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“Not to worry, Gran. You rest. I’ll do our evening chore.”
“Dear girl, what would I do without you?”
I didn’t say it out loud, but I was starting to wonder what I myself would do if ever I were without Gran.
A few days later, Gran had another appointment. When she came home, something was different. I could see it in her face. She looked puffy and strained.
“It seems I am a little bit sick after all,” she said.
“What kind of sickness?” I asked.
“Pancreatic,” she said quietly, her eyes never straying from mine.
“Did they give you medicine?”
“Yes,” she said. “They did. It’s a sickness that unfortunately causes pain, so they’re treating that.”
She hadn’t mentioned pain before that, but I suppose I knew. I could see it in the way she walked, how she struggled to sit down on the sofa each night, how she winced when she got up.
“But what is the illness exactly?” I asked.
She never answered me. Instead, she said, “I need a lie-down, if that’s all right. It’s been a long day.”
“I’ll make you a tea, Gran,” I said.
“Lovely. Thank you.”
Weeks went by and Gran was quieter than normal. When she made breakfast, she didn’t hum. She came home from work early. She was losing weight rapidly and taking more and more medication each day.
I didn’t understand. If she was taking medicine, why wasn’t she getting better?
I launched an investigation. “Gran,” I said, “what illness do you have? You never told me.”
We were in the kitchen at the time, cleaning up after dinner. “My dear girl,” she said. “Let’s have a seat.” We took our spots at our country-style dining set for two, which we’d salvaged years earlier from a bin outside of our building.
I waited for her to speak.
“I’ve been giving you time. Time to get used to the idea,” she eventually said.
“Used to what idea?” I asked.
“Molly, dear. I have a serious illness.”
“You do?”
“Yes. I have pancreatic cancer.”
And just like that, the pieces clicked, the full picture emerged from the murky shadows. This explained the loss of weight and the lack of energy. Gran was only half herself, which is why she needed full and proper medical care so she could make a complete recovery.
“When will the medicine take effect?” I asked. “Maybe you need to see a different doctor?” But as she doled out the details, the truth began to sink in. Palliative. Such an operatic word, so lovely to say. And so hard to contemplate.
“It can’t be, Gran,” I insisted. “You will get better. We simply have to clean up this mess.”
“Oh, Molly. Some messes can’t be cleaned. I’ve had such a good life, I really have. I have no complaints, except that I won’t have more time with you.”
“No,” I said. “This is unacceptable.”
She looked at me then in such an unreadable way. She took my hand in hers. Her skin was so soft, so paper-thin, but her touch was warm, right to the end.
