Do you know what courage is?
It is signing up for your third round of utterly debilitating chemotherapy, knowing full well that the side effects are as bad - or worse - than the malignant nodules that pepper your lower intestine.
Heck, it is signing up for chemo at all when you have spent the majority of your nursing career witnessing the horrific impact that chemotherapy has on cancer patients.
My mother is the bravest woman that I know because she will endure this awful radioactive poison with grace, strength (and a few tears; which are allowed, because cancer) - not for herself - but for us.
***
It isn't easy growing up with a nurse for a mother. I liked nothing better than a day off school 'sick', watching daytime television and laying on the couch. I would try to drag the smallest sniffle out into a dramatic flu, I can still do a very realistic fake cough and I also learned quite early that putting the thermometer on a light globe to heat it up will not make it look like you have consumption, it will make you look like a big liar. I think it was because of this little stunt that I was sent to school for a week with glandular fever when I was 15. Basically if it wasn't broken, it didn't need stitches and you weren't dying, Mum did not have time or sympathy for these shenanigans.
Having a nurse for a mother if you're a sensitive and borderline anxious child - like me - can also prove quite trying. Sarah and I woke up one morning and after entertaining ourselves for a few hours (aka fighting quietly so that we wouldn't wake Mum after night shift), Mum awoke and decided it was time to teach us some basic first aid.
I was 10.
Sarah was 8.
This crash course involved learning how to put someone into the recovery position, how to check for a blocked airway and how to call an ambulance. Very sensible, right? It was, until we had to roleplay finding Mum unconscious on the floor to show that we could go through the motions. I don't think Sarah was particularly affected by this, but for quite a while afterwards, I felt certain that I was going to return from an afternoon of tree climbing and trampoline stunts to find Mother sprawled on the floor, choking on her own sick.
It was like 'A Night to Remember' all over again; when Mum and I watched that old movie about the Titanic and I worked my 7-year-old self into a tremendous frenzied state at the prospect of catching the ferry to France. I could actually visualise myself looking for my parents as my shoes filled with water whilst the band played on. I had also been told very firmly at a young age that if anything bad were to happen (an intruder, a house fire, a sinking boat!!!), I was to save Sarah before either of my parents. I made that promise to Mum in my ghastly purple bedroom back in England. This is actually very sensible advice, I was just an easily traumatised child and divulging information like this meant that the house would burn down, the boat would sink and I'd have to make a Sophie's Choice between Sarah and my Mum and Dad - or worse - Sarah and my cat, Lucy.
Having a nurse for a mother does have some strange benefits. I learned where babies came from after sneaking out into the landing and looking at a very graphic text book that included 6 photos of various stages of labour. I didn't know how babies got there, but I sure knew how they got out and I think the screaming red face of that poor woman who allowed her labour to be photographed is as good a contraceptive as working in a high school.
I also grew up almost entirely resistant to gross medical stuff; granulising wounds, perianal abscesses - I thought it was just amazing that my Mum knew all of this stuff and could HEAL people. I made an excellent assistant in medicine administration to pets, and could (and can still) hold a cat down in a towel burrito long enough for Mum to lance and disinfect an abscess or remove sutures. As I get older and find myself having to deal with real emergencies (mine, students or others), I find that Mum's training helped profusely and I simply react. I have carefully dressed burns, dealt with students hyperventilating, panic attacks, breaks and sprains in a cool and collected manner. My innate anxiety diminishes and I can walk in to a crisis and deal with it - and I credit Mum for this.
One other pearl of wisdom I was regaled with at the tender age of 10 was what would happen if either Mum or Dad was to be diagnosed with a terminal illness. They would go to the beach, polish off a nice bottle of vino and die peacefully and purposely hand in hand. I was surprisingly ok with this at the age of 10. My parents loved each other so much that it seemed unnatural to think of one without the other. Besides, orphans always had amazing and fantastic adventures and I was pretty keen on that idea. I have never forgotten this idyllic, peaceful, painless and perfect end of life scenario.
***
If I were in my mother's shoes, it is the path I would have taken. But like so many things, it is easier said than done.
'I wouldn't blame you if you didn't want to do chemo (again)' I offer each time and we look at each other and we know that refusal is not an option. The first round of plutonium based therapy literally crippled her, the second round was less aggressive, but took a huge emotional toll and who knows what this round will bring? It is virulent. It will take her hair - which is surprisingly not even grey yet, it may render her immobile again, it will definitely make her feel like hell - but it will buy her time.
Time for us.
Not for her.
Time for my Dad who still loves this woman with every atom of his being.
Time for Sarah and Jude and the new baby.
Time for me.
After the last round, she confided in us; 'I don't think I can do this again!'
But she is.
And this is what true courage is.
