Wombtomb

Cancer, My Mama and Me

I know I was five years old the first time I was aware that my Mother was sick. I know this because she couldn’t come to my Christmas program and I was very up-set and didn’t understand why she wouldn’t be there. I knew I had the most important part, it was the opening scene, with a little girl in bed, me, waiting for the Easter-bunny, not Santa, because she was afraid of Santa . The opening scene didn’t go very well because the little girl, me, sat up in bed and started crying “I want my Mama” then the Easter-bunny hopped over and patted me on the head and I hit him. The crowd roared with laughter and the curtain went down. To this day I don’t know if they thought that was the way it was supposed to be or just a bunch of nice people being kind to a sad little girl. But, I know I remember it like it happened yesterday, because that’s when I knew my Mother was really sick.

When my Mom finally came home from the hospital I told her the Easter-bunny story and she said “she thought it was much better than the way we had rehearsed it”. She also told me what the doctors had done to her and asked if I would be her nurse and help her to bathe and dress. She told me I would have to be very brave because even the doctors didn’t like to look at what they had done.

When you are five years old and your Mom says “You have to be brave”. Boy, can you be brave. I remember getting the bath ready and she gave me a white shirt and we made a paper cap, like nurses used to wear. She made me feel like a real nurse. I was ready for blood and horrid thing, we lived on a ranch and I had seen plenty of blood and guts before, Ok, I am readyreally ready- But, it was just my mom and the bath was a beautiful purple color, I thought it was great, playing nurse, bathing my mom, pouring the pretty purple water over her chest. I didn’t mind that she only had one breast now and a huge cut down the side of her arm-pit. When you are five years old all you notice is that your Mom is with you..

For the next seven or eight years I’ll never forget running home as soon as school was let out, to check that she was still there. Like most Mothers in the late 50’s she was home or she left a note saying where she was and when she would be home. I’m sure she understood my fear, even more that I did. Until I saw her or her note my stomach was in knots and I was scared to the bone. Everyone knew not to mess with me until after I’d gone home. I always pretended