honesty's a real bitch.

okay. here it is.

my mom died when I was little little little. of a cold. in an ICU. because a rounding doc or ICU nurse or fellow patient or a visitor was ill in her general presence. it all happened in four days, from surgery to signing the "time of death" paperwork. I didn't even get my Friday visit. I was pissed. My dad returned the teddy bear I bought for my mom in the hospital gift shop to me before I got the talk. I tried to tear its head off. I lacked the strength. I remember sitting in the wicker chair, crying, trying desperately to behead a bear I had bought less than a week before and when my dad asked, "are you going to say anything?" I looked at him and said, "It should be her telling me about you."

Meanwhile, Joshua ran around the house at top speed, screaming, "Mommy's on a vacation with JEESUS."

I have to give moms credit. they do all the dirty work. all the emotional stuff, like heartbreak and death and triumph and hitting a rut and puberty and everything that is most glorifying and horrifying. the two years preceding my mom's death were a rough patch for our family. my great aunt, my uncle, my grandmother, and my grandfather all passed before her. and each conversation started the same way. my mom would flop on her back beside me on my purple canopy bed. she would talk about the flowers on the canopy piece and transition the conversation from the beauty of flowers to life and how beautiful life is and how we celebrate the life of a beautiful person with beautiful things like flowers. and then she would tell me of the Beauty That Is To Come in heaven, where Jesus and the angels were ready and waiting to rejoice with us. and inevitably, the conversation circled around to who died and when the funeral was.

the first funeral I attended was scary. I cannot remember much, aside from being yelled at for staring at the casket for too long because I was blocking prime prayer views. I remember thinking, "why bother praying for her now? can't she just walk next door and say hi to Jesus herself?" oh, and how cold her hands were. after being extricated from the viewing area, I overdosed on Almond Joys in the basement of the funeral home with my cousins and threw up for days.

my mom's funeral was different. I asked several times if I could stay with her -- the cushions looked comfy, and she was sleeping so soundly. I remember silly little things from my mother's funeral, like the lipstain she wore. and how mad I thought she would be when she woke up and saw the purple hat they put her in. I remember trying to talk to family members who could manage four words before sobbing. I remember standing on the burial plot. My cousin looked Pastor Denny in the eye and demanded him to open the casket one more time, to "give Aunt Cathy one more hug." I remember thinking that I never loved her more than in that moment. I remember leaving the burial site with my aunt who smoked in the car, and even though I pretended like I hated her for it, I secretly loved the excuse to choke and cry because I felt like I had already reached my tear quota.

but you know what? I don't wonder. I don't think, is there more we could have done? she got poked and prodded, as did we all. she found a marrow-match. she walked boldly into surgery that would leave her more vulnerable than the day she was born. her bone marrow and the scar tissue forcing it outside the bone was sucked out, and the donor marrow replaced it.

and you know what? I love you. I want you to fight. I want you to win. you know why? because the only thing that I can think of worse than reliving that whole experience is adding the heartbreak of inaction to it.

so, be cool man. go. fight. win.