Alternative healing methods provide hope for victims of trauma. photos by Keith Borgmeyer When we think of post-traumatic stress disorder, we often think of...
Editor’s Note: I am excited to introduce “Seasons,” a place that embraces the real-life issues we face every day as women, as mothers, and as humans. We begin with a beautiful story of love and grief from Lisa Kent.
In the hush of the hotel room, I hear cars rushing by on the busy interstate. Above the hum of the fan, a far-off siren rises and recedes. It’s late. My teenage daughters make their cozy bed on the pullout in the other room. Their noisy whispers taper to silence, then into the breathy sounds of sleep. Cocooned in the quiet, I listen to the rise and fall.
My husband and I detach for the moment, suspended between their sleep and ours. We recline on crisp white sheets, he with his phone, and me with my laptop. Time seems to stop, or perhaps I’m just willing it to. Shutting off his phone, my husband rolls over and reaches for the lamp. “Good night, honey,” he says. “Don’t stay up too late.”
In the dark, a glow emanates from my computer screen. I remove my reading glasses and rub my temples. I can’t give in. Not yet. Facing down the night, I try to stretch the hours until morning, when my 31-year-old daughter will undergo a double mastectomy.
Her phone call after the biopsy replays frequently in my mind: my unsuspecting hello met with silence, then panic. “Mom! It’s CAN-cer!” the strangled words followed by wails of anguish. Her crying was no different from the terror-filled cries at 2:00 a.m. that sent me bolting to her crib, or the sharp, cascading screams recognizable from across a crowded playground, or the wracking sobs of a heartbroken teen, doubled over in my lap. This timeless trigger awakens my primal need to protect. But I can’t fight this.
After diagnosis, my crying jags came at 4:00 a.m., when the world was motionless and moonlit. My fingers grasped for something to hold onto and came away with handfuls of air, like the strands of hair spooling from my daughter’s head after chemo, unrooted. When genetic testing proved positive, sadness hardened into anger. Cancer may take her hair, but it will grow back. Her breasts will not. The loss is palpable, maiming. “Take mine!” I screamed into the wind. “I’m old!”
As mothers, we champion our children’s cause. We’re strong, safe, and rooted. If we can’t fix it, we walk with them, holding their pain. It’s never a question; we just show up. And tomorrow, I will. But tonight, I am swallowed in sorrow. Tonight, I long to lean on my own mother, but she died a year ago. At times like these I’d call Mom and she’d be up — her circadian rhythm peaked at midnight. She’d walk me through the long night, holding my pain. She’d show up now if she could.
I close my laptop. Regardless of my angst, I need to rest. Burrowing under the covers, the soft light of the moon caresses my face. I close my eyes and ache, like a child, for my mom. Suddenly, quietly, she’s here. My jaw unclenches. I breathe out. An almost imperceptible weight lowers onto the bed. I feel her hand smooth my brow, fingering a curl and pushing it back. Swaddled in peace, I surrender, and drift into sleep.