This is the second in a series of posts called “Relentless Love” about my mom and her diagnosis and process dealing with cancer.
You can read the last post here: Relentless Love: Before the Storm
My mom kept walking as she dialed her voice-mail number. She had a look on her face I couldn’t quite identify.
“What’s up?” I mouthed to her. But she only shook her head. I shrugged.
But her walk began to slow. Marco put his arm around her. What was going on? Why did they both look so concerned?
We had made it nearly to the back parking lot, but now my mom stopped. I examined her face. It was as if she didn’t trust her legs anymore as she leaned her full weight against the nearby rail. Her breathe quickened, but her eyes told me she was attempting to slow it.
And all at once, I knew something was truly wrong. Without a word, Marco wrapped his arms around my mother and pulled her to his chest. She began to cry, silently, deeply. I had never seen my mother so vulnerable.
I opened my mouth to ask Marco what was wrong, but something in his eyes told me to wait. He nudged my mom, urging her in the direction of the car.
“Come on…” the soft Italian accent was full of sorrow. My mind began to reel. I fast-forwarded and rewound my thoughts, trying to solve the painful puzzle that had forced itself into my love-sick evening. “I’ll drive.”
We reached the car and Marco eased my mom into the front seat. I got in behind her, feeling increasingly frightened. Marco inserted the car-key, but he didn’t turn it. My mom let out violent sobs. Her face had a hint of desperation in it. I simply sat there. Waiting to be included. I wondered if I should be savoring the moments of ignorance, would I react the same way she was once I was brought up to speed?
The sobs were beginning to slow. Marco slowly stroked my mother’s back and she leant forward onto the dashboard. It stayed that way for a long moment. Silent and calm.
Emotion hung thick in the air, the rest of the world was silent. My mother breathed deeply.
“Christian, I didn’t tell you about this because I didn’t want to worry you. I wasn’t going to tell you unless I had to.” My mother’s voice was a tremor.
I didn’t respond. I waited for more, unsure of what to say.
“I went to Honolulu a few days ago…to get some tests done.”
Her voice cracked, and she paused for a moment.
“Do you remember how much my back has been hurting?”
Boy did I. She had been struggling with a mysterious back pain that seemed to be incurable. It had begun to interfere with her sleeping, she had told me recently.
“Yes of course I do, what is wrong?” I responded.
“They found…” her voice choked. She gulped and tried to steady herself, “cancer. A big tumor in one of my lungs.”
My heart sunk deep into my chest and stopped beating. For a moment, the entire world was silent. The trees blowing nearby stopped suddenly. And I suddenly knew that nothing would be the same again. My brain creaked as its cogs tried to grasp the change.
I said nothing as we drove. The tears rolling down my moms face had turn to streaks and blotches, and she sat looking blankly at the road. I waited for surrealism. I waited for music to start, for something to change, for the world to fix this like it always had. But nothing changed except the landscape outside. I could do nothing but sit in shock, my body rocking slightly with the movement of the car.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. I took it out and examined the screen. It was a text message from Chanterelle.
“How was the show?” Her message read.
For a moment I stared steadily at the screen, tracing the curvature of the letters with my eyes. After several seconds, I pressed reply.
“The show was fine. Something major happened tonight. I will tell you when I get home.” I wrote back. I couldn’t bear myself to type it. To make it real in anything other than my memory.
As Marco and my mom discussed quietly the details of what she had learned, I stared out the window. What was I supposed to do now?
No one was home when we got to my dad’s house. I had moved back in with him when I had returned to the island, and only saw my mom on occasion. I had awkwardly said goodbye. I hadn’t known what to say to my mom as I got out of the car.
“Well…I hope everything turns out alright.” I had said. But how could I consider this adequate? There were so many things I felt that I could have said. I could have told her that I missed her, how miserable and shocked I was that this was happening. How lost I suddenly felt. I settled for a stock line. But this was not a stock situation.
And now, as I climbed the steps of the house and inserted my key into the lock, I felt numb. I stumbled as I entered my room, and fell into my large blue desk chair. My heart beat out waves of adrenaline. The numbness was going away, but what remained was hopelessness, emptiness. I pressed the space-bar on my open laptop and a sweet instrumental rang out. As the music penetrated every crevice of my mind, willing tears formed in my eyes. How could I grasp this? What could it mean? What was I supposed to be learning?
As the music played, memories of my mom and I hiking in England just months became a slide-show. The images whipped by, and I could feel myself giving in. Shaking, I pushed myself out of the office chair and collapsed on my bed.
Sobs came. Deep, soulful, animal sobs. And sleep soon followed. For the first time in my life, I cried myself to exhaustion and let unconsciousness claim me. Tomorrow, a new life would begin.
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