Turbo Cancer: Day 125 - October 14, 2022
Waiting
On this day, last year, my mom wrote:
Had blood test for chemo.
Faye and George came over for a nice visit.
Pain continues.
“Pain seems to be a part of me. I will try to move through it rather than fight against it.” From J Cormody - paraphrased
These were dark days. They were difficult days. They were quiet days.
These were quiet days, spent waiting. We only had nine more days until surgery.
Just nine more.
But surgery wasn’t all that we were waiting for.
I was waiting for a trip to San Francisco, to pick up my son. I only had three more days to wait.
Because Steven’s death was a police matter, his body had not been released until an autopsy and tox screen were complete. On this day, last year, it was complete.
My son had officially died, alone in a public bathroom, of a Fentanyl overdose. I don’t know who found him there. I don’t know how that person has been affected by living through that discovery. I don’t know if anybody tried to save his life.
I don’t know what he looked like after he died.
I only know what he looked like on the last day that I saw him.
One of the last times I spoke to my son, he had asked me to come and get him. I had responded that I would pick him up, but with conditions. I said that if I picked him up, the only place that I would take him was to Cook County Hospital, for a drug screen and a psych evaluation.
He couldn’t see that I wanted to help him. Too much was broken between us.
I always hoped that Steven’s life would get so hard that he would have no choice but to accept the kind of help that I wanted to give.
Too much was broken, and I never knew how to put it back together.
And it was my fault. I had been too weak to be the person he needed me to be when he was young.
My offer to pick up my son and take him to the hospital was met with outrage. When he asked me to come, I didn’t.
He tried going to my mom. She had always said yes before, but this time she agreed with me. She told him that he needed more help than she was capable of.
He showed up at my mom’s front door. He said that he needed a place to stay.
I was at my mom’s house. I went outside to talk to Steven. I told him, once again, that the only option he had was the hospital. Then, I watched him walk away.
He didn’t go to the hospital. He made his way to San Francisco, and I never heard from him again.
Three months later I took my mom to the emergency room, for a painful lump in her groin.
Three months after that, Steven was dead.
Steven was cremated. I could have had his ashes shipped back home. This time, however, I decided that it was time for me to go and get my son.
The plan was to leave on October 18th and to return on October 20th. I would be gone for three days, in between chemotherapy and surgery.
It is difficult to put into words going and getting a loved one who is deceased, especially a child, especially if they are cremated.
💔🙏 It is hard to find the right words of comfort for what your mom, you and your son endured.