Tears for Mama

Sometimes I wish that life was one big cartoon. How easy could it be?  I could tear up the pages I didn't like, erase away the hurts and draw  a happy smile on me even though my heart is breaking. I could take a big pink rubber ( like the one at school) and slowly and oh so carefully erase the little bump on the 16 year old's stomach.
No, No. Mama will never need to know. It is okay. Accidents can happen.
As quickly as a kiss on a baby's boo boo, everything will be all right.
There is no need to fret.
Like a book in reverse, at warp speed, I would turn back time. I would make Mama well again.
I know God, that Heaven is a beautiful place. You said in the Bible that it was. I just never thought she would leave us this soon. I never thought much about dying because that is for old people. But Mama is not old.
For the first time in my life I feel true terror. I have realized that we are all mortal.
The doctors say to prepare for the worst. But Mama says, "If I have a good attitude I can beat this thing." And with a little girls heart I want to believe her. Aren't parents always right? Mama would know. She has always told me the truth.
In the light of day, it is easy to believe the test results are wrong. That this monster they call cancer is going to die a quick death. Our life will go on as it always has. In the daytime, my fear stays hidden deep inside me. But, I am thinking about it constantly. It is a news commentary in the back of my mind. It is running constantly like a old silent film and flashIng an annoying white light.
At night, when all is still and quiet. I am afraid. How will our family go on if Mama dies? What will we do? I know this happens to all people sooner or later. Parents die, babies are born. It is a fact of life.  I don't feel strong enough to deal with this. Seeing her in pain is more than I can bear. It is like a nightmare. Won't someone please wake me up? I thought my Mom would live to be in her eighties like grandmother did.
My sister is denying it all. She says Mom is not sick. Why do I have to be such a realist? It is not doing me any good. Perhaps by saying it doesn't exist, it won't. Like the evil monster under the little kids bed, it is not there.
Some people paint as a therapy and some people write like I do. A person has to do something to deal with stress.
When I write my feelings down, it soothes me in a way talking out loud never could.
And I imagine how nice it would be if life were one big cartoon and I could erase all the pain.