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My Mother's a Hero
1
’Show me a hero, and I’ll write you a tragedy,’ so said F. Scott Fitzgerald. I’ve heard that quote many times before, but have never understood the true meaning of it. I didn’t understand until three weeks ago, when my best friend, savior, angel, and protector died. This savior was my mother.
Hero.People may call others heroes but fail to look beyond to see the tragedy inside them. For example, people call Princess Diana a hero. They call her a hero because of her amazing philanthropy and unrivaled kindness towards the world. But if you look at her life, you will see the tragedy. To be trapped in a loveless marriage, pressures of media building up on her, constant feelings of unworthiness and self-consciousness. That is the tragedy. Yes, she was a hero, many people are, and if you look beyond the surface, every hero has a tragedy.
My mother was a hero. No, she wasn’t a celebrity who donated millions upon millions of dollars to charities like Princess Diana did, nor did she fight in Afghanistan for six grueling months in a row, like so many soldiers do, she was just Mom. But what has made her a hero, is her unrivaled love and devotion to myself and my sister. Ever since she found out that she had the tumor, she battled breast cancer like a warrior. Throughout all the chemotherapy, pain, emotional and physical, she never let herself quiver or show us that she’s hurting. Because that is how my mother was.
She held back those tears of anguish when Daddy died in combat three years ago. God, it must’ve broken her heart, she and Daddy loved each other until death did them part. But no, she kept her tears at bay to help us grieve. And through that, she grieved with us. She consoled us when we were inconsolable, and somehow always knew what we were feeling and how to make it better. More than anything, I wish she’d be here with me right now.
And in the middle of battling an ongoing tumor, she raised the two of us while Daddy went fighting in the war. She was the one to wake up at all hours of the night because one of us had a bad dream. She was the one that stayed home when one of us contracted the flu or a stomach bug. And when Daddy came home from his tours, that were the happiest I’ve ever seen her be. Every time he came home, she smiled a little brighter, walked a little taller, even her voice had a distinct happiness to it. It was a pleasure to see.
The tumor got worse right before the second anniversary of my father’s death. She had to bump her chemo up to as much her already fragile body could take. Physical exercise was torture for her, and she was emotionally drained after a visit from the hospital. The last couple of weeks were a pain to see. The once energetic, bubbly, and active mom that I had become used to was replaced by a mom whose life was just hanging on a thread. She desperately wanted to look happy, and to be able to come to by soccer games and cheer me on, but all those basic things just became impossible for her to do, no matter how much will-power she had. I never thought that I would see her like that.
Once she collapsed, we knew it was the end. My sister and I rushed to the hospital, and all the relatives arrived. Twenty-six hours have passed with nothing from the doctors, and no news to disarm was. Twenty-six hours seemed the longest in my life. I didn’t dare to sleep, in fear that I would miss the moment to say goodbye to her. I didn’t even dare to go to the cafeteria to grab a snack but I didn’t have that much of an appetite. It wasn’t until my aunt went to the café and bought all kinds of food and made me eat some that I finally digested something.
Finally, at 4 in the morning, the doctor came out. All of us got new vigor and sat up in the uncomfortable hospital chairs.
“How is she? Will she be okay?” my sister asked. Her voice was rough and cracked between words.
The doctor took a breath and removed his glasses from his oblong nose. He rubbed the bridge of his nose before saying anything. “I’m sorry, but she won’t make it to the morning,” the doctor muttered as calmly as he could. “I’m terribly sorry,” he continued. “She’s unconscious but if you wish to say your final goodbyes, this is your time to do so.”
I didn’t cry, or wail, or even breathe for that matter. I just stood up and went calmly into the room my almost dead mother was in and closed the door behind me. I thanked her for all that she has done for me. I thanked her for the lessons that she taught me and how to see the positive side in things. I thanked her for being there for Maria and me when Daddy died. I thanked her for being the best damn mom there ever was, and ever will be. I thanked her for the life that she has given me, and I thanked her for showing me how to love. I asked her to give Daddy the biggest hug and kiss she could from me and to tell him that I love him. I told her that I will do my best to make her proud of me and that I’d never forget her.
