why is there cancer?

This morning, mom was lying in bed flat on her back and said she wanted to get up. I started raising her head and she grabbed the control from me and sat up as straight as she could, but kept holding down the button even after the head of her bed was up all the way. I took it back and put the bed back down to her regular position, telling her, "This is how you usually sit, mom. You'll probably be more comfortable like this."

She looked at me and said, "I want to get out of bed."

Immediately, I thought of a dream I had a few months ago. Mom was in the living room sitting in her blue glider and she was fine. Ryan had the same dream a few weeks after I did. Back when I had it, I had mentioned it to mom and she told me that it wouldn't happen because the cancer had eaten away so much of her spine that she didn't think it was possible for her to sit up in a chair anymore. When mom said that to me this morning, I told her, "I don't think you could, mom. You haven't been out of bed in months."

"Why?" she asked.

"Because of the cancer, mom. Remember? It's eating away at your spine and your muscles are weak since you've been laying in bed for so long. I don't think you could walk." Then I asked her if she wanted me to clean out her mouth again and she said yes. She's been doing this chewing motion almost constantly now, and I think she's chewing on her tongue. Yesterday, she kept telling us, "Get it out of my mouth!" but there wasn't anything in her mouth. I thought maybe it was a bad taste and using a swab with mouthwash would help. When I came back in with the swab, I tried to clean out her mouth but she wouldn't let me.

Instead, she looked at me and, waving her hands in the air toward me as if she were trying to hold onto me, asked, "Why is there cancer? Why do I have to have cancer?"

I've been holding it together pretty good these past few months, but I couldn't help it then. I held her hand as the tears started rolling down my cheeks and said, "I don't know, mom. You'll have to ask God that."

I don't know why there is cancer. I don't know why it's my mom that's dying of cancer, especially in a long, drawn-out battle like this. I had to leave the room because I had to tell dad; I lost it and sobbed. Dad came back in before me and was talking to mom and I heard her say, "I don't know why I love you. I don't know why you love me. I don't know why God loves me anymore." It's hard to see her not remembering, not knowing, but having to go through the reasoning again that something's wrong with me, I have cancer and I can't get up and not really knowing what's going on. When I sat back down and asked if there was anything I could do for her, mom reached out her hand, put it on my cheek, and motioned with her other arm to come closer.

"You want a hug?" I asked. "I can do that." And I leaned over my mom's bed and hugged her. When I stood up, she motioned that she wanted me to come back closer and she hugged me to her again, keeping me close for a minute or two. It was probably the last hug I'll ever have from my mom, and it was the one I'll remember the rest of my own life.