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“Meatball, Dr. Peters told me I have cancer. I’m dying.”
My voice sounds loud and hollow. It’s funny – I thought stating those words would sound differently. It’s odd how words can make you feel. They can evoke absolutely nothing, or they can vibrate through your body, ring out in a room, make your stomach drop, feel empowering, give you butterflies and so much more. These particular words… they feel serpentine in the room, in my heart, in my soul… in my very bones.
Their impact descends heavily on the room, yet they’ve left an echo behind. Or maybe it’s more like a small tornado. It’s in the way the hairs on my arms stand on end. It’s in the devastation that sits behind a crumbling wall in my chest. It’s in the way the words sit heavily in the air, in this space, in the way my body feels vast and empty at knowing their truth.
Gingerly letting Meatball glide back to the floor, ignoring her cries of protest, I gather my dropped items, straighten my clothing and put my keys, papers and purse away. I need the familiar acts – find them soothing in a way. Looking around, I suddenly remember my mother being here in the home we shared. A day never goes by that I don’t think of her, but it’s been a long time since I’ve pictured her in this particular space. The home became mine when she passed away. Having paid it off when she inherited money from my grandmother’s will, it seemed foolish not to keep it, even if painful at first.
Now, I picture her looking out the window smiling, cooking in the kitchen and laughing at something I said. I’d give anything for one more hug from her or to hear her laugh. I had no idea how much you could miss the sound of someone’s voice. I wish I’d thought to record her telling me she loved me so I could replay it whenever I wanted. My favorite was when she would tuck my hair behind my ear and push it out of my eyes. She’d smile and tell me not to cover up my beautiful face. A cry gets caught in my throat and I do my best to push it down.
Needing a drink of water, I snag a new bottle from the kitchen refrigerator. Taking a sip, I try to decide what I can do to distract myself. I took the day off work, even with an early appointment. I wanted to make sure I had time to myself in case… well in case I would need it. Now, in part, I regret that decision. My accounting job may not be glamorous, but it pays the bills and keeps me busy. My mind could use that at the moment, but showing up now isn’t an option.
Briefly, I consider washing the dishes waiting in my sink, but suddenly I feel exhausted and decide I’d like a nap.
Quickly changing my clothes in my room into my favorite jogger pants and tank, I reflect on my inability to sleep the night before. No matter how hard I tried I couldn’t tamper the anxiety running rampant through me knowing my appointment loomed. When I somehow managed to fall asleep for a little while, my worries followed me into my dreams, making for a sleepless night.
Lying down, I toss and turn trying to find a comfortable position. I begin with the covers all around me, but then I get warm and kick them off. I flip my pillow to the cool side and close my eyes waiting for sleep to take me away. Instead, my mind replays the doctor appointment. The morbid images that came to me with the news visit my mind once more. I pull the sheet tightly up around my neck.
It’s useless though and eventually my eyes snap open and I quickly abandon the idea of a nap. Exchanging my soft bed for my living room sofa, I flip on the TV. Scrolling through to look at available options, I decide losing myself in a movie would be a good distraction for a couple of hours – maybe more. I’ll pick a few and watch them back-to-back. I’d like to find a comedy to make me laugh, but my favorite comedies are of the romantic variety. Knowing I’m not in the mood for that, I stop surfing when I see an old movie that’s so stupid it always makes me laugh. Woodenly, I watch the duo on screen that generally makes me giggle, but instead when the familiar, “Housekeeping, you want me to fluff pillow?” doesn’t lift my spirits; I know that trying to find a distraction via the TV is hopeless.
Turning it off I sit in the silence and try to determine exactly what I’m feeling and what I should do about it. There’s sadness and despair running through me, but there’s also anger and resentment. A few weeks ago I went to the doctor because I couldn’t shake a feeling of lethargy. I thought perhaps I was anemic after looking on Google for possible causes. I wasn’t surprised when the doctor ordered a blood test knowing it would be how he’d determine if that was the case. What I didn’t expect was for that blood test to turn into another - then for that test to turn into a couple more. I felt fear then. It turned my stomach to ice and clawed its way up to my throat making me unable to give my fears voice. That voice would have whispered that I had hoped I’d be spared this.
Yet, here I am. Stricken now with a disease that I watched my own mother, my best friend and confidante, wither away and die trying to fight. Ever since her diagnosis and death from breast cancer, part of me knew my own days were numbered, but bigger was the hope that having endured her loss, maybe just maybe, the pain would end there and this was a legacy I would get to forgo.
I should have known better. I know the statistics. I researched like hell for something, anything, to help my mother. I could recite the treatment modalities, facts about various chemotherapeutic agents, the experimental procedure outcomes and the potential success rates of each as well as the best clinician. And I learned about its genetic propensity – the likelihood that since she had it, I would too someday. And then I watched. And prayed. And supported her in every way possible. Each and every day she would fight like hell, but the cancer continued to kill her slowly. We would get a sign that maybe she was kicking it, but remission would rarely last for any measurable timeframe. I think the sickest part, the hardest part, was the last time it went away for a while. We actually celebrated her remission. Did all the things one does when you’ve kicked cancer’s ass. We had won, we beat it and we were on top of the world. I mean, after a double mastectomy and rounds of chemotherapy and radiation how does breast cancer find it’s way back anyway – and to where? I didn’t know that was even possible. The research did not suggest that was at all likely. But cancer is a vicious, deceiving disease.
I’d never been more clueless. I thought the sickness from the chemo or the recuperation after surgery would be the worst of it. But watching her mourn the loss of her breasts, the changes in her body, were devastating. I still remember the time I went to her room to tell her she had a phone call. The door was cracked and as I peeked through ready to push the door open, I stopped, catching her looking at herself in the mirror, topless. I froze, my hand flying to my mouth preventing a cry mixed with shock and surprise. Angry, twisted and puckered scars declared their territory on her body. Crimson red amongst a sea of white skin shocking and foreign in their presence. I watched as she tentatively touched her skin, felt the absence of her breasts. I watched as tears fell down her embattled, sad face and she crossed her arms over her chest as if in shame - as though she had any control over the cancer that had invaded her body. I saw her incredibly grief-stricken eyes and knew I’d witnessed the death of her self-perceived womanhood. I wanted to rush in and hug her. I wanted to tell her that breasts didn’t make a woman beautiful, that she would always be beautiful to me, but I didn’t. I left her to her privacy and she never knew I saw her. While I shed my own tears and mourned silently with her, I also rejoiced at the strength of my mother. Regardless of the immense loss of femininity that I know she was feeling, to me and to the world she portrayed courage, bravery, resilience and strength. I wish I had gone into that room. I wish I had told her how proud I was of her. That I knew she was doing whatever it took to stay here, to spend more time with me, to be here as long as she could. I knew she didn’t want to leave me alone. I never questioned her choice. I cherished every last moment, but now… now I feel selfish and ashamed. She did whatever she could, but… to what end? I lost her anyway – and it was brutal and painful. I watched her become a shell of the woman she had been. So many dreams and wishes left unfulfilled. Now, it’s my turn. The difference is I don’t have anyone relying on me to do anything; no one who needs me here, no reason to sustain my existence. Which is why I’m not sure that choosing treatment is the direction I’ll be taking. Why delay the inevitable?
