A Mother's Goodbye

But I don’t like to think like that, to spin this story to whatever end I’m going to have, because today, damn it, is plenty hard enough.

It only takes twenty minutes to finish the drip, and then I take a cab home. I walk around my apartment, feeling edgy and restless. And fine. I feel fine, mostly, although I am waiting for something, a looming disaster, as if thunderclouds are suddenly going to appear above my head as lightning strikes. After about an hour, when I still feel fine, I decide to go to work, log in a few hours at least, while I can.

I’ve gone so far as to start getting dressed, putting on discreet make-up, because the truth is, no matter how I feel, I look like shit.

I am just putting on my pantyhose when the side effects hit me, slamming into me with the force of a sledgehammer or a freight train. I barely have a chance to make it to the bathroom, stumbling in my half-put on tights, my stomach heaving so violently I feel as if I am being wrung inside out.

I hang over the toilet, my cheek resting on the rim, as I spit bright yellow bile and know this is merely the beginning.

Eventually my stomach has emptied itself out, and I half-walk, half-crawl to bed, where I doze on and off, still half-dressed. I wake suddenly, as if an alarm has gone off, and see from the clock that I need to pick Isaac up from after-school club in five minutes. I don’t think I can get off the bed in five minutes.

But somehow I do, because I don’t have any choice. Somehow I manage to change into more comfortable clothes, grab my house keys and phone, and get outside my building, feeling as if I am about a hundred years old, my body as worn out as a wet dish rag.

I hail a cab, my arm waving limply, and make it to Buckley twenty minutes late; Isaac has been sent to the office and is looking disconsolate as he kicks his legs against his chair and a secretary thins her lips in disapproval.

‘Sorry,’ I mutter, and reach for Isaac’s hand.

‘Mom, what’s wrong with you?’ He looks at me not with concern, but a kind of hurt impatience.

‘I’m just a little under the weather, bud. I’ll be okay.’

I know I am going to have to tell people at some point. Cancer is not exactly something you can keep secret, but I don’t want to blare it from the rooftops, either. And the truth is, I don’t know how to tell Isaac. Not yet, not until I know more. Until I can make him some promises I know I’ll be able to keep.

So I muddle on, making Isaac dinner, helping him with his homework, putting him to bed, everything feeling as if I’m scaling a mountain, pushing that rock that just keeps rolling down again.

‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ he asks as he blinks at me from under his duvet, eyes wide, his expression worried. My heart spasms with both love and fear.

‘Yes, bud, I am. Just a little under the weather, like I

said.’ How can I tell him the truth? I’m all he has. He’s all I have. We’re a team, and I feel like I’m letting him down, as well as myself. My body is betraying me.

The next day is the same, the hours endless, my body wrung out, but while lying on my bed with a bowl by my head – although I’m pretty sure there’s nothing left to throw up – I log onto the nanny agency website and look through some profiles. I manage to arrange an interview with two of the best candidates for later in the week, praying I’ll be well enough to see them through.

Fortunately the next few days without the chemo treatment are a bit better, and I drag myself to work.

‘Are you okay?’ my assistant Sara asks with concern as she hands me a coffee I know I won’t be able to drink. I’ve barely eaten anything in forty-eight hours.

Dr. Stein told me it was important to keep my strength and weight up, but it feels impossible. A few saltines and some canned chicken broth are all I’ve managed. I’d bought The Chemotherapy Cookbook at Barnes & Noble last week, trying to feel optimistic, but the recipes for warming soups and protein-rich smoothies seem like a joke. If it were realistic, The Chemotherapy Cookbook would be nothing but blank pages.

‘I’m okay,’ I say and sit down at my desk gingerly, every bone and muscle aching. I am dreading talking to HR. I did some research online and I know I am entitled, through FMLA, to twelve weeks of job-protected, unpaid leave, but to pull the trigger on that is to tank my job prospects in the long term. No one in this business takes that kind of leave, ever.

And yet since my job prospects are already pretty much in the basement, why shouldn’t I? The kitchen gadget start-up I was excited about was shot down at the latest meeting with barely a blink, considered ‘too home grown’. I’ve got nothing exciting or urgent on my desk, and I have two weeks of vacation left this year, as well as a couple of sick days. All told I could survive this from a career perspective, never mind my actual health. The trouble is, I don’t know how much worse it’s going to get. When should I cash in those days? When will I be at rock bottom, unable to keep coping?

I decide to leave things as they are, and I tell myself that next week I’ll go into work after my chemo, since it’s done by ten in the morning. I compose an email to HR saying that ‘personal health issues’ are going to make me an hour late to work on Mondays and Tuesdays for the next two weeks. I hold on to the desperate hope that I’ll only need one round of chemo to shrink the tumor and move onto the next stage of my treatment and recovery.

And so the weeks drag on, and I survive. I manage. The effect of chemotherapy is cumulative, so I feel worse – sicker, achier, more tired – but somehow I still struggle on. It’s amazing how quickly you can get used to feeling horrible.

It all becomes depressingly normal, and when my hair starts to thin in the third week, that almost feels normal too. My skin is pale with a strange, waxy feel, and I develop sores in my mouth, which feels unbelievably dry all the time. Dr. Stein prescribes what she calls ‘a magic mouthwash’ to help with the sores, and it does, but I still feel like a walking wreck. I’m just used to it. When I look in the mirror, I don’t see myself any more; I feel as if I’m looking at a mannequin, and I just have to wait until she’s replaced. This isn’t going to last forever.

Isaac asks again and again if I’m sick, and each time I tell him in as matter-of-fact a way as I can that yes, I am sick, but I am going to get better. That, I tell both Isaac and myself, is non-negotiable. It’s just going to take a little while.

He seems to accept it, but I can tell he’s worried, and I spend as much time with him as I can, wanting to reassure him, as well as myself, of my constant presence. I sit next to him as he plays his iPad, listening to the clatter and ding of his game. I watch him do his homework, noticing the furrow in the middle of his forehead, the way he sticks his tongue out as he does his times tables. I read extra stories at bedtime, sometimes falling asleep next to him because I’m so tired, but I don’t think he minds. We need each other. Now more than ever, we need each other.

One evening as I am coming in from work, all my focus on just getting into my apartment, Eileen opens her door. I haven’t seen her in a while, and now is definitely not a good time for one of our chats. No time is good any more.

‘Grace!’ She sounds so happy to see me. Then she clocks how I look, and her forehead dissolves into wrinkles. ‘Are you under the weather, my dear?’

‘You could say that.’ I feel too tired even to fish for my key in my bag. I turn to her, take a deep breath. ‘Actually, I have cancer.’ It feels good to say it. Liberating, in a way I didn’t expect, and yet also horrible, because somehow saying it out loud to my well-meaning neighbor makes it even more real than it already is.