by Bren Robinson

Created on: May 24, 2007   Last Updated: November 09, 2008

Watching Mother

I thought aboutthe words that my mother had just spoken; she said she wasn't doing better so she was going to let nature run its course. Butwhat really got me was when she asked me to sing at her funeral. I grew numb, not processing what I was hearing, my mouth said yes, but my heart said no.

For the next few months I acted like it wasn't happening, going about daily life with the thought that she would be getting better soon, she had gone into remission before, so I figured she would do so again. But she had been sicker than usual, and it wasn't getting any better. Eventually, she was vomiting several times a day, she grew so weakthat she was reduced to getting around with a walker.

It was gut wrenching to see her that way; part of me felt a peace and calm, but another part was terrified. I didn't want to face the inevitable truth that she was suffering more than I could comprehend and was slowly dying a death that was at the point of no return.

My mother first had cancer when I was about two-years-old, so I have no actual memories of it. But I had heard the story many times. She had to go to the hospital for a while and I stayed with an aunt. My father was working and no one else was available to watch me.

When I was still a very young child, she started working at a daycare a few blocks from our house and I would go along with her to play, sometimes I was jealous of the other children. She also watched a brother and sister in our home, Sue was my age and Tom was a couple of years older. When I was about four years old, and one of the other kids was sitting on her lap, I would climb on her lap too because I didn't want her holding anyone else. I wanted to be with my own mother.
I remember her sweet, lilting voice as she sang little songs to me and the other children, she was tender and fun to my brothers and sister and I as well as to the other children she cared for.

The next time I recall her having the cancer that I had heard so much about, was when I was ten years old and she showed me the scar on her chest. She had undergone a double mastectomy operation where the breasts are totally removed, as this was the only alternative at the time. I stood rooted to the spot in the doorway, my eyes wide with fear, I didn't know what to do, after all I was only ten years old. Here was my wonderful, beautiful mother showing me something that was so alien to me. In an honest attempt to help me understand why she had been in the hospital, she opened

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