Fourteen

I’m home. Though this seems odd to say seeing as I never actually lived in my parent’s new and vastly improved house. The old home, the aging, quirky one-story ranch with not enough bathrooms, bedrooms or space, was replaced by this behemoth. This family fun-center. Their dream home on the lake.

They built it for Christmases and Fourth of July’s and maybe even an outdoor wedding.

They built it dreaming of the day their grandchildren would fill the house with laughter.

But mostly, they built it for each other.

May was her favorite month. Its easy warmth and cool nights a relief before the summer’s onslaught of humidity and oppressive heat, its mosquitoes and biting horseflies. May was spent in her gardens, preparing them for the upcoming growing season. A growing season she felt was far too short. May was when her tulips would begin peeking up through the grass, emerald green and not yet scorched by the relentless sun and parched earth.

It was sunset kayak trips and evenings around the fire.

Rum and Diet Pepsi’s in the hot tub after a day spent biking or hiking.

Rejuvenation, rebirth and optimism.

Then it all went away.

She thought she pulled a muscle. Why would she think it was anything more sinister? After all, she was healthy. She was active. She could’ve pulled a muscle any number of ways.

Of course, if she’d thought it was cancer, she’d have seen the doctor.

But it was just a pulled muscle.

Except it wasn’t.

To remember, she always got her mammogram on her birthday. A quick morning pit stop before she could commence with her day at the spa, a gift Dad had been giving her since they got married. Only this time there would be no day at the spa. Instead, she’d spend her day getting ultrasounds and biopsies. She’d spent hours in waiting rooms and even more by the phone. And when the doctor called, he would not say “congratulations” or “nothing to worry about,” only that he wanted to see her and my dad first thing in the morning.

What should have been a beautiful day, wasn’t.

What had been her favorite month, was no longer.

Getting the call that your mom has cancer sucks. But it was only breast cancer and we all know breast cancer is beatable. It’s not the most common cancer for nothing. I mean if it was that bad there’d be no women left. If it was that bad, I’d have been scared. I would have started crying or at least taken the whole thing seriously.

But like I said, it was only breast cancer.

At least it was for a day.

Then it metastasized.

When I heard that it had spread to her spine and liver, I decided the cancer didn’t deserve my attention. It wasn’t that I didn’t care or wasn’t worried. I was. Rather, I figured that me worrying about it wouldn’t change a thing. It wasn’t like my crying and freaking out would be more effective than chemotherapy or a mastectomy. Besides, she was already scared, no need to add to her worry.

After I hung up I made the mistake of checking out Wikipedia, then Web MD and a shitload of other cancer sites. Piece of advice, if a loved one ever gets cancer, don’t do what I did. Books and research and stats are helpful to a point, but do you really need to know the survivability rates? Do the odds matter? I’m pretty sure the cancer doesn’t give a shit.

If you’re curious, the 5-year survivability rate for Stage IV metastatic breast cancer is 20%. There is no Stage V. There is no cure. Recommended treatment focuses on extending survival time and relieving symptoms.

The last time I saw her, cancer was something other people got.

If it wasn’t for Jen I’m not sure I would have gone home. Maybe I would have. Maybe for Thanksgiving or Christmas. I know, it’s pathetic and cowardly and sad. How could a son do such a thing? Easy, fear. So long as I didn’t see her, I was spared the vision of her pain and suffering. So long as I didn’t see her, she was still the vibrant and strong woman I had always known.

But she said she feels fine now that the chemo is over. She said that despite the slight droop on the left side of her face (Bell’s Palsy can be blamed for that) and the fact that her hair grew back curly, she looks like she did nine months ago.

And she does. You can hardly tell she has cancer. What the hell am I saying, you can’t tell she has cancer. And if you didn’t know she had it, you wouldn’t have ever suspected she was sick.

“Which sucks,” she said, “because even though I feel great, I know it’ll never go away.”

We were sitting in the living room. The light hearted reminiscing had just taken a slight detour to the serious. Mom was sitting on the floor, back to the couch. Dad was sitting on the couch behind her, scratching her head.

“But you’re fine now,” Jen asked.

“The tumors aren’t growing.”

“And they haven’t spread,” added Dad. I could hear the forced optimism in his voice.

“So you’re in remission?”

Mom looked at Jen and smiled. “Kind of, but not really. It’s still there. We’re just keeping it at bay.”

They were having this conversation. I wasn’t. She looked fine. And if she looked fine, she was fine.

I don’t have to tell myself that delusion and denial can be healthy when used for good. Besides, there are many other ways a person can die. Maybe she’d have a stroke or a heart attack. Of course an aneurysm or car wreck would work too. I’d be fine with anything but cancer.

She doesn’t deserve the indignity.

We don’t deserve the pain.