WHY I'M WRITING

My mother was diagnosed with cancer over a year ago. She has always been a small powerhouse of a woman. She is strong and feisty, and she doesn’t let anyone stand in her way or tell her what she can’t do. She wants to carry her bags by herself, drink with the guys, and be the cool mom who can roll with the punches of any risque conversation.  My memories of her during my childhood were that of a whirlwind. She was always late. Always rushing to or from the car, always a bit overwhelmed by all of the things she had committed to do, because she didn’t want to disappoint anyone (including herself) by being less than invincible.

My mother is not invincible. She is tired and she sometimes wheezes as she tries to breathe normally after too much exertion.  Exertion used to be a hard workout in the home gym or a day or moving heavy furniture, but now it is sometimes walking the length of the parking lot.  She has good weeks and bad weeks, depending on the duration since her last chemo treatment.  

The thing is, we really all expected she’d be past this by now.  I mean, she is one of the fiercest, healthiest people I know.  When I was growing up, everyone in the house would infect each other will illness and she would keep on, making us all soup and tea.  If anyone was going to breeze through this diagnosis, it was her.

So, we all bucked up for a long and difficult year as she went through chemo, then surgery, then radiation.  And a year later, we were at the starting point again.  Would it “take” the next time around? 

Honestly, I had this small thought that maybe the process would even be a blessing for her.  Maybe after a challenging year of treatment, she would slow down a bit… change her priorities.  Maybe she would get less frazzled by a deadline or dinner guests.  Maybe she would be more willing to say no, or have less to prove.  In my line of work, I have seen many people with chronic disease who have gone through such transformations- some even coming to a point where they are thankful for their diagnosis. Those are rare, but they are the ones who thrive.  They are the ones who see what they have gained from the journey and the point that they never could have reached any other way.

During the first year of her treatment, I often felt helpless.  I live further away than most of the family.  I can’t stop by to empty the dishwasher or bring her a funny movie.  Our phone calls were strained by my wanting to address the illness, but ignore it at the same time.  I wanted to pretend she didn’t feel sick, make her smile or forget.  But I also wanted her to know that I was thinking about it- that I cared every moment of every day about how she was doing and feeling. It turns out that I was also always calling her during her weakest and most fatigued time of day.

So, when we started in to a second year of treatment, I sat down for a heart-to-heart.  And since then, our phone calls are still strained.  I still call at the wrong time of day. I still don’t know what to ask or what to tell.  And I still can’t stop by for tea.

I am not sure what happens when we die, but I have experienced enough that I believe our energy can continue to be a presence in the lives of those we love.  Maybe it is our choice to hang around on this plane without a body. Maybe we are on another plane with a one-way glass allowing us to see in without being seen.  And I believe that if that is a choice, my mom will choose it.  She will be right there with me, telling me which paint colors to choose, and what she thinks of my daughter’s outfit.  But I don’t want to wait until she is gone to speak to the air and hope she hears me.

Maybe she will be in her body for another 30 years.  Maybe she will see both of my children grow up.  Perhaps she will attend their college graduations and weddings and the birth of their first children.  But perhaps the fight between the cancer and the treatment will be over far too soon.  And I don’t want to feel like there were things I should have said when I could still hold her hand, still see her face.

I don’t think I have the guts to sit down with her and tell her everything I want to say.  I don’t think I could formulate it well, and I think it would be too awkward, too fatalistic, and too brief.  I have seen many books and blogs written from parents with cancer to their young kids.  They seem to be a kind of proxy parenting from the page- all of the advice they will need to hear in their heads for the rest of their growing years.  But I haven’t seen the other side of the conversation.  There are things that we kids want to say to our parents also. I haven’t lived long enough to know everything I will want to say to my mother for decades to come.  But I do know the many things I want to say now, before I am speaking to the air and hoping she hears me.