A “chemo-cocktail” she would call it. The IV was a rich Shirley Temple pink, running from the left side of my mother’s chest. The leather recliner cradled her frail body and attempted to alleviate her pockets of pain by steadily pulsing vibrations up and down her spine. She laughed when the massager reached her lower back, joking that the massage chair was getting more action than my father had recently. I cupped my hands over my ears like earmuffs upon hearing this comment. As the doctors and nurses paraded in and out of the large community chemo room, Mom and I played cards, making up rules because the mood allowed for some cheesy mother-daughter spontaneity. We ate lemon Italian ice with long handled spoons and Mom would request a head massage every so often. I massaged her perfectly round head, moving the tender skin around the little dome, searching for stray hairs waiting to take their leave. I was glad that she decided against wearing a wig. Wigs make me feel uneasy, like I am unable to trust the mind dressed by this piece of synthetic muck. My grandmother gave my mom two wigs as a kind gesture, but they have only been worn by my little brother when he feels inclined to be funny. My father, in response, takes my brother to play catch or engage in some masculine activity.
Before I began accompanying my mom on her chemo dates, I was unsure of my place in this whole new world of cancer and uncertainty. My mother is my best friend and we are more alike than I think either of us are willing to admit. We are marked by our boisterous laughs and our animated reactions. From the back we appear to be twins, our long blonde locks touching the middle of our backs. She and I wear the same size clothes, except my rear-end is visibly more voluptuous. Unfortunately, neither of us are blessed in the bust spectrum thanks to shitty genetics—well, this used to be true. Breast cancer took them away, but reconstruction eventually gave her a set to envy. I joke now because she is well, stronger than she ever was—physically and spiritually. Yet the road to a cancer-free life was trying, especially on her womanhood. My mom changed after she began to undergo her treatment. She was less of a woman, less of a functioning human being. It was as if all of the glue that held us together suddenly disintegrated, leaving a small but definite void between us.
The way she smelled changed, too. Like a newborn child, unseasoned and unidentifiable, my mother was being reborn. Her old shell fell delicately from her frame, revealing a self I did not recognize. The lines on her face sank deeper and I had a bizarre fear that my father wouldn’t find my mother attractive anymore. I knew my father well. Change made him tense—the kind of tense that made one’s neck squeeze tight to resemble the base of a tree trunk. As far as care giving went, my father rose to the occasion. On Sunday’s he would cook dinner for the rest of the week and freeze each meal, labeling the Tupperware according to the day it would be eaten. He made it his duty to find some sort of contraption to mitigate any discomfort my mother felt.
Sweetly, he kept with the pink theme, buying powder pink pillows and bubblegum colored swirly straws, and wrapping her head in pink silk bandanas. I’m not sure how my dad felt about my mother’s shiny head. After all, she went bald before he did. I had been certain that, despite my father’s impressive head of hair, I would find strands of his locks littering the bathroom floor long before I would find my mother’s.
It was strange. Our home vibrated with mega joules of energy. My mother scrubbed and gardened and hummed; she reprimanded and folded and polished; she vacuumed and shopped and ultimately refused to sit still. I felt that it was my job, as the oldest child, to assure my mother that the intense normalcy she was trying to achieve was unnecessary. On the day of the head-shaving party, mom was geared up. After all, it was her idea. She insisted on our being enthusiastic, too. The kitchen was her “salon” and my ten-year-old brother stood with broom in hand, ready to sweep up the long blonde hair that would eventually fall to the floor. He seemed excited and flattered that his mother was about to get a haircut that would make her look like him! But he was also wide-eyed. His lashes seemed to stick to his brow bone, lids unable to close. He was being brave for mom, too.
In the “salon” was a row of seats filled with three generations of women. Both my grandmothers sat on either side of my mother snapping pictures from all angles. Nana even managed to get an aerial view. I suppose the inclination that a mother has to photograph every important moment in her child's life never truly leaves her.
My two younger sisters sat quietly, occasionally looking over at me for guidance, since they were unsure how to react. My mother's frequent, “I'll be just fine,” speech was not enough for them. They wanted their big sister, ever the blatant truth-telling one, to settle their unease.
