who always read my work, even when I was starting out and my stories were horrendous.
I will be happy.
I will be sad.
I will be angry.
I will grieve.
I will live. For myself. For my family. For my mom. For her memory.