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“I’m warning you, Oliver. Stop now.”
“I won’t. I will never stop, Remy. Not ever. This diagnosis doesn’t automatically mean the end of you. Anyone with half a brain knows there are many potential outcomes. It doesn’t mean you’ll be just like your mother. You’re so afraid; so afraid and unwilling to take a risk. A risk to save your life. And you’re so afraid you’ll become a shadow of who you are, like she did. But her body finally couldn’t go on, and it did give out, but you know what? She fought. She fought to the very end. But not you. You already are quitting. Quitting before you’ve even started. You’ve barely been diagnosed and already you’ve given up and become someone I don’t recognize.”
“What do you want from me? I’m doing the best I can with the situation I’ve been dealt,” I tell him, but something inside of me wrenches in discomfort, because I know that’s a lie.
“You know what I want. I want you to accept nothing less than living. I want you to summon all the guts needed and combine it with your stubbornness and intelligence and resilience and persistence and strength that makes you, you. I want you to gather whatever it is you need inside of yourself and in the medical community and fight as though your life depended on it, because it does. It’s time you act like this is the biggest fight of your life. I want you to accept nothing less than the best outcome because that’s what you deserve, because that’s what you want. I want you to show cancer who the hell is boss. But the kicker is, I want you to do it for you. Because that’s what you choose. That is the Remy I know. That is the Remy I-”
My mind is spinning and I cut him off in anger, “You have no idea what this is like. No idea how this feels. How hard I am fighting…just to get through each day right now.”
“No, you’re right, I don’t. But you know what? I know you. I know you better than anyone, and this woman,” he gestures to me as if I don’t know to whom he’s referring, “isn’t her.”
“You know, that’s funny. Because given how little time we’ve spent with each other over the past several months, how can you claim to even know me anymore at all? Again, I ask you who the hell you think you are?” A low blow and I know it, but I’m angry and will lash out with anything.
Having paced while delivering his lecture, his current stance away from the door enables me to move closer to exit. He moves toward me and I take steps backward until my back meets the door. He gets close to me, his face even with mine, “I know, and will always know you better than anyone. You use the nail on your index finger to pick at the side of your thumb when you’re stressed.” He looks down at my hand and sees I’m doing exactly that. I put my hand down at my side and he smirks. “You hate tomatoes, you love oranges, you make all kinds of lists – a habit you picked up from your mom. You love your cat Meatball, but always secretly have also wanted a dog, something you feel guilty about. You like lots of ice in cold beverages, but hate to hear others crunching it. You stash chocolate in your bedside stand in a canister, thinking no one will ever know your secret. But I do. I know you hate and will always hate frogs,” he smiles and I know he’s remembering my birthday years ago. “Your hair looks like golden silk in the sun and you always keep a safety pin in your bag in case of an emergency. And who am I? I’m the man that wants more time with you. All the fucking time I can get. I’m the man that refuses to allow you to give up without a fight and loves you enough to tell you when you’re being stupid. And make no mistake; you’re being stupid. As I said before, you’re assuming an outcome without any proof; a path that will be the same as your mother’s and I’m telling you that’s one hell of a stupid assumption.”
Feeling rattled by all the things he just said, I almost feel breathless as I respond, “You don’t know that.” And then my voice gets louder because my emotions are pushing so hard against my chest I feel like I’m going to explode, “You don’t fucking know that!”“Neither do you!” he bellows. “You’re spending all this time comparing yourself to your mom and her situation, but have you even asked yourself the biggest question of them all?”
“What question?” I ask exasperated.
“What would your mother think about this; about your choice? The woman that taught you to always have a reason to keep going, to not let assumptions and fear hold you back in life, to not hold you back from what matters – what would she say? What would she think of your willingness to throw in the towel? About how easy it seems for you to just give up?”
“She did!” I yell at him. Tears begin to stream down my cheeks. “For all the preaching she did about continuing to move forward, to not borrow trouble, to enjoy life – she gave up, Oliver. She may have received treatment, but she stopped living when she got that diagnosis. She changed after that diagnosis and was never the same. She forgot all about our lists and in time, she lost hope, she assumed and expected the worst…she… became a shell of the mother I knew.”
“Maybe so. Maybe eventually she did do all of those things, Remy, but you know what the difference is between you and her?” Shaking my head I brace myself, automatically feeling in my very soul that what he’s about to tell me is going to hurt. “She tried. It certainly wasn’t the end result she hoped for, the one she wished to have, but she tried whatever was available to her so she could spend more time with you. She didn’t give up, Remy - only her body gave in. And I only see the fighting, the persistence, the struggle she endured so she could be here as long as possible. She fought with every single thing she had.”
“And yet, she still lost.”
“She may have lost her life, but in the end she died knowing she gave it her all, her best. She couldn’t have done anything more, and likely not differently. She couldn’t have tried harder. She died teaching you that courage means making the decision to try.”
Trying to process everything he’s said, I’m quiet. I’m not sure how or if I want to respond. Everything within me hurts; my mind, my heart, my spirit. I feel a sob rising in my throat but I do everything I can to hold it in. Am I a coward? Is it easier to just give up than to make the choice to fight because fighting means I may fail? Choosing not to fight has merit as well. It enables me to plan for the end result. I won’t get my hopes up. I could potentially have more energy and not be sick and alone. I can’t be disappointed. I can take a predictable road. I’ve had a reasonably good life, even if shorter than I would have liked. How can that not be an acceptable choice? Isn’t choosing to not get treatment a brave act too? The fact is, I’ve not found a reason to choose differently. But, Oliver’s words have twisted me up because my mom fought, she fought with everything she had. She may have become frail, tired, weak and almost unrecognizable in her sadness and pain, but she had far more courage than I do right now.
“You know, Oliver… sometimes courage also means being brave enough to let go. To know one’s limits and establish boundaries.” Feeling as if the walls are closing in on me, I know what I need. “I’m getting out of here.”
Oliver nods, but doesn’t say another word. When our eyes meet there’s a fire in his, a desire to make me feel all the things he hopes for me, but not able to process that right now or frankly think that it’s his right to expect, I spin on my heel and walk out the door.
His words hit me hard and as I make my way out to the front of the resort to get a taxi I realize that even though he knew I wouldn’t likely react well, he loved me enough to be honest with me anyway.
