I Don't Wanna Grow Up!!!

Little boys always look up to their mothers. Big brown eyes filled with amazement at everything that Domestic Goddess does. We sit in silent admiration and watch as they magically make hurt go away with one kiss. We watch them work countless hours to provide for us. We argue when we’re both “right”, but secretly we both know that there is only one real opinion… hers; we’d never admit this, but we know it.

Women give up everything for their children. No more weekends with the girls. No more staying to work extra hours. No more movie nights alone. Finishing a novel within a month is an impossability. Minimum of 18 years of not getting to sleep in… to REALLY sleep in.

And on top of all this, they have little shit boys who need to learn how to grow up and deal with life’s ups and downs, but can never let go. No matter what age, no matter what they’re going through, they still have to be strong… for their kids.

For the last several months (and years) my mom has had some pretty major problems with her legs but was never given a clear diagnosis. "It could be this. It could be that." Bullshit. For years now, she has not been able to walk for more than three minutes before her legs go completely numb and she’s basically paralysed for a few minutes until feeling returns. Then the cycle starts all over again.

Finally the problem is discovered and they note that, “If only this had been diagnosed a few years ago, it would be so much easier to treat.” Well shit, really? Who knew that our Heath Care System should actually involve Patient Care?

After about six years, the problem is realized and a simple procedure is booked (this was this past January). Ooops, the problem is too far along for the simple procedure to take place. So now, instead of a simple day surgery, and a couple of weeks of recovery, my mom gets to go in for a by-pass and a YEAR off work. Recovery will take weeks… of hospital time alone. Not to mention the months of sitting at home in pain… and who know what else.

Tomorrow morning my mom is going for surgery. Exactly 12 hours from the time I am typing this sentence, she will be cut open from her belly button to her mid-thighs (wish-bone incision). Fibreglass arteries will be put into her body, and her human arteries will be left in, but rendered useless… left to decompose into her system. She will spend the next year of her life sitting at home, and training herself to walk again. She’ll need help doing the smallest things until she is fully able to live a normal and dignified life again.

And the whole time this is happening, SHE is the one who is having to console ME and tell ME not to worry. I haven’t been able to talk to her for months without crying or yelling or getting all kinds of upset. She’s not cried once to me… not even once. She gives ME the hugs. She offers ME support. She acts as MY therapy.

I am flying to Edmonton to spend a week with her in hospital. I’ll get there as soon as she gets out of the ICU (hopefully) and help her keep her legs active and mostly to keep her spirits up. But I have only promised to go if she promised to be there on Monday. She has never broken a promise to me, so I’ll be dammed if she’s gonna break this one. She’ll be there, and she’ll be high, and she’ll be sleepy, and she’ll be in a lot of pain… but she’ll fucking be there. Alive. Right?

I’m doing this for her, but I’m also doing it for me. I need to grow up and finally take over the wheel. I need to let me mom be an adult again and let her regain some sort of freedom without having me still latched onto her breast. Physically and metaphorically, she will be able to walk freely once again.

I love you mom. Good luck tomorrow, and know that I am always thinking about you. Hell... you been through it with me, I can do it for you. Trust me; Major-high-risk-surgery is no scarier than meeting your first drag queen... and you tackled five in one night.

Shit I'm scared