"Ami has cancer," he said to me. "But don't worry, she's going to get treatment - it's going to be OK." A decade and a half later, I still remember how he said that so matter-of-factly with the confidence unique to teenage boys. I was taken aback and confused. The concept of cancer to me, at age twelve, conjured up images of bald children in hospital beds and fundraisers. It didn't fit in with how I saw you. You were my mother -your role was to be steady and constant, especially given how recently you had become a single parent. You were not supposed to be sick.
You didn't tell us much. You downplayed the extent of the disease; minimized your symptoms. As an adult, I understand that you were trying to protect us. You wanted to preserve as much of our childhood as possible, particularly in the wake of our father's unexpected departure. After I asked you why my father didn't love me anymore, how could you tell your hollow-eyed daughter that your disease wasn't curable? I can't imagine what it must have been like for you to fear that you might be taken from your children shortly after their other parent walked away.
Surgery; radiation; chemotherapy. Unfortunately, the news kept getting worse. You were diagnosed at the most advanced stage - the primary tumour in your breast had already sent out cruel metastatic deposits throughout your body. Despite that, you tried to be as optimistic as you could. "My liver enzymes are coming down!" you celebrated after returning from your oncologist's office. You didn't mention how the tumours were growing and spreading, though. You did not want to take away our youthful naivety and thus our hope. Ignorance was bliss for us. At the time, I didn't understand the gravity of the final frontier of brain metastases.
I remember a particular instance where you were sick after chemo. Even with your valiant attempts to shield me from your disease process, you were too unwell to keep me away at that time. I vividly remember how you looked, slumped over and overcome by nausea and weakness. I didn't know what to do and I couldn't help you. I was overcome by my impotence and I felt like a coward for leaving you. I'm still sorry. Years later, I mentioned this to W who I am eternally grateful to for helping you where your children and family couldn't. "You were just a child," he reminded me gently. It allayed some of the guilt but I will never forget the feeling of being powerless and useless.
In your last hours, I stayed at your bedside. The nurse had told us to keep talking to you because no one really knows how much a comatose person can perceive. I fumbled through a long-winded apology for being a bad kid; for giving you a hard time when you were sick and going through so much on your own; for not helping you. My tearful outpouring of guilt was overheard by W who knew you in a way I never could. He told me how much you loved us and that you never held anything against us; that even if we tried your patience or frustrated you, it would always dissipate.
Your mother has been recently diagnosed with breast cancer. Despite the fact that her disease is not nearly aggressive as yours was, your experience is her reference point and her worrying corresponds with that. I helped her remove her dressings after her surgery, and as I examined the precise incisions, I was overcome with emotion. Who, if anyone, helped you remove your surgical dressings? Did you often go alone to your appointments? Who did you confide in when you realized that death was looming on the horizon?
As an adult, I have more insight into what you were going through compared to the ignorance of my youth, and it breaks my heart for you. I can support and do things for her that I couldn't do for you. I am able to accompany her to appointments; measure her pain medicine; help her understand her results and next steps. I am sorry you had to endure so much alone. I wish I could have done more for you, and I am still sorry to have burdened you further. I miss you, today and everyday.
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