Breaking Hopelessness (Pt.4)

My mother was dying.

If I could have tied those words together and hung it around my neck, I would have... just to avoid hearing my own voice say it.

I lived in this perpetual slow motion fog that bleakly resembled my every worse nightmare coming true.

My mom was dying.

And we all muddled around the ICU with our hands clasped together, our voices hushed, prayers on our minds, an urgency to stay and leave that horrible place all at once.

My maman-jan was dying.

And their wasn't a damned thing we could do about it. Any of us. Except to keep moving forward.

When I arrived back into Los Angeles, my mother's condition had remained the same. My godparents and godsis had returned from their trip and I began to take residence at my Godparents house. I mentioned my support net in Oregon and briefly mentioned those who surrounded and supported me in LA. Among the top tier: My uncle and Aunt, my mom's best friend Nazi, Jessie, a woman who I babysat for- turned friend: Kelly, and my cousins: Niloo and Kami, my Godparents and my godsis. During moments of tragedy you really take stock of those who step in while the rest of the world steps out.

The moment my Godparents returned it was without question that while all this was going on, I'd semi-permanently live with them. I had the comforts of home: home-cooked meals, my godmom waking me up in the morning, grocery shopping, and any trace of normalcy I could find in my second home.

I spent my days at the ICU and my nights at the Cohens. I should take a moment and mention that this family has never denied me anything. They have been there, over and over again, to pick me up, dust me off and reassure me that I'd make it. My godmom lost her mom at a very early age and whether she knew it or not, she became a symbol of strength for me. I knew that if she could survive the death of a parent in her early teens, I could surely survive the death of a parent in my mid-20s. At the same time, I remained sensitive to the fact that watching me go through all that suffering, probably reminded her of her own loss... and as much as I could I tried to wear a brave face.

In moments of grief you are forced to look into yourself and pull out all the tools God gave you to keep moving, to keep breathing, to stay hopeful. With each passing day my hope weakened. I quickly became aware of how fragile hope is... how it's the first thing to be tested during times of sorrow.

Those I love, those who love me back kept hope alive. Like warmth leaving the body, I always had someone who realized that my hope was running out... someone who shook me awake and reminded me that if my mom could survive all that she survived, I had to give her the chance to survive this too.

My mom is a gem. During her weeks in the ICU I spent a lot of time walking through memory lane... and I spent a lot of time crying over all the cliches that you read about, or hear on tv. I wanted her alive to see me graduate, I wanted her to be with me while I picked out my wedding dress, I wanted her to hold her first grandchild. I knew that if she died, nothing in my life would ever feel the same. There would be a big gaping hole in every picture perfect memory of my life.

My Uncle joked during our many family gatherings that when I was a child I'd call my mom 15 times a day. He'd never seen a 5, 6, 7 year old so devoted to their parent. I think it was because, even in childhood, I recognized all of her sacrifices and I never took them for granted.

Those who know me, know that I walk around with a weight on my shoulders. I don't want to do great things because I feel that I am destined to be great. I have to be great because my mother raised me to do great things. She spent her birthday (Valentine's Day) walking me up and down Ventura Blvd, passing Valentine's candy to homeless people. The same homeless people who years later she befriended (almost on a name basis) because she walked that Boulevard to work everyday. When the entire family was invited to go to parties, my mom volunteered to stay home and baby sit the kids. Not once did she ever argue, fuss or fight. The first to volunteer her time and the last to leave a sticky situation. She was the Aunt who helped with all the homework assignments and projects, the friend who listens for hours all the while doing your laundry and washing your dishes so you have less to do during your time of troubles, the Mother who set her own life aside, so her child could have one. My mom, while out of a job, gave money she didn't have to random people during times of need and never judged an enemy for their actions. The most endearing trait is that she is the LAST person to remember her own acts of kindness.

I walk around with a weight on my shoulder to do profound things with my life, because I witnessed a profound woman sacrifice so that others had more while she expected less. For years, my mom had headaches. For years. Ask those around her, how often she complained. I lived with her and I never knew. She suffered silently. All of her life she suffered silently.

During my visits to her bedside, I couldn't help but notice how true to form she looked lying on the white sheets... she looked like an angel. All those whose lives she touched and changed showed up to surround her with their love. There were some who were too afraid or unable to stop by for a visit, so they did the next best thing, they took care of her daughter. People contributed to paying for my flights back and fourth, others who drove me to and fro, and yet others who sent me daily reminders of their love and prayers.

During all of this, I had a constant whisper in the back of my head... a nagging feeling that nothing would be okay until I could hear his voice. Antoine. My soldier. My new Private in the Army. I worried that he thought I stopped caring as soon as he stopped receiving my letters. For those who don't know, phone calls are scarce and can only be made by the soldier during Bootcamp, the only other form of communication onto Post was through snail mail. During his time at Fort Benning, I'd made sure he received at least two letters a week... after the day I found out about my mom my correspondence with him came to a complete halt. I knew with each passing day his concern would increase. I was reminded, again, how helpless I was. That voice never disappeared and in moments of utter despair, his name ringing in the back of my mind brought me comfort.

