The fall.

The fall.

She wasn’t able to have her chemotherapy.

I saw the disappointment in her face.

Her blood work was too low.

It happened two times in a row.

 

Mom knew what it meant.

We all did. 

The chemo was killing her. 

 

Her last six months were hard days.

I don’t even know the whole truth of it.

Mom never complained. 

She didn’t want us to worry.

She wanted us to be with our families. 

 

She was simply exhausted.

Her conversation was gone. 

Her hair was dull.

Her skin was becoming transparent.

The chemo was erasing her.

 

She asked me what ‘chemo head’ meant.

I thought she was joking.

I was ashamed when I realised she wasn’t.

She was reading an article about the correlation between chemo and brain function.

Mom had chemo head. 

She knew it too, when I explained.

She knew she was losing the fight.

 

I started picking her up at the door.

She just didn’t have enough energy to walk to the car.

 

I started helping her into the car. 

She just didn’t have enough energy to open the door.

 

I started helping her with her seatbelt.

She just didn’t have the energy to do it up.

 

I started crying on the drive home.

She just didn’t have enough energy to stay awake.

 

I told her she did not have to keep doing the chemotherapy if she didn’t want to.

Her reply,

‘Then what?  I am not ready to die.’

 

We weren’t ready either. 

 

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