(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 handling 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: another tumor (large but not too large) had been extracted. This course of chemotherapy-aggressive and therefore excruciating-was undertaken with an expectation of winning the battle, not postponing or prolonging it. My sister's three-year-old daughter and baby boy provided 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.
Yes, you were almost in the clear, we would tell her, and each other.
Yes, the cancer did come back, but we knew that was always a possibility.
No, there's no reason to worry it will come back again. The surgery was successful, and this chemo should make sure it stays gone.
No, I don't think it will come back, we told her, and each other.
No, I don't know what to hope for or believe, none of us ever said out loud.
YOU ARE READING
Please Talk about Me When I'm Gone
Non-FictionQuestion: How do you get over it? Answer: You don't. You don't want to. It makes you who you are. Sean Murphy lost his mother days after her fifty-ninth birthday, following a five-year battle with cancer. In this eloquent memoir, he explores his f...
