This is the third in a series of posts called “Relentless Love” about my mom and her diagnosis and process dealing with cancer.
You can read the last two posts here:
Relentless Love: Before the Storm
Relentless Love: Diagnosis
We knew the restaurant would fail.
It had been years since the long-standing Orange Julius had closed down in this storefront, and since it had left, a flurry of restaurants had come and left including: Auntie Pasta’s, a surprisingly inexpensive Italian restaurant, a generic sports bar. And now, Lemongrass, a tasty Vietnamese place.
My mom and I were getting together for our weekly meal, bored as ever by the limited Maui food options. This meeting was different. This meeting was impossible. This meeting wasn’t happening.
It couldn’t be, I thought. How can my mother, the healer of everyone, the dietitian of half the island, be affected by this terrible disease?
As we sat down, I examined my mother’s face. She seemed to be okay, though there was tension in her eyes. Still, the last time I had seen her she had been barely able to speak. Now she was walking, talking, driving, just like she used to. But something was definitely different.
“Can I get the lemon chicken salad?” she asked the waiter, and turned back to me.
“And I would like the wok-tossed beef noodles please…” I glanced down at my menu as I spoke.
The waiter nodded and walked away, taking our menus with him. My mom and I made eye contact for a moment, but I quickly looked away. This was awkward.
“So…how are you doing?” I asked her.
She chuckled and stared me down, “What do you mean? With what?”
I searched for a way to frame the words.
“Have you found out anything else about the…” my throat caught and I swallowed. I didn’t bother to finish my sentence.
“Well. Now that they know the pain in my back is cancer, they need to do some more tests to find out whether it is a stage two or three. They are hoping its a two.”
“What’s the difference?”
She thought for a moment and cleared her throat:
“If it was stage three, it would mean it would have spread further throughout the body. It would be more likely to cure a stage two.”
I wanted her to tell me everything was going to be alright. That they would be able to find a cure no matter what. Everything else in life had been only temporary, no matter how serious. But this was so permanent. It simply couldn’t be undone or forgiven. I couldn’t fathom it.
The discussion moved to whether or not she would prefer to live longer or better. Would she give up a couple of years of life to live a better one now? Or was more time worth the drugs and procedures to her?
“What do you think Christian?” she asked me, genuinely beseeching my response.
“All I know is that knowing you, you’d much prefer an un-medicated life. I can’t imagine you with no hair and a hospital gown. Do you know what I mean?” I told her.
She nodded.
“I guess I just won’t know until I’m there.” My mom replied as the food arrived.
We ate in silence for a few moments until my mom opened her mouth to speak. I readied myself for whatever I was to hear.
“Well the food is good…” she started, “but we all know they’re gonna go out of business.”
My mom’s were not the only health concerns for our family during this time. I myself had recently been forced to return from a period of extended travel due to a torn meniscus (the flap of padding between your calf and your thigh) in my knee. The accident had happened while I was dancing in a German nightclub. I had been left limping through two airports, trying to ignore the searing pain.
I had come back to Maui to get surgery and healing. And my mom had been the fighting force to make that happen. Not only had she paid for emergency insurance, but she pulled personal favors to get me an early surgery appointment. Now, as the days approached the surgery, our roles were switching.
Nevertheless, I went in for surgery. The morphine they had pumped into my bloodstream numbed the pain completely for the first night. Even after an invasive removal of the torn piece of meniscus, I was tromping up and down stairs and leaving my crutches unused on the floor. The next day, my bill arrived. My knee was swollen to the size of a small watermelon (no, I’m not kidding) and I was hung up to hangover.
I had never felt so apathetic in my life. I watched vampire movies and soap operas. I lay there feeling awful, staring at my knee like it was made of wood.
And then the phone rang.
“Are you at home?” my mom asked me as I picked up the phone.
“Yes. At least I think I am.” I joked, “I’m a little out of it”.
“Marco and I are going to drop by, is that alright?”
“Please do! I would love some company!”
And true to her word, she arrived. I didn’t get up to greet her as she came to the front door. I probably couldn’t have. I sat up in my bed and looked around my tiny room, wondering what it looked like to someone who didn’t need everything within arms reach.
Marco greeted me, cheerful and genuine as ever, and she sat down on my bed.
“Can I see?” she asked.
I pulled the swollen knee from under the blanket and she touched my leg gingerly.
“Does it hurt?”
“Kind of. When I can move it that is. Most of the time it won’t budge far enough to hurt.”
She reached down into a paper bag she had brought with her.
“I brought you some things…”
From within the bag, she produced a clear plastic disposable container filled with brown and beige meat.
“Tako poke kim chee!” I exclaimed. “Tako poke kim chee” had always been my favorite lunch…or breakfast…or dinner for that matter. The korean delicacy was spicy and chewy. It was, in its most basic form, ocean squid marinated in chili sauce. This batch had green onions, white onions, and cabbage mixed in. My mom could not have brought a better device with which to cheer me up.
I thanked her and opened the container, ravenously shoveling the spicy segments into my mouth. She now pulled out some white bottles. Supplements. My life had been full of them since as long as I could remember. My mother, the always on naturopathic doctor and healer, never went anywhere without some form of natural medication. The glove box of her car contained a bottle of strong-smelling natural throat lozenges. Her brown leather purse generally contained at least three different types of vitamins.
And here they were again. Only now, I understood their importance. For years I had made fun of these “natural” medications. I called them “hippie stuff”. But since the supplement called “Vitalzym” had quickly minimized my inflammation after my accident, I had reevaluated my attitude.
“Here is something to help with the swelling. And here is, of course, some Arnica.”
We talked for a half an hour. Joking about the hours of medicated bliss I had enjoyed after my surgery, and the humbling result. I asked how she was doing, and she said she was doing “okay”.
All too quickly she said they had to go. They had a dance rehearsal for their upcoming show. I once again told her how excited I was to see it. I saw a tear form in her eye, but before I knew it, I heard the car tires rustling the gravel of the driveway as they drove away.
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Wow! What a well recollected memory. I enjoyed this article very much, Son, and the photos you included with it as well. I remember Orange Julius, Auntie Pasta, and Lemon Grass. We ate in every one of them. That was very insightful of your mother to realize that Lemon Grass, Like Orange Julius and Auntie Pasta before them, would also eventually go out of business as well.