I felt personally trapped when it was suggested that we all take turns shaving mom's head. She sat there wearing her “awareness” bracelets dressed all in pink with her eyes scanning the audience. I switched on the clippers and added my own dramatic motor sound to the low buzz. Mom laughed. It was time to begin. “Let's go for the reverse Mohawk,” I suggested. “It's so you, babe, it's so you!” My brother jumped up and down while pretending to play a rock song on his broom as he recalled the 'rad' Mohawk haircut that he had seen a celebrity display on MTV. I thought that my brother should have the honor of buzzing the last patch of hair. So, I handed him the clippers. Taking creative license, he clipped the patch into a heart-shape. I learned about inclusion that day. It was difficult for him to face a challenge on his own. Incorporating the gifts or talents of other people--no matter their relevance to the situation--creates a sense of comfort and confidence within them that seems to melt away their fears.
I realized that it was my responsibility to make certain that my three siblings felt included at all times. They were scared. Though I was too, I wasn’t going to let onto my fears. Oddly enough I had to be brave for my father as well. He would take me aside and express his concern for my mother’s fatigue, pains, and memory loss.
I never said it but, all I could think of was, “well, Dad, Mom is going through chemotherapy which not only kills the cancer in her body but bullies the rest of her system as well…duh”. I would always conclude by saying, “Give it time.” He would then nod and continue milling about the house doing chores that no one had ever done before. So there I was the source of reassurance for the entire family. I enjoyed my role. I was finally able to wiggle myself into the frenzy and include myself in the recovery effort.
A while back I decided to name my mom’s cancer “Nadine”. Nadine is just one of those names that make you cringe when it is yelled from a cramped kitchen by an old crotchety lady with chapped lips and knobby knees. So, mom beat the hell out of Nadine—the old lady’s knees gave out, her dentures went missing, and her elderly kick was demolished. It was not until recently that we smelled a hint of Nadine’s nauseating Shalimar fragrance. She sent her bitchy little friends to my mom’s uterus. “Precancerous,” Mom said, “that’s all”. As I write, she is lying in a New York City hospital bed, letting strawberry Jello find its way down her throat and into her stomach. There is a plus side to this operation though my mom has assured me. After four children, Mom’s bladder was not the most reliable. A sneeze meant trouble. So, while operating on my mom, the doctor was so kind as to fix this weak bladder problem. She is strangely excited for this small change, but I am happy for her…and her bladder. I’ve become used to seeing Mom in hospitals, energy depleted. Yet, I never doubt that she will come back—ready to kick Nadine’s ass whenever the old bitch decides to make a visit.
As requested by so many patients we have created a list
of books that have touched our spirits and/or have
educated us about cancer, healing, life and death.
We hope you enjoy them and take them
for what they are worth to you.
Climb
Back From Cancer, Alan and Cecilia Hobson
Many
Lives Many Masters, Brian L. Weiss, M.D.
Only
Love is Real, Brian L. Weiss, M.D.
Same
Soul Many Bodies, Brian L. Weiss, M.D.
Talking
to Heaven, James Van Praagh
The
Four Agreements - Don Miguel Ruiz
The
Celestine Prophecy, James Redfield
The
Alchemist, Paulo Choelho
The
Greatest Miracle in the World, Og Mandino
The
Messenger, Julia Ingram and Gary Hardin
Cancer
as A turning Point, Lawrence LeShan, PhD.
The
Seven laws of Spiritual Success,
Deepak Chopra, M.D.
Hands
of Light, Barbara Ann Brennan
Mutant
Messages Down Under, Marlo Morgan
The
Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, Sogyal Rinpoche
Love
Medicine and Miracles, Bernie Segal, M.D.
DASH, Eric J. Aronson
Dancing
Naked… in fuzzy red slippers, Carmen
Richardson Rutlen
Children’s
Past Lives, Carol Bowman
Anatomy
of the Spirit, Caroline Myss PhD
The
Seat of the Soul, Gary Zukav
The
Truth about Breast Health and Breast Cancer,
Charles Simone, M.D.
A Dietician’s Cancer Story, Diane
Dyer, MS, RD
Uplift,
Secrets from the Sisterhood of Breast cancer Survivors,
Barbara Delinsky
