I Want My Mommy

I'm sick. Really fucking sick. I haven't been this sick in four years, and part of the reason I've been getting sicker is my inability to sleep more than seven hours a day.

I've been crying a little tonight, and I can't even remember the last time I cried. I'm not much of a crier. I was cuddling my teddy bear, trying to sleep, but it's pointless, so I'm up in the hopes of getting some of my thoughts out of my head, and I'm probably an ass for publishing it, but at this point, I just don't give a shit.

The teddy bear is the last one my mom ever gave to me. It was Christmas, 1998. She had a habit of giving me a teddy every year, and this was my fave she'd ever given me. Just a classic brown bear, but he's wearing a blue plaid housecoat. I always thought he was a sick bear.

Fitting, then, that when we discovered she had cancer, that she took the bear to bed with her every night. I can't help but wishing I had her in my arms instead, but all I've got is a fucking bear, who I've never named.

There's no one like your mother when it comes to those really hard times. I've had some pretty fucking hard times these past few years, and frankly, there's no one I admire more than me for the way I've come through them. I couldn't give a shit what other people have overcome, I know my struggles, and I'm proud of where I'm at, but my god, there comes a time when you just need to break down.

That time is tonight. I'm a weak fucking girl tonight. I'm sick of being sick, and I'm scared of finding out that this might be pneumonia, because I'm telling you, this incredible weakness, all-over-sore, this endless wracking cough, it's all feeling way too damned familiar, like when I had it four years ago.

The irony is, I thought I was feeling better on Monday and decided I had to take a good walk because my back had been in agony for a week, and it was the kind of pain that would only subside with activity. "I have energy," I thought. "I'll walk it out." So, I did. I got to the video store, a mere kilometre away, and discovered I no longer had a voice. I was sweating. That clammy, hmm-something's-not-right-here kind of sweating, because hey, I never sweat unless I'm in the middle of a 20+km bike ride. I got home and was wiped the hell out. Just absolutely wiped. It didn't concern me too much, but when I was deteriorating Tuesday, I started to become concerned.

And I don't care that I have good friends, that I have a dad who's worried about me and wants to help, a brother who wants to step up to the plate because I just did so for him... All I want is my mommy, and I simply can't have her, and nothing, but nothing feels worse in the world than knowing there's one thing you need, and it's the one thing that you'll simply never, ever have again.

I normally try to write with positivity, but since I have tears streaming down my face and a sob wracking my throat, something tells me that's not about to happen this time.

To tell the truth, I've been missing my mom an awful lot since Christmas. The holidays felt so goddamned empty and meaningless this year, and I've heard from more than a few people, like GayBoy, that they felt the same way. I imagine it was for altogether different reasons, though. My mother WAS the holidays. Everything about Christmas was made more important because of her. She would make fudge, and that's something I never did get the recipe for. Man, I'd kill for one more piece of her fudge. I've been so uninterested in Christmas the last couple of years that I haven't even bothered decorating, and considering it was once my favourite time of the year, there's something drastically wrong with that.

But there it is. Sick, and there's nothing anyone can do to help. I wish to hell Mom was here. Tomorrow, I see the doctor and find out if my fears are to be confirmed. I hope not. I'm going to be positive about that, at least. (Or die trying. Okay, bad choice of words.)

Either way, when I get home, I plan to stay indoors for 24 hours. I will do two of the skankiest remedies ever: One, I will make the dreaded garlic cure. One POUND of chopped garlic, soaking in boiling water and left to sit for 12 hours, and then enough sugar and lemon to make it palateable after you strain out the garlic. I think using "palateable" in that sentence is a right fucking crime, but there it is. I will be in-fucking-vinceable after that.

Then two, a mustard plaster, which is simply a paste of mustard and flour spread between two pieces of flannel, and left to sit on your chest for 10 minutes. Oh, right, and there's the high likelihood of blisters. Gotta love the Prairie remedies. But it's what Mom would do to me if she were around. Not the garlic, as I doubt she'd be THAT cruel, but she swore by mustard plasters, and I do know they word. I was reading the Prairie Remedy book I have, though, and the garlic struck me as something that looks really fucking effective. Fortunately there seems to be almost 100% certainty that I'm not getting laid for the near future, but this pretty much puts a lock on that, man.

Well, oddly, I do feel a little better. I still miss her like all hell, a hurting that just throbs inside, but there's little a girl can do about that, and it's that knowledge that just makes the pain that much more pathetic and lamentable. Fortunately, these days don't come often. It's the fact that I've been avoiding admitting this for the last couple weeks that has made my mood feel heavy and immoveable for some time now, and maybe that heaviness in my chest isn't all from my illness. Maybe a little of the weight will lift.

I'm really looking forwards to seeing the doc, though, because I prefer to know than just to suspect. Hopefully, I'm just a really pathetic sickie, and not pneumonic. We shall see. The above stands as-is, I'm too grumpy to edit.