Mom’s notes to me as a kid, from diagnosis to near death

When I was in 7th-early 9th grade, my mom would write me little notes in lieu of her actually being there. Sometimes this was because her 4 a.m. medications made her so drowsy she couldn’t get up when I did at 6:30 for school. Sometimes it was because she and dad were in Louisville getting radiation treatments. Because of time zone differences and my 4:30 school bus arrival, she was normally not home until around 6 or 6:30.

She didn’t know, nor did anyone else, that I started saving those notes sometime around 8th grade. I’ve had them in a cigar box and have moved them everywhere with me. I’ve never looked at them, never re-read them, or done anything with them until today.

I’ve scanned all these notes. I think I have them in a close chronological order.

Earlier notes seemed to center around me never wearing a coat (I’ve always hated wearing a coat). Many notes regarding plugging and unplugging things is a reality of living in a big empty field: anytime a storm came through we were one strike away from blowing every appliance in the house. Also, we had an air purifier because we had a wood-burning stove for heat, so it was necessary to have an air purifier and air humidifier nearby. Very Little House on the Prairie.

It’s pretty obvious that her once very nice hand writing and spelling were slowly destroyed by the brain tumor. Eventually she stopped because she became self-aware of her own inability to think of the proper words and she eventually went blind. I’ve written about that before.

January 18th is the 13 year anniversary of her death. These are her notes.

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