My Mother's Daughter

This story is not about my dad.

This isn't about my wonderful father who loved us very much.

It's not about my dad who was diagnosed with cancer at 45. 

It's not about my dad who grew harsh in his pain.

It's not about my dad who died seven months ago.

This story is about my mom.

My mom, who loved us just as much (as he does... did).

Who held his hand at every appointment (hold me in her arms when I cry).

Who pushed through her hurt to see his pain (to tell me he still loved me). 

Who is trying to hold us together (hold herself together, she will not crumble—).

Who just turned 46 ("46, an age he will never be," she whispers.)

My mother had cried often since the diagnosis. At the same time, she has comforted us, pushed us to be kind, tried her best to see us through the blur of pain—

My mother sobbed in the family room when they gave us the news. She wailed in a way that made my lungs ache and eyes burn— but she didn't stay that way.

She got up, held our hands, told us he wasn't in pain anymore.

(He sent her a message. He was at home and he texted her that he was bleeding. He got to call her, talk to her one last time. Tell her he loved her.)

There's this song my mom loves, "The Dance" by Garth Brooks. They were listening to it in the car when my dad told her that if he could start over, he wished they had never met. He had never wanted her to have to go through this pain.

My mother could have agreed with him. She had experienced so much suffering in those past months (or, no, its been over a year, hasn't it?) that she could have decided that she couldn't go through it again.

But my mother didn't. My mother told him that, even if it meant heartbreak, she would still choose him. She would still love him, marry him, even if she had to suffer the cruel comments ("It's in his brain, Erin. He doesn't mean it."), the anguish of doctors telling us that he's not getting any better.

But what makes my mom so brave, so strong, is that she is trying to survive. 

We go on trips to places we went with him (and places he never got to see.)

She's still sad, but somehow, she's smiling. 

She's laughing and crying and living, even if she misses my dad.

The blaring absence still strikes me, but I try to look at my mother. I try to believe that, one day, I'll get there. One day, my grief will settle in that space behind my heart and one that day, I will tell my mother how much I love her, how proud I am of her.

I will tell her that I am proud to be my mother's daughter.