See You Later, Mom

 

 

One day in fourth grade, my parents sat me down in my living room. My Dad told me Mom was having really bad stomach pains and needed to go to a special doctor. “Okay,” I thought, “I can handle this. I might even be able to pretend it’s not happening.” So I told them, “That’s fine. As long as she doesn’t need surgery, I’m okay.”

As my 10 year old mind raced, my thinking turned to, “well, as long as it’s not cancer, I’m okay.”

Weeks later, as my mom emerged from surgery, my dad sat me down in the waiting room and told me my mom had cancer. And she had it bad.

My little self took a deep breath and thought, “Well, as long as she doesn’t die, I’m okay.”

I don’t remember much more of that day, probably because I wasn’t told much more. I’ve only found out in recent years that my dad shielded me from a lot of hurtful truth for the time being, knowing I probably couldn’t handle it, and I appreciate that. My mom was diagnosed with C-4 ovarian cancer – the worst kind.

She was given three months to live.

 

 

I read in her journal not too long ago that when she came out of anesthesia she noticed that no doctors or nurses were saying “Hey Karen, you did great!” It was simple silence.

She thought to herself, “I must have cancer.”

That next year and a half is quite a blur.

Miraculously, though she was given just a few months to live, my mother went into remission right around her 50th birthday. We had a huge party by the beach with the theme “Celebrate Life!”

The chemo had taken all of her hair, but even if she didn’t wear the wig to the party she would have still been beautiful. It was a special night. We bought her a new, red car and she squealed with glee. Dad put together an encouragement scrapbook where almost every friend and relative wrote a letter or card to her about her beauty, wisdom, meekness, and love.

But then the cancer came back. And it came back hard.

She whittled down to 60 lbs. The little hair she had left turned grey. You could see all her bones and her veins. She could no longer garden or walk on the beach with me. We weren’t learning how to make pasta from scratch or eating Dutch Chocolate ice cream.

This wasn’t my momma.

She got more and more sick. More and more emaciated. But not any less beautiful. She still had those eyes. Those blue-gray eyes. I’ve never found another person with gray eyes.

She got so weak that my dad had to carry her from room to room. Soon, hospice came into our home.

I remember the stench of our house. The smell of decaying flesh juxtaposed with bouquets from friends. The meals that were brought over were appreciated, but also a sad reminder that the woman who learned to cook in Italy could no longer sip out of a straw – she’d become that weak.

One night, my dad called me into their bedroom. He got a tiny box out of the closet and placed it in Mom’s hand, who placed it in mine, gently urging me to open it. I opened it and it was a heart-shaped locket with a cross on the front. Inside was a picture of Mom before the chemo had taken its toll, and on the back was engraved “In quietness and trust is your strength. Isa 30:15. Love, Mom.”

She was still strong enough to open her eyelids, and I remember catching her gaze for a long time. I think I was holding her hand. The thoughts raced. I wanted to tell her everything there was to know about me, but I was too scared. My then sixth grade self didn’t know how to handle the situation.

I remember she fell asleep and I went back to my room and cried. Hard.

I wrote my Dad a note asking if mom could write me a letter or something to help me remember her. She did, I still have it. It includes everything from memories of baking chocolate together and learning to “be patient with daddy during homework time” to future dating advice. The letter begins and ends with her shaky handwriting,

“My dearest Stephanie, I loved being your Mom.”

That week was bizarre. It seemed almost normal to sit at the kitchen table picking out gravestones or to go shopping for coffins. I remember we picked a pale blue one with a white, creamy interior.

 

October 15, 1999. Somewhere around 10pm.

I knew my dad was sitting in the bedroom with my mom. What I didn’t know was that every night they’d sit together and weep, holding each other and crying out to God for healing. For some reason I decided to check in on them.

I walked in and Dad waved me over. I had to be strong for him, so I came over, and held back tears at the sight of my mother. She was dying. Her hands, feet, and legs were starting to turn a dark purple as they began their de-oxygenated decay. Her eyes were closed, and she was breathing in this dark, heavy, raspy wheeze. In and out, in and out. We were just sitting there, holding her hands.

My dad stroked her stubbly hair. Her eyes were closed, and I was scared I’d never see them again – she didn’t have the strength to open the lids.

And then all of the sudden the wheezing stopped. Her breath calmed. A beautiful silence filled the room. Her once sealed shut eyes shot open and she gazed right through the ceiling. Somehow she managed an enormous smile.

I’d like to think she was catching the first glimpse of her Savior.

I remember a small tear welling up, and I said the words, “See ya later, Mom.” After that the breathing stopped, her eyes closed, and her grip on my dad’s hand loosened. He looked at me and said, “I think she’s gone” and prayed.

---

There are times in all our lives we’ve prayed for healing. For the pain to cease, the cancer to flee, and the dead to raise. And we should do that. Because if that’s the story God wants to write in our life and the lives of our loved ones, it’s a wonderful display of his grace and power. Pray for healing. Do it. Watch what Jesus can do.

But after seeing my momma’s face light up with supernatural strength at the first glimpse of Jesus face, I think the story we’ll care about in the long run is that Jesus loved and saved us.

Lazarus was raised from the dead. But one day, he died again. Jesus told a little girl to stand up and walk. But one day, she died again. My momma went into remission. But one day, she died. And I believe the story each and every one of them tell in heaven is that Jesus is good, real, beautiful, extravagant, and he saved them. That’s the real story. He is enough.

                                       Karen Elizabeth Bernotas
                                March 31, 1948 – October 15, 1999