From Mrs. To Mama

All-American Anything

It's not like I haven't been close to people in my life; if you asked my mother she'd claim that we used to be best friends who did everything together, though that was before. 

Kerry Kiefer, my mother, my egg donor as I prefer to call her-a tall, thin dark haired woman with the straightest, whitest teeth I've ever seen. It's funny, on first dates and interviews they say a nice smile is something people notice. This perfect smile is dripping with lies, manipulation and the remnants of alcohol. 

She tells me that when I was a baby up until I was about 9-years-old we did everything together. She'd take me to the library, read me books, make home cooked meals. I don't remember it the same. 

Kerry also tells me that she wasn't always an alcoholic, but when I was diagnosed with stage 3 Wilms Tumor cancer in 2004, that's when it started. I had chemotherapy and radiation and I tried to stay strong, though my memory seemed to blur that time in my life. 

I remember getting pinned down to the hospital bed by several nurses in baby blue scrubs while they jabbed my arm with a needle to draw my blood.

I remember getting my blood drawn by a new nurse who missed my vein many times and left my arm bruised all the way up. 

I remember asking my mom, "If I make it, can I dye my hair red?" 

I remember the doctors' saying that I might not be able to have children because of where the radiation was located and being told that Bridgette said, lisp and all,  "It's okay Mawg, I'm gonna have five guwls named Sabwina and you can have one."

I remember my sisters being scared to hug me in fear that they might catch what I had. 

I remember the sight of the staples holding my stomach together after getting the tumor and my kidney taken out. 

I remember the beautiful little three year old girl in the room next to me-- she had leukemia; I also remember seeing her lying in a casket at her wake. 

I remember this little white stuffed kitten with a pink bow around its neck, to this day it is the softest thing I've ever felt; I also remember it getting ruined by grease in the trunk of my grandma's car. 

After I got sick, that's when Mom stopped being mine. When she chose alcohol over me, over us, that's when I had to step up. I have two kid sisters, Bridgette who looks just like me though is 2 years younger, and Cameron who has a different father who she is the spitting image of, who is 5 years younger than me. To them, I am mom, though that's not what they call me, you see, the difference between Kerry and I is that I am there. I'm there to take them to their doctors appointments, I give them advice. I'm the one they come to when they're not sure if they should be doing something. 

With me in the role of mom, and Mom in prison I was out of luck, but you got to do what you got to do.