***I miss you. With every breath that I take and every moment that passes it seems that I miss you more, and I thought the opposite would be true. I thought that this feeling of loss would fade until your memory would shine like a well loved toy, a worry stone I polish between my fingers nervously. I thought your memory would keep me, and it turns out that I am much needier than I could have ever imagined.***
Cancer has always been a member of my family, a part of my life, an essential ingredient in my identity. The first story I ever learned by heart was about my mother's diagnosis of Hodgkin's Lymphoma and that it had been caught earlier than usual because of the unusual hormones playing havoc on her body. The hormones were, of course, my fault. A lymph node on her neck became alarmingly swollen, prompting her to seek medical care. I wonder how the doctor felt having to deliver the news to an obviously pregnant woman... How do you tell a 20 year old who is ripe with life that she has a fifty-fifty chance of death? This story always involved my father tearing up and my mother leaving the room. I knew at a very young age that I wasn't a planned pregnancy and always wondered why she didn't end that pregnancy to improve her odds of survival... I figured that my PURPOSE was already accomplished. (I'm not sure how much of the abortion option is truth and how much was fabricated by my pro-choice drama filled adolescence... As I look back, I'm not sure of the facts... how far along was she when she was diagnosed, would have abortion even been an option at that point? Was it an option at all in August of 1977 in the very shiny buckle of the bible belt? All I KNOW is that the story always ended very fuzzily, probably because my father was trying to protect me from the scary dark days that followed the diagnosis.) I was a dramatic child.
My mother fought the cancer. She had tiny dot tattoos placed on her body marking the grid and Cobalt Radiation hammered her her body on a regular basis. My father took care of her... and me. In her weakness she couldn't lift me. My father lost his job because of too much missed work and was terrified about how he was going to feed us, but my mother still worked. She was the one with the medical insurance that was paying for the poison that was supposed to kill the cancer. All of these details become fuzzy in the telling because by this time my father had begun trying to edit so as not to terrify me. I think the minutiae would have been less terrifying than the shades of gray that have been left behind. I don't really know how they paid the bills, or anything about how they finally knew that she had won the fight and the cancer was gone. Maybe that part isn't allowed to be as medically definitive as the diagnosis, I don't know. I was left with a story, poems written to me by a dying mother who managed to live and cancer as constant companion. We walked (for all the good it ever did) every year in the 24 hour walk for life, took turns introducing her and watched her don the special colored shirt that marked her a survivor. I admired her because that was what you were supposed to do with people who had stories like this. I didn't understand the depth of the terror she must have survived or the strength of character it took to do so with any grace and dignity.
***Today I am celebrating Valentine's Day with my husband. I am going to remember that he loves me, in spite of his tendency to forget romantic gestures. I am going to remember that my body has hosted and built, cell by cell, two amazing little people. I am going to bask in the freedom that a babysitter provides. I am going to live joyfully.***
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