Cancer sucks. First it takes the body, then it the mind. I knew there would come a day you would forget me, and I…

Cancer sucks.

First it takes the body, then it the mind. I knew there would come a day you would forget me, and I prepared myself for it, so I thought. I knew you would forget my son but what I didn't know is it would break my heart quite this bad. I was selfish in the beginning. When you were first diagnosed I couldn't see you for a few weeks. It hurt my heart too must to know chemo was going to be part of your life until the day the cancer would overpower it. Terminal, inoperable, 6 months with chemo, 3 months without treatment. Spread through both lungs and many lymph nodes throughout the chest. I'm selfish, I mourn that I have fertility issues and you would have never have saw me raise my own family. My children would only know you through my memories. I mourn the relationship that could have been. You are the glue that holds our huge family together. 6 months pass, you're still doing great. Your cancer is shrinking a little every 6 weeks. 12 months pass, the cancer is no longer shrinking, but it is stable. I'm pregnant, you actually get to see me pregnant!!! You tell me that you will be there to see me give birth. You tell me that not even cancer will stand in your way. 18 months, same story, growth, but not spreading. Doctors are so happy you have made it this far. May 15th 2015. He's here, YOU'RE here. You have never been one to go back on your promises. Cancer has been busy growing. Spine, hip, thigh added to the list. 24 months growth, but very slow growth. 30 months since diagnosed. Brain and liver are now housing your cancer. Pain, and lots of it. radiation on the bones to help with pain management. Chemo was a walk in the park compared to this. Hospice is called. They know it's early, but comfort is the top priority now. Little by little I watch the light in your eyes dim. Blood in the tissues you cough into now. You can't be left alone, too weak to make if from the hospital bed to the couch. Too stubborn to want our help. I'm standing right here, just take my arm, we can get to the couch one step at a time. Oxygen. Morphine. Breathing treatment. Draining your lungs. How does 1.3 liters of fluid even fit in your lungs with the tumors taking up so much space in the first place. "Where am I? Who are you? Kara? Kara who?" Grandma, I love you so much. But please, you don't have to hang on anymore. I know you are in there deep down, I know you scared, I am too. Every breath looks to be your last. Everything will be okay. It will be soon that I will never see you again. But I am so happy that I got so much time with you.