Another night of apartment hunting. Although it’s kind of calm tonight. Of course, crackhead seems to rise around 11 p.m., right when I’m ready to fall asleep to Trevor Noah.
In any event, mom is sicker than usual. I say that a lot and I mean it every time. The pain has hit the unbearable point.
But I think I finally realized why she fights me when I say fuck it, I’ll pay whatever it takes to get her well.
I mean the going reason is inept doctors and wannabes have killed everyone we ever loved. They never helped. They only served to accelerate their deaths.
But it occurred to me on the drive home …
Knowing will be the worst part.
And mom doesn’t have hope. She doesn’t overcome. You wouldn’t see her cheering up a cancer ward if she herself were hooked up to a bag of poison.
She’d be deflated. She’d let a broken heart do her in before any dimwit who got his medical license out of a Cracker Jack box fucks her up irreparably.
Right now she fights to hold on. To be brave. On the off chance that all the symptoms and aches and pains can be wished away.
A bad diagnosis would crush her. A wrong diagnosis is inevitable. And the fear that it’s all worse than we ever could have imagined, changes everything.
I don’t type what I fear. I don’t entertain those dark thoughts for a moment. I too pray that what we don’t know, won’t kill us.
Pray with us if you’re so inclined.