it's a 57 minute drive to the city of hope

note: this post was originally from our stillness, a now defunct blogging project.

When I visited my mom in the hospital after the surgeon removed her entire reproductive system, she was barely conscious and used whatever strength she had left to ask about my girlfriend's health. She then told me to leave because she was fine and I should be getting home. Yesterday, she called to tell me that I shouldn't visit her until I've recovered from my cold; she started to ask me for something, but the line kept breaking, and all I could hear next was her suddenly sobbing from the pain she was in. She hung up as quickly as she started crying. I still don't know what she was pleading for through the phone.

There's something to be said about motherhood and my mom's violent release from it after ovarian cancer caused her to finally shift her needs to the forefront. About how she's been denying her own suffering until now because she was still intent on being our caretaker. My dad joked that we were lucky that the cancer only got worse now or else my sister and I wouldn't have been born. I think the tumor developed shortly after she gave birth, actually. She was ignoring the symptoms for at least a decade and a half.

I wonder if the human body grieves over itself after a hysterectomy. I wonder if my mom will let it grieve over hers.