my grief’s razor-sharp edges, now blunted, still cut. i still bleed when i pick it up.
Tag: grief
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“I am loved, I am not a disappointment.”
This text was from 2022 just before I checked myself into detox for alcohol. She made me cry. She took all the best parts of me with her when she died, but I’m determined to get them back. That’s what she would want for me.
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Brain Cancer? More Like Lame Cancer
the month of May starts a week from today and with it, a plethora of emotions: ranging from hope to despair, joy to mourning, and a gamut of unidentifiable stuff smushed all in the middle.
it’s the month my daughter, the silly sweet sassy light of my life, turns two.
it’s brain tumor awareness month,
it’s the month my Mema died of glioblastoma.
for some reason, it’s NOT the month with glioblastoma awareness day; that’s in July. as if people weren’t already oblivious to its dangers, they chose a whole-ass different month from brain cancer awareness.
i promised my Mema i’d never use the “f-word” again on Facebook, so i’m physically unable to type it anywhere, especially under my government name. if I had her permission though – boy would i be swearing up a storm. i truly understand now, more than most, why people say ‘f*** cancer.’
we all know it’s bad. we all know it’s painful for both the patients and their loved ones, even if we’ve never experienced either side personally.
glioblastoma is a snowball of terminal cancer and dementia all mixed up, gaining speed, rolling down a hill. then it knocks you on your ass for daring to believe it might spare your loved one.
it won’t, and it didn’t.
my sweet Mema. my precious grandmother.
she left this earth May 15th, 2024, just 14 months post-diagnosis. in that time period, she underwent one craniotomy (on her 81st birthday!) and countless rounds of radiation and chemo. eventually, they told us what we’d been holding our breath for several months prior: the treatment had stopped working.
the only option as far as fighting it was another craniotomy. but the first one almost killed her and she was tired. oh, the exhaustion. she wanted to go home and see her mama, she said. and her husband. her siblings that had passed before her, too. she was ready, what part of her still remained untouched by GBM’s foul tentacles.
may 15th, after three months on hospice: the day she left the body she’d occupied for 82 years, surrounded by loved ones that have felt her absence every second since.
those fourteen months after diagnosis were shiny and bright and tear-filled and horrific. they were heart wrenching and beautiful and tragic. they were full of sweet fleeting moments of happiness and long, drawn out days of misery.
glioblastoma is aggressive. it is cruel. and i can say with my entire being, it’s one heartless son of a bitch.
it’s a death sentence, and nobody understands because so many cancers are treatable, with decent quality of life and extended years of happiness.
so you try your best not to rip their heads off when you get suggestions like healthier eating or, god forbid, snake oil cures. you grit your teeth when you hear things like “god has a plan,” or “i’ll pray for her to go into remission.”
what stings the most are the innocent, well-meaning but all too hurtful questions like “how’s she doing,” “what can we do for you” or the dreaded “but how are YOU?”
the kinds of questions you get, and answer, over and over and over again, the same way each time.
because they don’t understand. they can’t, not really.
brain cancer is not a normal cancer. treatments that send other cancers into remission don’t work on brain tumors because the blood-brain barrier is designed very intelligently and is very good at what it does.
it’s also much rarer than, say, breast cancer. because of its rarity it doesn’t receive as much attention, and don’t even get me started on funding.
SO, FUNDING, now brain cancer (GBM specifically) will receive less funding than the minuscule amounts usually raised (compared to other cancers). the Department of Defense quietly slashed GBM from its annual research funding for FY25 after introducing it just a year prior: a $10 million blip really, hardly even a line item in 2024. gone again in 2025.
that blip could’ve saved lives.
but hey, let’s all raise brain cancer awareness next month and maybe someday it’ll get breast cancer level recognition. by the way, breast cancer is one of the most treatable and well-known cancers.
perhaps, in a far off future, maybe it’ll receive even 10% of the $130 million breast cancer will receive in research program funding this year.
maybe.
sources
2025 CDMRP Funded Research Programs
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shut up, GPS, i’m talking
Well, Mema, it’s almost Christmas. It’s, uh, oh gosh, it’s less than a week away, actually.
Today is Thursday and Monday is Christmas Eve, Tuesday is Christmas.
Stella, stop shaking your juice box upside down, honey.
Well there have been some changes since you’ve been gone. um Stella and I are currently in the car on the way to her 18 month and doctor via church check up appointment and also just a follow up on her ears a lot of ear infections more she started daycare back in February the-
“two lanes to take exit 153B on the left to merge onto I 30 west toward Little Rock.”
-and the first dycare we enrolled her in was like right by the house. It was so convenient. But that was pretty much the only good thing about it. Um, it was $200 a week. They didn’t have any
“left“
cameras or anything for us to check in on. Um, after the tour which
“in about 5 miles, keep right toward Hot Springs,”
you know, wasn’t much of a tour really, and wasn’t that impressive, we weren’t even allowed in the building or we had to drop her off at the front door. And we had to ring a buzzer for them to bring her out, but it was close and it was the only place that we could get her in.
I wish I could have talked to you about all of this then, but, um, you know, you weren’t you so much by that point.
You sure did love to see her though still. You always loved to see her, no matter how you felt or what was going on. I know that because the last thing you said, the only thing you said in the days before you died, was- you had been asleep for about two days, I think, um, but uh, you woke up the day before you died or.. or maybe two days before.
I’m sorry, I can’t think now. Um, you woke up- there were a bunch of us in the room. A lot of people that love you and that you loved but you only had eyes for one person.
Um my mom or your other daughter, uh, one of them was standing beside me and you looked at them and um, I don’t know if you didn’t recognize them or what, but you didn’t say anything.