And most of all, I thanked her for being there for us through thick and thin. I thanked her for not giving up and always persevering for the better. I told her of how much I was in awe of her determination for my sister and myself to have a better life.
’Show me a hero, and I’ll write you a tragedy’.
Hero.People may call others heroes but fail to look beyond to see the tragedy inside them. For example, people call Princess Diana a hero. They call her a hero because of her amazing philanthropy and unrivaled kindness towards the world. But if you look at her life, you will see the tragedy. To be trapped in a loveless marriage, pressures of media building up on her, constant feelings of unworthiness and self-consciousness. That is the tragedy. Yes, she was a hero, many people are, and if you look beyond the surface, every hero has a tragedy.
My mother was a hero. No, she wasn’t a celebrity who donated millions upon millions of dollars to charities like Princess Diana did, nor did she fight in Afghanistan for six grueling months in a row, like so many soldiers do, she was just Mom. But what has made her a hero, is her unrivaled love and devotion to myself and my sister. Ever since she found out that she had the tumor, she battled breast cancer like a warrior. Throughout all the chemotherapy, pain, emotional and physical, she never let herself quiver or show us that she’s hurting. Because that is how my mother was.
She held back those tears of anguish when Daddy died in combat three years ago. God, it must’ve broken her heart, she and Daddy loved each other until death did them part. But no, she kept her tears at bay to help us grieve. And through that, she grieved with us. She consoled us when we were inconsolable, and somehow always knew what we were feeling and how to make it better. More than anything, I wish she’d be here with me right now.
And in the middle of battling an ongoing tumor, she raised the two of us while Daddy went fighting in the war. She was the one to wake up at all hours of the night because one of us had a bad dream. She was the one that stayed home when one of us contracted the flu or a stomach bug. And when Daddy came home from his tours, that were the happiest I’ve ever seen her be. Every time he came home, she smiled a little brighter, walked a little taller, even her voice had a distinct happiness to it. It was a pleasure to see.
The tumor got worse right before the second anniversary of my father’s death. She had to bump her chemo up to as much her already fragile body could take. Physical exercise was torture for her, and she was emotionally drained after a visit from the hospital. The last couple of weeks were a pain to see. The once energetic, bubbly, and active mom that I had become used to was replaced by a mom whose life was just hanging on a thread. She desperately wanted to look happy, and to be able to come to by soccer games and cheer me on, but all those basic things just became impossible for her to do, no matter how much will-power she had. I never thought that I would see her like that.
Once she collapsed, we knew it was the end. My sister and I rushed to the hospital, and all the relatives arrived. Twenty-six hours have passed with nothing from the doctors, and no news to disarm was. Twenty-six hours seemed the longest in my life. I didn’t dare to sleep, in fear that I would miss the moment to say goodbye to her. I didn’t even dare to go to the cafeteria to grab a snack but I didn’t have that much of an appetite. It wasn’t until my aunt went to the café and bought all kinds of food and made me eat some that I finally digested something.
Finally, at 4 in the morning, the doctor came out. All of us got new vigor and sat up in the uncomfortable hospital chairs.
“How is she? Will she be okay?” my sister asked. Her voice was rough and cracked between words.
The doctor took a breath and removed his glasses from his oblong nose. He rubbed the bridge of his nose before saying anything. “I’m sorry, but she won’t make it to the morning,” the doctor muttered as calmly as he could. “I’m terribly sorry,” he continued. “She’s unconscious but if you wish to say your final goodbyes, this is your time to do so.”
I didn’t cry, or wail, or even breathe for that matter. I just stood up and went calmly into the room my almost dead mother was in and closed the door behind me. I thanked her for all that she has done for me. I thanked her for the lessons that she taught me and how to see the positive side in things. I thanked her for being there for Maria and me when Daddy died. I thanked her for being the best damn mom there ever was, and ever will be. I thanked her for the life that she has given me, and I thanked her for showing me how to love. I asked her to give Daddy the biggest hug and kiss she could from me and to tell him that I love him. I told her that I will do my best to make her proud of me and that I’d never forget her.
And most of all, I thanked her for being there for us through thick and thin. I thanked her for not giving up and always persevering for the better. I told her of how much I was in awe of her determination for my sister and myself to have a better life.
’Show me a hero, and I’ll write you a tragedy’.