2000
The hardcore chemotherapy commenced just as the sweltering summer of 2000 settled into its sustained, apathetic groove.
Our family took turns getting my mother to her appointments, and while none of those occasions were pleasant, they were, for the most part, predictable. We knew what to expect, she knew what to expect, and we all regarded this series of treatments as a high percentage strategy for survival. There was no creeping pessimism or confusion: the stakes were clear and we all had reason to imagine things might be better in the not-distant future.
As such, we adapted to our new routines and it wasn’t so much a matter of who did what, it was who could do whatever, whenever. That summer we were still on offense; we had hope to spare and the unified sense of purpose any family requires to make it through an ordeal. It was, in short, almost businesslike, each of us doing what needed to be done. Since my mother was doing all the dirty and difficult work, our mission was to elevate her spirits any way we could.
We had a lot going for us: the surgery in March had been successful and this course of chemotherapy—aggressive and therefore excruciating—was undertaken with an expectation of winning the battle, not postponing or prolonging it. We had my sister’s children to provide amusement and distraction. We were still locked in on the present and not overly obsessed with the future; we had absorbed the various prognoses and possibilities and were on the same page about how to proceed.
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The patients sit in a large room, stationed in reclining chairs and hooked up to machines slow-dripping destructive fluids into their bodies. The idea being: you fight fire with fire, don’t negotiate with terrorists, break a few eggs to make an omelet and above all, never let on how worried you actually were.
The woman always brought a pile of magazines with her. Books were too difficult these days; it was cumbersome to read line after line and keep track of page after page. After a while it made you aware that you were concentrating, and the only way to do anything that requires concentration is to forget you are capable of doing anything else. Magazines were good, since pictures broke up the action and helped the pages turn more quickly and easily.
Her son encouraged her to listen to music, but she did not like having headphones on in a public place; it felt as though she might miss something. Even though the doctors made themselves scarce here, just like at the hospital, you never knew when one might appear, so you had to be prepared. Music was capable of pleasant distraction, but she needed to be in the right place and the proper state of mind. She still could not believe her son listened to music at all times and claimed he needed music on in order to fall asleep. It was from college, he explained. Having roommates meant you either adapted to their schedules, or you trained yourself to study, relax and even sleep with the accompaniment of music.
He made her tapes that he promised would help, but she could not listen to them here. Rather than soothing her, they caused her to consider the things she would rather ignore. For instance, the tubes sticking out of her body, the hypnotic pings from the plastic bag, the faded blue veins in both arms, the scuff marks on the tiled floor, the scattered chairs spread strategically around the room, the various brochures strewn across the tables, the other patients (of all ages, of course, but not children, thank God; she would not be able to handle that), the familiar looks on all their faces, even the ones fortunate enough to be able to sleep.
She could not sleep. Her anxiety was mostly under control, but not enough to help her forget where she was (even if she wanted to) and certainly not enough to enable her to sleep. She did not savor any of this, but it was tolerable thus far; she accepted that this was what it would take to ensure she could stay away from surgeries and check-ups and chemo infusions. Hopefully. Still, she envied the people who were able to silence all thoughts and nap until it was time to leave. She did notice that most of them were unaccompanied. Her husband and son stayed with her when they could, but they also had their jobs to get back to. Her daughter stayed sometimes, but it was always difficult with the young children.
So she brought her magazines and she welcomed the company of her family whenever they were available. But mostly these hours were spent alone with her thoughts, without music and without the escape of sleep.
*excerpted from a work-in-progress entitled Please Talk About Me When I’m Gone
