“The risk of love is loss, and the price of loss is grief

20 Apr

I crest a hill with the hard morning light in my face, that brittle iced sun that awakens me on my walk. I’m thinking about my mother, and I’m thinking about me and outloud I whisper

“20 years”

as if it’s a ghost and saying it quietly enough will keep it from hurting me.

I am 31 going on 32. Then, I was 11 going on 12, that netherworld between girl and woman, the inbetween, the sweet snuggled in the midst of sour. I had budding breasts and the turbulence and growing cowering inside me, stuffed down small where I didn’t need to feel it.

Today I’m staring down an ultrasound and the sniggering voices reminding me that cancer in the lady parts runs in my blood. I avoid the rotting breasts of my adoptive mother, in exchange for the knowledge that the women in my family die painful deaths from ovarian cancer, when it doesn’t move so fast as to not bother with a name.

My husband reminds me that bad things do NOT always happen, that sometimes the coincidence is just that. I stare around me and see a family I love deeply, a marriage I treasure, a life I’m growing into more and more. I hold my breath, feeling the shoe as it dangles, and I wait for it to fall.

Twenty years cannot erase the itch in the back of my neck telling me that bad things happen, all the time, and it’s only a matter of when, not if. I may be quiet about it, I may not mention it, but in my heart, I wait for things to fail. I trust not that everything will work itself out, despite the proof in my life that things do, with or without help.

I am mostly healed. I miss her voice, and I tear up when my daughters ask me why my heart burns for her. I envy other women their battles with their mothers, the silly disagreements I’ll never have. I don’t remember her holding me, or kissing me, ever. I mourn those. Some of this, I won’t ever be over-you never get over loss, and anyone who tells you otherwise is a fool. You would never fully get over losing a spouse-why should we a parent?

I am healed in the knowledge that she loved me, was proud of me, and would be proud of me. That she would adore her granddaughters, be pleased to spoil them. I am safe in the knowledge that my happiness would supply hers, even if we disagreed on the source.

I am healed knowing that she did what she thought was right, so many years ago, when a doctor told her not to worry. I am healed knowing she fought, for herself, for me, my brother, her husband.

She teaches me lessons from the grave. To go to the doctor when I think something is wrong. To go again when I’m not convinced of what they tell me. To do the tests.

I’ll still worry until cleared, until the odd rattle and churn in my belly stops. The old fear of losing everything I never knew I wanted, it hangs over me like a droopy belly, pregnant with fear and terror.

She was braver. I can be braver still.

11 Responses to ““The risk of love is loss, and the price of loss is grief”

  1. elorajade April 20, 2009 at 6:02 pm #

    Eeek. that would freak me out.

    As always, beautifully written!

  2. Cynthia Page April 20, 2009 at 6:34 pm #

    I always read your posts but infrequently comment. It is easy to find words to opine on paint colours, but expressing oneself on matters as personal and raw as this is difficult.

    I don’t believe a person can lose a loved one and not be permanently changed. Anyone who thinks someone can “get over” a lose like this is either deluded or has never truly loved.

    I’m not a {{hugs}} sort of girl – it seems trite and cloying. Still, I don’t know what to say. I’m thinking of you.

  3. Jason Dufair April 20, 2009 at 7:40 pm #

    20 years. Wish your mom could meet your babies. I frequently think of how proud Anna would be of my babies. Her buttons would pop like mine do all the time.

  4. missy April 20, 2009 at 8:07 pm #

    20 years. Wow. I wish you strength and a clear belly. 🙂

  5. Carin April 21, 2009 at 4:28 am #

    Gees. Cancer is such an evil thing. I hope everything comes back clear.

  6. Marcy April 21, 2009 at 8:57 am #

    I hope it’s all clear, too.

  7. raino April 21, 2009 at 4:15 pm #

    wow. nicely done.

  8. Bon April 23, 2009 at 11:34 am #

    i am late to this Thor, but i know this week is one that weighs heavy and pendulous for you too…just wanted to say hi.

    and i hope that u/s came back clear and bright.

  9. Superla April 23, 2009 at 1:36 pm #

    Thinking of you.

  10. angharad April 25, 2009 at 4:10 am #

    this post came at a time when i am thinking of the same sort of things – i always expect the worst; fear what the world may have in store for us. i think it happens when the rug is pulled out from under us at particular times in life. we never learn to trust that things will be ok, because we are hard-wired to think they won’t be. i am trying to learn to live in the moment and not carry fear and anxiety around, but i find it tough. you write so eloquently about such raw, true things. thank you.

  11. sweetsalty kate April 27, 2009 at 8:13 pm #

    I’ve been thinking of you too. This is a heavy week.

    ‘I am healed in the knowledge that she loved me, was proud of me, and would be proud of me. That she would adore her granddaughters, be pleased to spoil them. I am safe in the knowledge that my happiness would supply hers, even if we disagreed on the source.’

    That was so beautiful… and yes, of course your perception of health and body and medicine is forever altered from the way your mom lived and died. It’s a nerve-wracking thing, but being proactive can only be good.

    And I keep saying this everywhere I go: Fredericton. Booze and latenights and girlfriends on the horizon. Does it bolster you? It bolsters me. xo

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: