Why Me? (A Piece by Mom)

              When I went home for Thanksgiving, I found mom's "junk drive" as she used to call it.  As I was looking through all documents, most filled with teaching ideas, I ran across a couple writings she had written for a class.  They were all so touching and I can only hope to be as great of a writer as her one day.  So, I thought why not share her writings?
             She wrote this after her father died in 2007, just two years before she passed away.  The feelings that she expresses, I could not express any better.  The same hurt she describes is still so close to my heart. 
        

"Why me?  This question is such a trite one that parents often hear from their children when thing don’t go their way.  And this is no different in my family.  “Why does this have to happen to me?” my teenager has asked on numerous occasions.  Replying with a serene voice and a comforting hug, I give the oh-so-typical maternal remark that does little to soothe the pain; nonetheless, the “right words” are not as nearly as significant as my presence in the midst of the storm.  Recently those tables were turned, and I became the child questioning “Why me?” However, no parent’s calming words or embracing arms enveloped me.  Instead just emptiness and a deep void in my life.

On Thanksgiving 2007, I was visiting my father in M D Anderson Cancer Hospital in Houston, Texas.  My father had battled cancer (5 different types for 11 years).  Chemo…radiation…hospital trips became the new normal for my family.  Often we (my brothers and sisters) had been “called in” because Dad was “not going to make it this time.”  However each time he rallied back (outliving one of his doctors) to return home.  Even though I knew Dad was ill and could die, that concept was not something I had truly confronted but only placed the idea somewhere deep in the dark recesses of my mind and occasionally mulled over the thought.   In fact, we had become so accustomed to “nearly dying” that we had laughed about how he would probably outlive all of us. 

 

Consequently, when I went to visit my father this particular time, I volunteered to give my mother a break from the strain and allow her a night of sleep.  Assuring her that I could handle anything my father “threw my way” (literally and figuratively), she left for some much needed rest.  Being a high school English teacher, I had brought a Texas-size stack of essays that needed my perusal.  I learned early on in my Dad’s illness that a hospital is not a place to get sleep, so I had planned ahead.  Making sure Dad was tucked in for the night, I settled down on the lounge chair next to his bed.  After a couple of hours, grading by a small amount of light had grown tedious, so I put my grading aside.  At that moment, my father raised up in his bed, looked all around the room, looked me in the eye, laid his head back on the pillow, closed his eyes, and took one final breath on this earth.

 

I could describe the scene that followed and the subsequent days but the pain that ensues is still raw. 

Seven months later, this fifty-year-old adult reverts to a child and asks the question “Why me?” I have three siblings, but I was the chosen one to witness the death of my father.  My selfishness wishes this job had been granted to any of the three.  My maturity reminds me that this responsibility is one that was randomly delegated to me.

 

Why me? still echoes in my thoughts.  Just one more time I wish the child in me could be comforted by my father’s protective arms, his calming words, his presence in the midst of the storm.  However, the storm continues to rage, and the child stands alone…..waiting……"

The peace I have is that mom is now in the arms of our Savior, giving her that hug more than a parent could ever give.  She is spending every day with her dad in heaven, the hurt and pain is no longer there.  She is absolutely perfect and I CANNOT WAIT to meet my Savior face-to-face and see her again!

But until then, here I am, waiting...
Kenze