How I know that she loved me

I keep trying to hold on to the things Mom surrounded herself, and us, with. Things I remember from my childhood, or remember her buying for herself. 

But then I found an envelope of pictures from when I was born. I've seen some of them separately in other albums, but some I'd never seen before.

And when I see the look on her face as she held newborn me, I realize this is all I need to hold onto, for the rest of my days, to know that she loved me. This was the message I was holding out hope for.

In The Hospital

Being in the hospital with a victim is very different than with my parents. I usually don't arrive until after the patient has been admitted, when called by hospital staff or law enforcement. There's no mystery, even if what happened is unclear, because all I need to go on is that the victim believes they experienced a sexual assault. Anything mysterious or unclear is the responsibility of law enforcement or medical staff. I usually have to make a stand on at least one issue with medical staff on behalf of the victim. Take your pick: reporting vs. non reporting, HIV risk and prophylaxis, discharge from the ER. And once the call is done, I leave, go home and rest. I try to follow up, but sometimes the victim only sees me as a reminder of the assault. I know I did the best and most that I could. I sleep at night.

I spent more time with my dad in the hospital than I did with my mom. We waited to find out what was going on, what symptoms were cancer, or treatment side effects, or just the hazards of living. Medical staff are more deferential to cancer than rape. 

But ultimately you go to the hospital for things that were done to you (unless it's a "Darwin Awards"-style accident). I can now joke that my one personal trip to the ER was for a rogue appendix, but at the time I definitely cursed my body for what it was doing to me. Rape is a betrayal of trust (you are more likely to be assaulted by someone you know). 

I realized, on my most recent work trip to the hospital, that cancer is a betrayal of trust too. It was the stupid hospital socks that got me thinking, about feet in beds and the grips on the bottoms of those socks in case you get up. Cancer betrays without the malice of the rapist, but  forever mars the ability to hope or trust the body's cells. Your body makes cells, using energy, for the purpose of maintaining the body's life. And when that cell is done it should have the good sense to die, to make way for new cells for the good of the body. But cancer cells refuse to die, and then they populate.

Then doctors treat the cancer. They talk in terms of numbers, of years left and percentages in studies and lab test results. My mom's doctors have her amazing news in May and she died in August. I can't decide if I wish I was never told that May news, because I'm so far from the hope they gave me. Cancer and its medicine yanked my hope like a rubber band. And at some point it snaps.

The Exhaustion of Never

These are some of the things I will never do with my mom again:

Wake up on a Saturday morning knowing she's there to have breakfast with Stanley and take him to the park.

Marvel at her Goodwill/garage sale/consignment sale finds.

Ask her about my childhood.

Call her for the answer to some question about my childhood or parenting.

Worry about her, how she's feeling, whether she's telling me everything or trying not to worry me.

Pick out some books from my shelves to recommend to her.

Call her about my day, or to wish her good morning, or set up a video call with the kids. 

Giver her a birthday present or receive the perfect one from her.

Take Stanley to a coffee shop.

I'm exhausted thinking about all the things I'll never do again with her. Sometimes, looking forward towards a future without her, I don't know if I can do this. I'll never struggle through a week towards the joy of her arrival on a Friday night with the promise of a weekend of fun. I just want to lay my head down and wake up when it's not so hard.

The Last

The last day my mom was alive...I've been measuring so many of my days and doings now in time since then.  She died at 3 pm on a Saturday, and that night I didn't want to go to sleep because I didn't want the last day she was alive to end. Let alone end with me going to sleep, as though it was any other day. 
That Sunday was the first day she wasn't alive - the first day that held no part of her, no breath, no touch, no sight or sound. Most of what I did recalled no part of her. I went to brunch with my sister's friends, I went to a tattoo shop and got a new tattoo, I ate dinner from somewhere I'd never been. But these doings were book-ended by waking up and going to sleep in her house.
The first day I went back to work, I sat at my desk and realized that the last time I looked at my desk, got up from my chair, spoke to someone, she was alive. I had come so far over the weeks I was gone only to come back and realize that I had to pick up the doings of my life without her. I rearranged my desk, now I look out at the window instead of at the wall.
I drove home from work that first day back without calling her to talk about the previous weekend visit and drive home with the kids. That might have been when the thought of going forward without her felt the most hopeless. If I can't discuss my kids with my own mom, to hear her joy, perspective, advice, empathy, how can I face the next decades of parenting?