Disappearing From View

Back in the 80's, kindergarten in my state wasn't mandatory. Instead, an assessment test was done to determine if kindergarten was necessary. If it wasn't, you could choose whether or not to send your kid to kindergarten. From what I recall of the test, it consisted of drawing a stick figure, reciting the alphabet, and counting to a certain number--I don't remember how high--all of which I could do. There may have been more to it that has slipped my memory over the years but whatever else was assessed, it was deemed unnecessary for me to attend kindergarten--or as they told my mom, I was too smart or Kindergarten. My mom chose to keep me at home. 

My middle sister had started first grade that year which meant I had an entire year at home with my mom all to myself. Despite whatever of our relationship has been relayed here over the years, I was/am, indeed, a mama's baby. I loved being near my mother, often not wanting her out of my sight. Looking back, I'm pretty sure I had some rather severe separation anxiety due to a family trauma that happened when I was three. I don't think I've ever discussed that event here, though. (Long story short, my middle sister and I were in an accident involving a bush/brush hog accident in which my sister nearly lost her legs and spent MONTHS in various hospitals while my oldest sister and I were shuttled between grandparents and other relatives.)

That year of having my mom to myself all day was a dream come true for me. We watched soap operas and drank sweet tea. Sang together and she played Barbies with me. Magic, I tells ya. One morning, probably in about September--I remember it being hot outside--my mom left me inside the house while she went outside to hang the laundry on the clothesline. It was a routine event, nothing unusual at the time. I remember having a glass of hot sweet tea (the only way I'd drink tea back then) and standing at the back screen door watching her hang the clothes. Back then there was a small structure that stood between the house and the clothesline that partially obstructed my view about halfway down the clothesline. As she continued down the line, methodically reaching down to the laundry basket to retrieve an item, I watched as she disappeared from my line of sight. I waited for what seemed to my four or five-year-old self to be an eternity for her to reappear on the other side of the structure but for some reason or another it felt like it was too long. My child's mind was convinced that she was gone forever. Something behind that structure had sucked her up and she was gone. 

Instead of running outside to the clothesline to go in search of her, I panicked. Sobbing my eyeballs out, I stuffed my chubby feet into my "play shoes" and ran out the carport door, down the long driveway, and down the gravel road the quarter mile or so to my PawPaw's house. I remember sobbing the whole way, grieving the loss of my mother, my stomach aching at the fear of never seeing her again. As I stumbled up the steps to his door, he stepped outside, gently placed me into his car, and assured me we'd find my mother. By the time he drove me back around the corner to our house and pulled into the driveway, she was standing on the carport with her hands on her hips, utterly perplexed. I remember stumbling out of PawPaw's car and running to her sobbing "Where were you! You disappeared!" To which she shook her head and reminded me that she'd been hanging up the clothes to dry. 

I don't recall what happened the rest of the day. I vaguely remember her relaying the story to my dad and him saying something like, "Well, at least we know she knows how to get help in case something ever did happen" or something along those lines.

Thirty-four years later, I feel like I'm once again standing at the back screen door watching my mother as she slowly disappears from my line of sight.

We got the news Thursday that they will not continue her treatments. Even though the tumor had shrunk significantly since November, the neuropathy she'd already developed in her left extremities was crippling her rapidly which would rob her of any quality of life. Nobody ever really told us this, but the treatments were never meant to cure her. They were only meant to offer her a little time. But without any quality of life, any time the chemo might have offered her wasn't ideal.

And so here we are. Waiting for what in my heart I already knew was coming. And you know what's funny is that I had convinced myself that she had a fighting chance at beating this. She had gotten so much stronger in January and the first part of February. She was getting around better, she was getting feisty again. I allowed myself to hope.

I'm constantly reminded that "There is still hope in God. God still performs miracles." And while both statements are true, what are we left with when we know in our hearts that this time, the miracle already came. It was a miracle that they discovered her stomach cancer when they did last March. It was a miracle that I had a year with her. It was a miracle that she got to spend some quality time with my dad this year and they got to say all things they needed to say. And now, it would seem, the miracles are done. He is preparing to call her home.

Oh, I know He could pull out another miracle in the blink of an eye and she could be completely healed and restored. All things are possible in Christ. I know that and yet, I still know that the miracle isn't coming. Does that mean that I lack faith? Does it mean that I don't truly believe in Him? I don't have those answers.

All I'm really certain of right now is how I can't imagine a world in which my mother isn't here. I keep reminding myself that the loss won't actually kill me and we will figure out how to live without her. I can't imagine how--but people survive losing loved ones every day--even devastating, heartbreaking, soul crushing loss. But I can't picture it. I can't fathom not seeing her. Not leaning on her when life gets hard. Not having the comfort of mere her presence. 

What will I do when she moves beyond my line of sight? There's nowhere I can run to for help. No one who can bring me back to her.