YOU ARE NOT ALONE - A companion online community discussion board for The Mental Illness Happy Hour podcast with Paul Gilmartin

As a child, I thought that my mother was indestructible. The introduction to the idea that my mother would one day leave me was issued very early in my psychological development. Around that time, my first grandparent died. Mortality was being challenged all around me and not understanding the full consequences of death, I was very accepting of certain things. Of course, by acceptance, I mean escapism and avoidance.
I don't quite remember learning about my mother's brain tumor, nor do I remember how it was broken to me. I do, however, remember that her surgery happened in September as she was hospitalized during my brother's birthday.
My mother spent a lot of time with these searing headaches and after a scan, a tumor was located on the left side of her brain.
As I was so young, I didn't understand the gravity of the situation. It was possible that my mother could have never woken from such an invasive procedure. It was possible that she could have been paralyzed.
At my age now, I understand how incredibly lucky I was. There were a myriad of complications that could have occurred that I couldn't have possibly fathomed at six years old.
I did know that something was wrong. I must have, because I was obviously being distracted wherever I went. I would stay overnight at a friends house and they would keep me busy until they needed a break and then I would pop in the Chipmunk Adventure on their VCR and watch as Alvin and Brittney rock-battled in the Parthenon.
I remember visiting my mother in the hospital, seeing the staples in her head and being terrified. She tried very hard not to cry because she couldn't remember my name but she could feel that I was a part of her. She smiled and tried not to make me uncomfortable. The left side of her mouth didn't lift until the right was completely up, her lips pulling into an unintentional half grin. I tried not to be terrified. I knew that my mother was in there somewhere.
I had read so many stories, had thought up so many intricate plots where all I needed was to whisper a secret word and her memory of me would be recovered. After all, a kiss could wake a sleeping princess. A toy could become a real boy. Six chipmunks could go on a whirlwind balloon adventure.
I brought a book of fairy tales for my mother to read to me. I loved books. I loved stories. I loved to listen to my mother’s calm and steady tone, always speaking her words with conviction. She would never falter, never question the correct pronunciation. She would simply bring a tale to life. I had missed that every night I was without her.
So I shuffled around her bed and slid unto the space she had made for me. She smiled and asked me what I wanted her to read and I turned to Rapunzel. She started out slowly and shakily and then eventually stopped. I waited for her to continue and looked across the room at my father. His eyes were bloodshot from the increasing lack of sleep he had endured during my mother’s procedures.
A fresh set of tears formed in his eyes and I could swear I could feel him crying until I realized that the side of my face was wet. I looked up and my mother was silently crying. I asked her what was wrong and she admitted that she didn’t know what the next word was. I remember a choice swimming in my head – cry with her or be strong. I chose the latter and started reading to her.
I could feel her body relaxing next to mine as she let me continue reading. At six years old I felt the overwhelming urge to take care of my mother. Something inside me focused all of my energy on getting through the story and enjoying my time with my mother. There was time for tears on the ride home.
I believed that I needed to take care of my mother.