I thought she would always be here.

She was there in the beginning, teaching me to speak, eat, to potty. She was there through elementary school, through the angst of the teenage years and the rebellion of high school. She was there during the first attempts at self-sustentation; providing advice, support, and a new set of pans from the Salvation Army when I moved in to my first apartment.

Through break-ups and make-ups; heartbreaks and triumphs; hirings and firings. I moved away from home, I moved back home and moved out again. Through marriage, childbirth and divorce, she was there for all of it. Through sickness and health, for better for worse.

We were phone addicts and email junkies. We shared a job, resources and holidays. We shared a twisted and hysterical sense of humor that no one else understood. Shopping expeditions to the dollar stores; expertly negotiating garages sales and thrift shops. We shared a love for the written word, reality T.V. shows and we understood each other in a way that never made it to words. She knew just when I needed a phone call, and I knew when she needed an update on what was going on in my wacky world. I could make her laugh until she peed, farted or gigglesnorted – and she did the same thing for me.

Sunday dinners, holiday celebrations – she was there for them all, either physically or in spirit with gift boxes, funny cards or phone calls. We laughed, gossiped, commiserated and conjectured. We cried, bitched, and moaned, gave advice and listened to each other. We solved the problems of the universe, re-arranged the family dynamics and between the two of us, re-structured the government to where it actually worked right.

I thought she would always be here.

After the diagnosis of inflammatory breast cancer, I still thought that way. My mother was a tough cookie; divorced and a single mom before the statistics soared, active in the community “little theater” and the mother of five unique and challenging children. A little thing like breast cancer couldn’t take her from us – I used to tell her she was much meaner and tougher than cancer.

She declined to wear the fake wigs, and stuck with whimsical hats or a proudly bald head. When she had bad days, she stayed to herself, and when she had good days she would blog, shop and take phone calls or visits from loved ones.

She beat it the first time. She tried to beat it the second time, because it was very important for her to make to the birth of her first great-grandchild. She was so excited for that – she was so excited. She made it to the baby shower, where my daughter gifted her with framed photographs of the sonogram. She played the silly shower games, beaming the whole time, in spite of her fragile state and physical weariness from chemotherapy. She visited and giggled, with her beautiful bald head shining and even more beautiful spirit shining brighter.

She battled like a titan – and lost, just two weeks before the birth.

So many times I pick up the phone to call her and razz her about John Edwards being a fake; the latest drama on one of the reality shows we watched; to tell her the latest news about the baby and his progress. So many times I pick up the phone to call and ask her a question about something only my mother would know, only to gently close the phone and cry. I miss her, although I know she was tired and I know she was ready to go. I’m angry that she wasn’t granted just those two weeks, to hold the precious baby she was so excited to meet, although I know she’s in a better place, out of pain, and reunited with the people she loved so much that passed before her.

My world is not the same. It will never be the same, and I’m struggling to reconcile the difference. I’m struggling to make sense of what’s left. I’m struggling not to be angry and bitter, and I’m struggling with the fact that she’s not here.

Because I thought she would always be here.

Momma - 1957

The fabulous Lala has tagged me with the Pink Sisterhood tag. It’s very early in the morning, and after yesterday, I am way too tired to figure out how to post the logo and all that jazz.

I’m tired because yesterday was spent among tears and photos at my sister’s house, where my momma spent the last four years of her life. Three of those years were spent fighting breast cancer. Of course, none of us get out alive, and momma passed on August 22 of this year, less than three weeks before the birth of her first great-grandbaby. She was 71.

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Breast cancer is a formidable adversary. Momma underwent chemo first, then surgery, then radiation. It was Stage 3 (out of 4) when it was first diagnosed; chances were not good that she was going to beat it, but she sure gave it her all. After a very short time of remission, it recurred, and this time, it would have what it wanted. Again with the chemo — but in the end, it spread to brain, lung and liver.

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This is very difficult for me to talk about. The last 65 days since her death have been spent in a daze, if I’m to be totally truthful here. I honestly don’t have the stamina at the moment to become an advocate for early breast cancer detection, free mammograms, or to raise awareness. I wear my pink bracelet and right now that’s about all I have energy for.

I look at my breasts as loaded weapons.

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October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month. You know what you need to do — click on the above link to help women who can’t afford mammograms, get your OWN mammogram, and self-exam.

Every day is Breast Cancer Awareness Day for some of us. Please, do what you can.

Pretty In Pink

Image by Bob AuBuchon via Flickr

As you can see, I’m farking around with my theme here, and I think I’ve got one I can live with. Although I have a predeliction for the dark, I’ve been told it’s hard on the eyes, so I’ve gone more traditional. Tell me what you think, and don’t blow smoke up my ass.

A huge shout-out to my fellow goddess, Lala, who baby-stepped me through the process via G-Chat (which I hate only a little less than the phone.)  I have a lot of tweaking to do until I’m satisfied, and it might take me a few days. I appreciate you being patient and bearing with me. The truth is, things are not going well for my momma and it’s going to get a lot worse before it gets better, can you dig it. Tomorrow morning I’m heading up to my sister’s farm, to give her a break and visit with Momma. We don’t have much time.

I can’t really express how I feel right now. My mother is the only parent I have ever known, and as the eldest, we have a relationship that’s different from the other siblings. I’m not saying my pain is greater; it’s different. Her battle with breast cancer has been four years long — we all knew this day was coming. She’s determined to make it until my daughter has her baby, but the price, my friends, is way too high, IMO. Still, she will have what she wants, as long as the Universe allows. My daughter, known as “the GC” (GirlChild) in blogging circles, is due September 7th. In cancer terms, that’s a long way away.

Until then, if Momma can endure, so can I. It’s time for the Big Girl Pants, and all I can do is the best I can do. That’s all any of us can do.

So, if I’m a little spotty on blogging, tweaking or dropping, that’s the reason. Be assured I will return all drops, comments, link-love etc. as best I can until things settle. Until then, if you have some good vibes to spare, I’ll take all I can get.

And call your momma. Lord knows mothers can be a pain in the ass, but believe me when I tell you there’s no one like your mother. Call her and tell her you love her. Please.