By Terry
I had a scare this week. After a routine mammogram, I was called in for another look. They asked me to schedule an appointment for the next day.
On one hand, I believed the nurse when she said that there was no reason to panic, that the doctor just wanted a better picture. On the other hand, I wanted to know a better picture of what, exactly, which she couldn't tell me, so I spent the next 18 hours utterly convinced of my own imminent demise.
I wanted my mother. I was terrified of having to tell my father. I worried about Andrew, having to do all the work of two parents when he doesn't even know how to make macaroni and cheese.
But the thing that devastated me, the thing that woke me at night, the thing that made me miss my turn on the way back to the doctor's office, was contemplating, over and over, my kids spending a year watching me get sicker and sicker and then growing up without me.
Jonah is only 3 years old. He wouldn't understand. He would be confused. He would miss me for a while, but eventually he wouldn't really remember me as more than a warm feeling. For him, I could still be replaced, in a way. But Emily, who is 7, would understand and would miss me -- all of me, the whole person that she knows and loves -- forever. She'd spend the rest of her life with a hole that nothing could fill. She would hurt, and she would ache, and she would yearn, and there would be nothing I could do to fix it.
Rarely have I felt as powerless as a parent as I did in those terrible imagined hours.
In the end, I am happy to report that everything was fine. They gave me a clean bill of health and sent me home. I can tell you that I have rarely left any place as quickly as I got out of there.
And I learned a lesson in all of this. I learned that I am as scared of my children losing me as I am of losing them. That all of us are only complete when we are together and whole.
I'll be thinking of this the next time I am tempted to skip a seatbelt for a short trip, or to blow off my annual physical because it's so hard to find the time, or to have a friendly cigarette (I quit buying my own years ago) to go with that margarita.
I am so glad everything checked out ok for you. I try so hard to do all the right things to keep myself healthy. Rich's mother died when he was only 4 years old and I see how much that has taken it's toll on him and his 3 siblings. The kids were 2,4,6 and 8 when their mom died at the age of 27. It really does leave this huge hole that can never be filled by anyone else.
You have voiced every mother's fear.
I was lazy about my yearly gynecologist visit due to an insurance change,so finally, convinced that I was probably dying of cervical cancer(no reason to think this but I am always afraid of dying before I am done raising Lillianna)I made an appointment and went 2 weeks ago. Everything is fine and it reminded me to schedule my yearly mammogram.
I have printed out many of my DotMom posts and ones from my own blog to save in a binder for Lillianna. I hate to say, "Just in case," but, well....you know!
Posted by: Robin P | November 20, 2004 at 02:35 PM
there are more people than your children who would have a hole that nothing could fill. they are primary, as it should be. but there would be an almost 4 decade void I could never fill. an't even begin to tell you how many conversations I have a week that include 'my friend Terry...."
Posted by: WindReader | November 19, 2004 at 06:41 PM
I'm happy to hear you're okay. I think you tapped into every mom's worst fear for a while, there. It sounds a little maudlin, but I made time capsules for my kids on their 1st birthdays... mostly full of fun items like Teletubby toys and soon-to-be-outdated cell phones, but I also had the grandparents write letters, and I wrote a letter for them to open on their 18th birthdays. In a way, I felt like I was making sure that no matter what, I could say happy birthday to them on that day.
Posted by: Elizabeth S. | November 19, 2004 at 08:51 AM