Not that I would trade it for what I've learned and been given this past year and a half. I feel like lately, every time I try and write about it, I sort of fail miserably, at least in the big picture sense. This makes sense, since I'm still in the middle of it, and I have no idea what it's impact on the big picture will be, but I'm not a patient person. So I muse about it in bits, pulling back to write smaller vignettes about what is happening to me, as slices and angles of perspective are all I have.
I think back to the fact that it took me almost three years to write in any cohesive sense about my sister's cancer, and who knows how long this will take. In the meantime, I'm taking copious notes, which is what I did when she was sick. I play a game with myself some days, like last week, driving to buy new pillows and a potato ricer (which apparently is the secret to fluffy mashed potatoes) at TJ Maxx. I stared into the clouds ahead of me, a bit of sun poking through them and tried to imagine what they will look like when my mom is gone. Terrible, I thought. Awful. Like shopping at TJ Maxx will suddenly be impossible. At least for awhile. But I can't really feel it or know it one minute ahead of it happening. Sometimes I wish I could, that I could prep for this particular shitstorm. No such luck.
She's been more frail these past few weeks, given a bout with the shingles, a terribly bad reaction to the medication and the last few weeks, these nerve pain attacks that don't last all that long, but bring her to her knees. Or, given the wheelchair, they bring her up out of her seat. There is nothing we can do for her, except hold her hand and hope they pass. In short, it sucks. The next issue becomes too, now that she has been on steroids for so long (long term use is usually 6 months) and they suppress her immune system (hence the shingles) it might not be the tumor that kills her. It could be a bad cold that turns into pneumonia, or 1,000 other things. I don't spend a lot of time thinking about these possibilities, but they do change the playing field.
But then there was Thanksgiving. It was small this year, just me, Matt, Jim and Mom. She was glowing about it all week, all the more so when we started to cook. She can't get over that I actually do cook now (perfect mashed potatoes, sweet potato pudding with a ginger snap and pecan crust, creamed pearl onions) and while I was setting the table with her grandmother's silver, I could feel her watching.
"Some Martha Stewart flair," I said, folding the napkins that matched the tablecloth.
"I'm just marveling," she said, as I set down the ancient forks and knives. "Because this is how things are passed down." And no more than in that moment did my great-grandmother's silver or the holidays mean more.
And then there was the cackling we heard from the living room as we cooked. Ma was read the latest Amy Sedaris book, "Simple Times: Crafting for Poor People." What she found particularly funny? The section on crafting for the sick and infirm, since it's nice for them to craft, so that they don't feel like they are entirely wasting what little is left of their lives. Also, as Amy puts it, the crafts in this section, while incredibly simple (but not patronizing) look like they might have taken some skill, which raises a dying person's self-esteem. "Some people wouldn't get it," Ma said. "But I think it's fucking hysterical."
Ma, hiding behind the book, as I hadn't had time to fix her hair. This is the consistent thing she says to me nearly every morning, "But, most importantly, how's my hair?" Never a vain person, she blames this tick on not being able to control anything at this point, except perhaps the state of her hair.
