Being an only child sucks. I say this out loud while my therapist types something into her laptop and I look down at the stress squisher that I had dubbed my go-to stimmer when there. It was a bag that had orange waterbeads in it that were pleasant to squish around. Some asshole mashed them so now it just looked like orange jello in a breast implant bag, which wasn’t helping me with my agitation, so I placed it back and grabbed a harder stress ball and squeezed the hell out of it several pumps. It hurt my knuckles but at least it helped me focus a little.
We were talking about that mom had been having pain off and on for a year or more, and they had suspected that it was this bacteria in her gut that was supposed to be in her intestine…that she was going to have to do a test by breathing into a balloon and then if the bacterium showed up in her exhale, then she could be treated with antibiotics. I was really pressuring my mom to do the test, she had been denying doing the test after a couple weeks ago when she went from looking 8 months pregnant with 15 ish extra lbs of fluid in her abdomen that we nicknamed Ziggy- they drained the fluid pulling three liters from her (about 10 lbs worth) and its probably not 2 weeks later and she already has to go have another tap done. (this time we nicknamed him Clyde)
My therapist asked me if I talked to my dad about how stressed I was feeling in regards to my mom’s health, because I told her that I was worried about what it would mean if that it isn’t the bacteria. I told her I don’t talk to anyone, that I am a island when it comes to this, because I don’t know what to say. That it could be her liver acting up again and who knew what that meant…that I was worried because Grammy didn’t start showing these signs in her health until a month before she died, and sometimes my mom just comes over to cuddle me and cry and I just hold her feeling helpless and scared because I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know what to do without my mom and I get that sick feeling in my stomach as my own words from when I was 20 come echoing in my head over and over.
“I hope you never have to mourn someone who isn’t dead yet.”
Because its. Fucking. Hell.
Those words I said to myself and friends when my grandmother was actively dying, and I was sitting beside her. I told them that the one thing I wish for them is that they never have to mourn someone who isn’t gone yet.
But that is what I’m doing. It’s what I’ve been doing since losing my grandmother, honestly. It seems like since my Grammy died life has spiraled out from around us over and over again and its like we can’t catch our breath. My mom is terrified. And in being terrified she has become defiant. And in becoming defiant, she won’t listen to reason. She won’t go to the doctors when she is in pain. She won’t go to the hospital. She won’t do things. Because the bills. Because of how much its going to cost her to go and do these things. I remind her that funeral costs are much more expensive and avoidable if she is able to be treated appropriately. She reminds me her end of life wishes are not for funeral services. I acknowledge her wishes. Because I am an only child. This is going to be left to me.
My therapist tells me not to panic, that it probably is going to be the bacteria and that its going to be able to be treated. I told her that she was probably right, thanked her for her vote of confidence, promised to see her next week, and checked out. Except, turns out its not bacteria.
And mom is getting another tap to remove the fluid from her stomach in a couple days as the increase in her fluid pills did nothing. They’ll test that fluid, request some blood work, and report all that to her doctor.
My mother’s humanness is loud in her laughter as she belts out “I D K MY BFF JILL.” at me from across the room when I asked her a question, her humanness is quiet and small as I ask her if she needs to cuddle and she pulls my snuggie around her shoulders and she crosses the living room and curls up on the couch and leans against me, my arm across her shoulders as she sniffles and wipes her snot on my blanket. Something I always comment on because I know it will make her laugh.
My humanness gets caught in my throat, I don’t tell her I’m scared too, though she needs to hear it. She should hear me cry for her. Instead I talk to her of stupid shit, rambling, jokes, the frog in my throat bobbing up and down allowing words to escape but still making me feel like I am choking. My eyes feel like I have shards of glass pressed into them as the tears always burn when I don’t let them fall.
After a few minutes of just existing like that, she’ll go to bed, I’ll stay up for the dog. I’ll mindlessly watch something on netflix that I’ve seen a billion times, just to drown out the all -consuming- alone-quiet that feels so bone deep. I have to take something to make me sleep lately. Anxiety meds are not helping. Hopefully a solution will come sometime soon.
30-something and floundering 