I always felt uncomfortable when I sat and listened my aunt, to the woman who raised me as her daughter, talk about my birth mom. It was a heavy nugget in the pit of my stomach that would climb up to my throat and stick there like peanut butter. It hurt mentally and physically.
There was always this awkward cloud hanging over my head when she described in detail the final moments of my mother’s life. With each word, my mind conjured images of my bald mother, wincing in pain, coughing up what my aunt thought was her liver. The story sticks with me like a nagging pop song, dancing around in my head in rhythm. She coughed, until her body shook violently and then she gagged.
My aunt stood by her side, shied away from her gagging and almost gagged herself until she realized that her sister needed her at that very moment. So, she stayed and with her bare hands, she caught the black mass that was coming from my mother’s mouth. I hated this story when my aunt decided I was old enough to hear it. I was 12 when I learned to hate Cancer.
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