Fifty-Fifty

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I watched a movie over the weekend called 50-50. It's about a young man who finds out he has cancer and his journey of accepting what his fate may be. The entire movie he refuses to let his estranged and overbearing mother help him. But there's a scene where he's getting ready to go into surgery which he may not survive and he cries out one word, "Mom." She rushes to him with a tight embrace. She tells him it will be fine. He finds courage in her words and is able to face the operating room.

The scene latched onto me; it was beautiful. Something inside said, I know this.

Part of what I know is my own struggle against being an overbearing mom. But I think it hit me mostly because of my sweet friend. It took me back to a moment in the hospital room when she told me they'd found cancer in her lungs. She was supposed to be in the clear having stopped treatment only three weeks before. I wanted to be like that mom and tell her everything would be fine, but I didn't have the courage. So I just stood beside the bed holding onto her and we wept.

The first anniversary of her death is coming soon. It was probably dumb watching that movie. Or maybe I knew I needed it. I cried myself to sleep.

I suppose grief is a surprise roller coaster running whenever it wants to. And in a way, I'm glad it's there to stop me in the middle of living to make me take a breath. The sorrow it brings helps me remember not take things for granted or assume people I love will always be here.