When I first started college, having moved from a rural community to a big city, I was quite overwhelmed. I had gone from never being overly challenged in school to being in college classes in which I was no longer top achiever. I was whining about as much on the phone to my mother when I asked her, “Does it ever get any easier?”
“No. It doesn’t. It only gets harder. So you might as well suck it up. Just keep on keepin’ on.” But that's Mom, destroyer of vain hopes and misguided dreams—the master of guilt trips and great advice.
“Well, thanks a lot.” I was appalled. And disappointed, “Thanks for making me feel so much better about everything.”
“Sometimes you just need to hear the truth. Even if it doesn’t make you feel better,” she said.
Though I hadn’t yet realized it, and dared not admit it, it was exactly what I needed to hear. The simple truth is that life never does get any easier.
*
On Wednesday, December 23, 2009 my father drove my Mom from the ER to the Markey Cancer Center. The ER doctor had taken one look at the CT films and called to get her in right away.
“Mom, I have something to tell you. I’m going to have another baby.” A pause, I could hear the low thrum of the car, “I just wanted to tell you. We were going to wait and tell everyone on Christmas Eve, when we were all together, but I just thought you should know.”
She wasn’t too thrilled about it, but she loves her grandchildren, so she said that she was happy for us. She had been telling me for a long time that having babies was too hard on my body, and that I ought not do that anymore.
**
“Where’s your husband?” my brother asked.
“He’s out buying my Christmas present.” Nothing like waiting until the last minute. “Why?’
“Well, he needs to get home right now and take care of the kids. We’re headed to the hospital and you need to come with us. Now.”
“I have no way to get a hold of him. He doesn’t have the phone with him and he doesn’t know about any of this. What’s going on?”
“Mom’s dying and you need to come with us now.”
I can’t remember whether I told him, “Fuck you,” before I hung up on him or not. I think I did. I was angry, but I didn't know where to direct my anger. I remember wanting to talk to someone who actually knew exactly what was going on; a doctor or something. I called my big sister.
“What is going on? He just called me and said Mom is fucking dying. What the fuck. How can he just say that to me?”
“I told him to say that. I’m sorry; I guess we should have done it differently. Aunt ____ just called and told us that it’s stage four cancer and that we need to come to the hospital.”
I couldn’t accept this. I had already watched my mother-in-law die. I couldn’t watch my own mother die. No. No. It just couldn’t be. No.
***
“Where are we going?” Anna asked me.
“We have to go to the hospital. GG’s in the hospital,” I told her.
“Is GG going to die?” Of course she would associate the hospital with death. She had visited both her paternal grandmothers in the hospital, and they died.
“Not today, baby. Not today.” I hoped. I just kept thinking that there was more to know, there was more to find out. More time. More they could do.
Endometrial cancer was the diagnosis. Their main goal was to regulate her pain. Aggressive chemo, then possibly surgery.
We eventually convinced Dad to come back to the house on Christmas Eve. Christmas morning we woke up and watched the children open their presents. The stacks of our own gifts untouched. It just didn't seem like Christmas. We drove to the cancer center and spent Christmas with Mom in the lobby. I had gotten her the most awesome present ever; Season 1 of Northern Exposure. She gave everyone t-shirts that said "Roark's Irish Pub." Except the kids. She didn't think that would be appropriate attire for the children.
****
My eldest sister and I had been out shopping, ending our little trip at Baskin Robins. A little sign by the register advertised, “Free scoop of ice cream on your birthday!” She pointed it out to me as I slid the boxed ice cream cake onto the counter.
“It’s my birthday,” I said to the high school boy behind the register. He looked doubtful. I could almost hear him thinking, yeah right.
“No, it totally is. I can show you my ID,” I said, fishing in my purse for my wallet.
“No. I don’t care.” He really didn’t. “What do you want?”
It was just the way that he said it. ‘I don’t care.’ ‘Oh, it’s your birthday? Right. I don’t care.’ Not, ‘we get that all the time.’ Or, ‘is it now?’ Just, ‘I don’t care.’ My sister and I laughed about it the whole way home.
Mom had her first chemo treatment that day, the day after Christmas. When we got back to the house, Mom had left a message. When I called her back, she was still getting her treatment. She sang me happy birthday and told me that she loved me. But she didn’t remember doing it, because a little while later she called back to wish me a happy birthday again, apologizing for not having called earlier in the day.
I closed the phone and squeezed my sister’s hand. That was the exact moment it felt really real to me. I had to accept the possibility that I could lose my mother.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Thoughts? Reactions?