You are doing so great. You are doing amazing. She is lucky to have daughters like you girls. I don’t pay attention when someone says something like this, I don’t even hear it. I check my phone and go on to the next thing that needs doing.
The side effects will be. You should be prepared to. Can you tell me when? The next appointment is. I narrow my eyes at the doctor, the nurse, the oncology psychologist. I recite the symptom list again. I make them spell the name of the drugs. I tap the contact number into my phone, both office and cell. I take extensive medical-chart style notes, the way I learned in grad school in the early 2000s, in my dedicated My Mom Has Cancer notebook that goes in the first section of my My Mom Has Cancer file folder that goes into the My Mom Has Cancer hospital bag, along with sweaters, books, snacks, and a bottle of the peach ice tea Mom likes. Everyone, from receptionist to neurosurgery department head, is impressed by this folder. I smile crisply and tuck away the Medicare receipt, the chemotherapy prescription, the nutritionist referral, into its proper slot. Sometimes I say “Well, I’m a social worker…” and if there happens to be an actual social worker in the room at the time she will smile to let me know that my attention to detail has not gone unappreciated, that she would be doing the same if it were her mom. I close the folder and put it in the bag, find my keys, walk with Mom out of the room and down the hallway to the elevator and the hospital parking lot.
We just want to let your mom know how much we love her. She is such a pillar of the community. She’s more like an aunt than a teacher—I mean, she has practically raised our children! She is so strong. She is so marvelous. We are praying for her, every day. Let us know if there is anything we can do. Let us know if there is anything we can do. Let us know if there is anything we can do. “Return calls and texts from concerned friends/neighbors/colleagues,” I write in my notebook. Later I will check that item off my to-do list, along with things like “Call AARP to discuss long-term care insurance” and “Call about referral to cancer research centre in Tampa” and “Get blender at Target” and “Reschedule her mani/pedi.”
There are about eighty-five million family pictures of the three of us, separately and together, along the stairwell. Like a lot of family houses, I guess. I have to decide whether I want to see those versions of her–posed formally for a high school picture, on the beach in her Master’s cap and gown, with me and my sister in San Francisco in the mid-eighties–every time I go up or down. Every time I climb the stairs I worry about the larger significance of that decision, to look or not to look.
One of the (many) house rules I have put in place since I arrived last Saturday is that she watches movies for a couple hours every night before bed, with a bowl of ice cream and her two cats. Having an inoperable brain tumour, it turns out, it fairly anxiety-provoking, and I’ve told her that her job is now to relax and stay calm in the pursuit of wellness—whatever wellness means at the moment, for her. More social work talk, but she thinks it’s a great idea. She asks me for dulce de leche flavor, with peppermint tea, and watches Downton Abbey while I catch up on email and review my notebook for tomorrow’s appointments and calls and errands, even though I know I should be cooling out and taking advantage of the lack of internet TV data caps. I finally turn out the light an hour after I should have and lay in the guest bed in the guest room in the last house my mother will have lived in by herself, staring up at the ceiling fan, feeling nothing. Nothing is all around me. Nothing under my pillow, nothing over the sheets, nothing on the other side of the screened windows, nothing in the big orange suitcase that lays neatly put away in the closet, nothing between me and Wellington, nothing in my body or in my mind or in my heart. Nothing comes up close and sensual, nothing pulls the single cotton blanket up to my chin. Nothing holds me close, nothing will not let me go.
Comments
23 responses to “Let Us Know If There’s Anything We Can Do”
:::hug:::
Oh, no words. Just: I’m sorry, and I’m thinking of you.
oh oh oh. love to you, and your mum.
Sending you all the love I can. Would love to have your address if you would not mind sharing. Xoxo.
Oh, Chiara, I am so, so sorry. Sending you so much love, and wishing I could do more.
Oh no. Holding you and your mom in my thoughts.
we’re all with you, Chiara.
Ooooooh, that last big. Man. Sigh. I’m just typing words, here, when I want to do more, and can’t.
Just know that you have the strength of your friends, all over the world, with you at this time, and always.
Oh, love. Oh, no.
Fuck cancer.
Oh, love. If you don’t mind sharing your mom’s address, please pass it along. I hate this for you.
All the hugs in the world!
We love you Chiara. It is lovely that you can be there for your mum. I wish her all the best is her pursuit of wellness. Please look after yourself.
Oh, Sweetie. I am so, so sorry. I wish I could do something to help, but know that I’ll be keeping you in my thoughts and giving you the biggest hug ever.
Chiara I don’t know if anyone has told you this, but Let Us Know If There’s Anything We Can Do.
Jokes!
You’ve said most things I could say right now, and other people have already said the rest, so I’ll just say keep on being who you are and keep doing what you’re doing. Oh and say hi to your mum (mom), I only met her briefly but she seems real cool.
Holy phuque, if it were my Mom I’d be doing what I had to do to get through and not lose it too. Do what you have to do, love. Beyond comprehensible. xo
Love you, darlin.
Bird by bird, girl. Just keep breathing. That sucks just so, so, so hard and I am very sorry.
I’m sure you know that I’ve been screaming FUCK CANCER at the sky for a long time but rarely louder than this year. I’m thinking of you.
I’m so glad you still have “here” to come to and process a bit. Hugs to you and your mom and your sister. This sucks, for sure.
Been thinking of you ever since I got the message. Don’t put me on your to do list-you’re busy enough. But know that Scott and I are thinking about you and we’re here if you’re up late and need to talk.
Oh, this just took my breath away. I am wishing for wellness, how ever it happens, for both of you.
I just checked in hoping you had changed your mind and had begun blogging again and I found this post. I am beyond sorry for your mother and your family.
I wish you the courage so that you can be there for your mom and to help you get through this.
Susan
i also just checked to see if you have added any updates, and am so sad to read of your mother’s health.
Your writing is more beautiful than ever and I am thinking of you and your sweet mother. I am sending you both my very best wishes and hope that you know that you sharing this experience touches me and many others. Much love to you.