And there I was holding Stella, um, at the foot of your bed and-
Stella, stop shaking your juice box all over your jeans, baby!
But you didn’t, you didn’t look at me. You just looked straight to her,
“Stay in the left two lanes and”
you looked at her and you were clear. You were so clear, you were recognizing, you said to Stella, ‘hey baby.’
And that was it, you looked up at me from her and you.. you didn’t see me.
“In two miles, keep right toward Hot Springs”
Your eyes had that that, I guess, near death look, uh, you, you looked through me. You weren’t seeing anything. Um, but you saw Stella. And then you went right back to sleep.
And, uh, you never woke up again.
But um, I just say all that, but to illustrate, not that I need to, just how special she was to you and how special you were and still are and continue to become to her. You’re, uh, you’re still her GiGi. She, uh, we’ve been showing her some pictures and stuff of you lately and um, um.. sh-, she started pointing at you and pictures and saying, GiGi. I wish that you could see it, she’s doing so much. Um, it’s oh,
“the right two lanes to keep right toward hot springs.”
but uh anyways. Let’s see. Um, she’s talking, she was delayed, but she meets with the developmental therapist and also a speech therapist once a week for free at her new daycare. It’s in Sherwood and
“2 miles take exit 128 toward Mapelvale West Rd., and Outer Creek Road”
They do activities, all kinds of fun stuff. The teachers are great. And it’s cheaper. Anyway, uh so—
Don’t, don’t you get over, you truck!
But yeah so anyways a lot going on this year and I’m gonna be honest with you, Mema, cause I know that you would have something to say that I just needed to hear, but ever since you died..
I have no idea.
I have not moved on.
I mean, I don’t think I’ll ever move on. I’m gonna miss you every single second of my life for the rest of my life. Uh, I haven’t progressed in life. My life came to a standstill when yours ended. I’m not really proud of that, but I just haven’t been able to help it. Um. I’ve been so depressed and I wish you were here to just tell me to do whatever to make me happy and you would support me through the sadness that I was feeling and just let me sit in your lap, in the recliner, just you and me. I remember telling you not too long before you died, I wish I could just climb up there with you in that awful hospital bed that you hated, and hold you in my lap when you didn’t feel good, um and you- sorry, yeah, I have..
just haven’t found work yet. I’ve had a lot of health stuff going on. I’m still sober, haven’t touched a drop of alcohol, but I’ve been making poor choices regardless: you would be disappointed, but more so you would be concerned about me and just want me to get better because you always believed in me and my ability to get better. You always believed in the good part of me. And when you died, I feel like my ability to believe in that part did too.
Anyways, what a long convoluted Christmas update. So anyway, happier time.
Yeah, so we just got the tree up. Today is the 19 December and we just got the tree up last week I think it had said undecorated until like a couple nights ago when we finally started and I just can’t I can’t put myself in in the Christmas spirit this year and it’s because you’re not here, you know, I I feel like you, like ‘no we don’t need to put the tree up yet. It’s too early. It’s too early.’
‘OK, you can put it up but you have to take it down’ and then I’d say ‘okay Mema I’ll be here on this day’ and I’d be there and not a tree in sight, only your voice saying ‘well I got tired of looking at it so I just went ahead.’
You always just did when needed to be done no matter what. And I am trying now to do what I need to for me. I started-
“In 2 miles take exit 128 toward Maplevale West Rd. and Otter Creek Road”
..therapist specializes in grief trauma and addiction seasoning and I think she’s really gonna help me, um, just start living again because I know that’s what you would want me to do. You would just, like, have some things to say about mom and I..how we’ve been and we were both very sad, still. We both have a lot of anger, not at you at all, but we have a lot of resentment and a lot of things but never you. Anyways, um, it’s not gonna be quite the same this year. We uh we’re doing some things different, we think that you would like that. We think that’s actually what you would want us to do, just for this year and then we’ll kind of get back on track next year, I hope, but some things are still staying the same. Um. Anyways, um.. I, uh, took some pictures. Stella’s walking now. She’s always
“use the right lane to take exit 128 toward Mabelville West Road and Outer Creek Road“
She’s walking. She is a mess. She’s a wild little girl, and you would just love her so much. And um anyways, I’m uh, these pictures, there’s a
“take the exit”
uh, Stella, and she’s awed by the tree. She says “pretty!” every time we turn its lights on in the morning
“in about one mile, turn right”
and um, you know, um we don’t have our Christmas selfie just yet. I imagine we will take one, but I just keep thinking of the ones we took with you and Granddad and me and mom, all four of us, the gang,
And well, I I keep looking at the picture of you and Stella from last Christmas too, and I just wish you could be at this one. Your stocking will be there, and, and- but your chair will be empty. And uh it doesn’t mean you’ll be forgotten. You will never be forgotten. Um, we love you so much and that will never change. Um, just, uh, just wish you could be here for this one. I love you so much and I hope there is something after and I hope that the place you are is everything you wanted and I hope that Granddad is there with you.
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I spend a lot of time crying in your closet.
Is this even therapeutic? I put my thoughts down on paper but they’re still in my head. 
I unplugged the hearing aids a few weeks ago. Today I plugged them back in, because it made me feel better. 
Everything is just as it was but nothing is the same. 
I can see each of these sweaters on and they all look beautiful. I can’t look at the hat with the polka dots without wanting to cry; main hat in rotation for chemo and associated with the beginning of the end in my mind. 
The cream colored one in the middle was purchased in North Carolina over Christmas in December 2022, a surprise while us younger girls were out shopping. I don’t think it was worn again after the diagnosis in March 2023.
I too am not a bit tamed—I too am untranslatable 