The Doctors didn't have anything good to say to us, but we all continued to visit daily. Close to the end of the second week, I realized that I couldn't allow our finances to fall through the cracks. My mother was dying, but the bills do not stop to give you moment of pause. They just keep piling up. I asked my Uncle and Jessie to come with me to my apartment. I could survive the news of my mom's sickness, I could rise above all the bad news of her decreasing health, I could walk into the ICU and see her moments after surgery..... but I could not.... walk into my apartment. The place I called home for over 17 years.... the place that felt like home because every time I walked in through the door, my mom was there to greet me. The aroma of Persian spices, her favorite tv show blaring, or her music beating farsi tunes, her smiling face behind a book, or her light snoring in her bedroom. Home, to me, is not where the heart is, home to me is where my mother is. As much as I loathed the ICU, during those weeks it felt more like home than my apartment.

Walking into the dark living room left me dizzy, her absence clung to the still air. The place was spotless. I tried not to take too much in and walked into her bedroom. Objects met my eye and were imprinted in my minds eye. Her purse with gum, a pen and notepad, a set of keys. Her pajamas strewn across the bed. I walked into the closet and pulled out the bills and checkbook just as she had advised the night before surgery. I walked over to her drawers and pulled out a few other items and suddenly lost all sense of control. I did what I promised myself I wouldn't do. I took out one of her shirts and burrowed my face into it, inhaling her scent. My tears gushing, light moaning and inhaling making for quite a perfect scene in a movie. Jessie grabbed me around my heaving shoulders and sternly reminded me, "she's NOT dead. She's not dead and you don't need to do this to yourself." My Uncle said the same in farsi. In her room, I could feel her everywhere. I found a notepad that had her writing in it, her handwriting brought me such joy.... I felt like I could touch her, that through her writing she could touch me. In the notepad I found little jewels: quotes on strength and enduring... even in her comatose state my mom was handing me strength. Speaking to me on how to carry on, how to be steadfast.

Walking through the house, I realized that this was never my house, it was never my dad's house, it was my mom's house. She made it what it was: cozy, warm, welcoming. Finally I asked that we leave. On our way out, I noticed a frame I'd never seen before. A poem I wrote for my mom when I was a child, titled, "Wind Beneath my Wings." That caused the volcanic eruption of moaning and tears. Our mother-daughter connection..... indelible.

Walking out of that house that day, I was angry with the Universe. I was angry with Life. I was angry with my mom. I felt they all could have done better, worked harder to bring her back. I willed my mom's spirit to fight. I cursed the Universe for handing me something I couldn't handle, something that would clearly leave me emotionally paralyzed.

Writing the bills, balancing the checkbook, I imagined that to be my future. I'd have to quit school, come home to take care of my dad and possibly a vegetable mom, or no mom at all. I couldn't grasp which would be worse.

Life has a funny way of showing you what your made of. A funny way of testing your faith, of breaking your hopelessness, of ripping your guts out and handing it back to you, all the while laughing in a far-off corner, pointing and whispering, "didn't you know you could survive all of this? Don't you know only those who are most capable of bearing the weight of the worlds suffering on their shoulders are tested beyond capacity. Didn't you know, my child, that in you, I've seen you cannot crumble? That your entire life, I have prepared you for this exact moment. That this too shall pass." And all I wanted to do was give Life a big kick in the ass and tell it to go bully somebody else. That my family had seen its fair share of suffering, that unlike those who have had one or two tragedies in their life, we had burdened enough for an entire lifetime.

I have friends who've had their cars broken into and they carry an anxiety that supersedes anything I'd ever felt, even though they couldn't compare their "travesty" to my life experiences. While my mom fought for her life, I had moments where I became really bitter. Really annoyed at every one making light of difficult issues, and exasperating light issues. There were moments when I'd walk into a room and my entire body craved screaming, "MY MOM IS DYING AND THERE ISN'T A DAMN THING I CAN DO ABOUT!!!!!!" But I never did. I allowed the good battle the evil within, without allowing the outside world to play audience (or judge and jury) to my internal war.

Even with my incredible support network, I have never felt more alone than I did in those weeks. I worried about everyone else; worried about my mom, worried about my dad, worried about taking too much of everyones time, worried about school, worried about finances, worried, worried, and worried. Then at night, I bundled all that worry up into one emotional knot inside my throat and swallowed real hard. Tomorrow would have a whole new set of worries and I wasn't about to be left hopeless. I'd survived enough hardship to know that in order for things to get better, they had to get worse.

To be continued...