Loss Prevention

Last Week of December

Anti-dry mouth mouthwash.  Lemon extract, peppermint extract.  Fleece zippered jacket, red (red because it was my mom and my sister that finally convinced me to shed the black and wear color again, years ago. I bought a red dress to start with.)  Hats: purple fedora with sequins (a favorite picture of my mom was taken by my dad in black and white: she’s wearing a black felt hat, holding a flower to her cheek, looking askance at the camera) and a black fleece cap for the cold.  Lotions, extra bronzer and chemical-free face powder (no more chemicals, don’t add to the poison in her body).   Ginger tea for the nausea, chamomile tea for calm.  Handheld Sudoku game (because she has said on numerous occasions that hours and hours of solitaire at her computer helped her through my brother’s deployment) , backlit and easy on the eyes.

That’s all I could think of then.  That’s all I can remember now; this is what I gave my mom, a cancer-survival kit, I guess. Stuff to preserve her, to keep her, body and spirit, intact during these months.  The cancer diagnosis happened so quickly and treatment began so quickly that I just threw together a mishmash of anything that could possibly help.

And, really, it was just voodoo.  Piling up stuff to make the cancer stop, to make the treatment work but not hurt, to make sure, really really make sure that she felt cared for and to maybe do a tenth of the good for her that she’s done for me.  Loss prevention, something to staunch grief.

I’ve compiled a list of every possible side effect for chemotherapy and a remedy; not prevention, just a remedy (i.e. swishing with mouthwash 5-6 times a day could ease mouth sores; some foods can actually stop metastasis by preventing the growth of capillaries; add mint or lemon extract to everything to block the metallic taste of chemo; and so on).  My list is nothing compared to what my dad has put together, is entirely different from a list my sister made of oils and herbal remedies to soothe mind and body, and falls so short of what my brother offered, a blood transfusion to replenish her blood cells.

First Week of January

My dad texted me on the first day of treatment to say that the chemotherapy chemicals were being mixed.  Nurses were going to start injecting it in a few minutes.  I briefly panicked, about the drugs entering her, the havoc they will cause to her self.  I cried.  The panic immediately was intense and painful (i.e. yes, the same old sensation of choking, dizziness, etc.), but was different because I think I was terrified as opposed to panic-sensations-not-based-in-reality.  This was really it and I so didn’t want it to be.

Days before this, I had a couple of (selfish? weak? exhausted?) conversations with my partner that went something like: I’ve spent the better part of my LIFE grieving over shit, I can’t do it again; I don’t know how to do it again; there’s no way she should have to go through this, too, or that all of us should have to go through this, too; how do I handle loss and grief during the happiest part of my life, like what do I do with it; this my mom, this is my mom, how do I help her or how I can stand by and witness this happening to my mom?

So when dad texted, I wanted to immediately do something to stop it.  Then the voice so quiet said to me: this is healing, this is good.  And my panic was gone.  And my mom is in the 4th week of treatment.

Stop All the Clocks

My mom admits that she’s not a great communicator; she prefers to write what she wants to say.  I’ve learned a lot about her through written communication and though I yearn for a more intimate relationship with my mom, I am the same way.  I write what I want to say.  Writing is organized and can be edited and it helps my brain to settle and focus.  The written word has weight and carries something of the eternal with it; the written word is participation in the dialogue of humanity.  It is what’s left.

Writing instead of vocalizing is also distance.  My self, my heart once removed scratched onto white space.  It’s easier for me to write than to speak; this white space a place to put my self and my say.

That said, not only do I not know how to say this, but I don’t know how to write this.  When my mom called this morning,  she  could not say the word either.  But she called and we spoke to each other and wept.  My mom told me what it was. My mom has cancer.

There are the words, there.  There.  For all their distance and for all the white space surrounding them and holding them and bearing them up, the words are not distant enough and it hurts and I can’t say anymore.

Instead, this is what others have said in their grief:

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,

Silence the pianos and with muffled drum

…let the mourners come.                                   Auden

Do not go gentle into that good night

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.                                     Dylan

In this world you will have trouble.  But take heart!  I have overcome the world.   Jesus

And this is what my mom wrote:

I’ve lived long enough to say, I don’t want this, I don’t want this, I don’t want this, but if I must my first response cannot be anger at God nor hurt feelings of Him not protecting me; instead I know whatever it is that this is about, I must say I will face this furnace and if He saves me wonderful; if not it is still good.  He has already given me more than I could ever have hoped for or wanted and if I get more, I will be grateful.  It’s still hard.  But everyone in their life at some point has to look into that furnace and everyone better have a speech prepared for that moment.