There was a night, when I was in kindergarten, when my mother ran through our home in her 1960s-era velvet robe with a bath towel wrapped around her head, collecting my siblings and me and piling us onto her queen bed. “Don’t leave this room,” she said as she pulled the windows and doors closed. “I’m going to get the neighbor.” I watched through the curtains as my Superwoman Mom ran into the dusk to fix whatever it was that needed fixing. “We had a wild bat in the house, and Mom was very brave,” I boasted to my father on the phone later that night. He was out of town for work. My mother was often home alone when wild bats flew in windows, or water pipes burst, or us kids needed stiches at the ER.
My mother always knew what to do. Strength in the face of trouble, at the earliest signs.
*
In early April decades later, I drove the ten miles between my Berkeley Avenue home and my mother’s home on Pennsylvania Avenue, with a deli bag propped on the passenger seat. Spring was emerging, and the sky had opened. Sheets of water plunged to the ground.
Inside the front door, I placed my shoes on the rubber mat, hung my coat on the doorknob, and handed the deli bag to my mother, who greeted me with unusual energy. The quiet her cozy home—with its white carpets, padded furniture, ivy and succulents, and constant hum of air flowing through vents—muffled the force of the storm.
My mother led me to the kitchen table, then handed me a bulky binder filled with medical records including a report on her recent CT scan.
“My tumors aren’t responding to the chemo,” she said. “And I have new tumors.”
I stared at her noticing how short she looked. So very short. Five months of chemo had taken a toll, leaving her pale and gray. Today, the caffeine buzz of medications pulsed through her veins. I was never quite sure which version of my mother I’d see when I visited—energizer bunny or chemo-brain, where she’d stare at a newspaper for hours.
“I feel so stupid,” she said. Her voice peaked and fell on the syllables of the word stupid, giving it a punch. “I thought I’d be done with all of this after the chemo.” She waived her hands in an uncharacteristic way as though frustrated by the betrayal of her own mind.
“Me too,” I said.
I’d never heard my mother use that word, which was taboo in the household of my youth–like the words “crap” or “shit” or “bitch.”
“They tell me there’s another type of chemo,” she said. “And if that one doesn’t work, then there’s another type. They tell me they haven’t run out of options yet.”
We sat in silence at the kitchen table as the vents hummed. Everything on my mother’s to-do list and mine felt irrelevant now. The border between important and unimportant blurred. Time slowed. The grandfather clock in the living room chimed a single bong.
Eventually I spread the contents of the deli bag on plates. We ate a bite or two, then dumped the remainder into the trash. My mother retreated to her room to take a nap.
*
After this day, I visited my mother more often at her house. Up and down the highway I drove from Berkeley Avenue to Pennsylvania Avenue and back. My car shimmied through the spring rains–insubstantial for even this short journey.
*
A few weeks later, I sat adjacent to my mother and father in the deep lounge chairs of a chemotherapy room. The recliners formed a supportive horseshoe around the room’s perimeter and IV poles stood tall next to each chair. My mother’s eyes closed as she pulled a crocheted blanket snug to her chin. My father scanned his scheduler. I skim-read a magazine filled with pharmaceutical ads. The hushed voices of nurses ebbed and flowed in and out of the space.
My mother was in super-woman mode, determined to make chemo work this time. A permanent plastic port had been surgically placed under the skin by her clavicle so that new drug could drip directly into her blood stream without new needles. Her days had filled with body scans, blood transfusions and blood draws. The medical procedures and cancer had diminished her physical strength, but her capacity to withstand the force of her experience shone strong.
So robust, so steady. My mother resting with eyes closed.
My father was in super-partner mode, determined to be present at every appointment. He fingered through his calendar with one hand and ate my mother’s saltine crackers with the other. His skin reflected a white-ish hue like my mother’s, and his longer-than-usual hair stood at angles. I imagined his mind spinning on how he would survive the loss of my mother. Their relationship had been traditional—my father the bread winner, my mother the family caretaker. I had never seen my father cook a single meal for himself or for my mother. How would he survive without her? I watched him scan the notes section in his calendar where he’d scratched a list of CA125 lab results—his eyes unfocused and blurred.
We all knew now that the CA125 test for ovarian cancer was a weak indicator of my mother’s wellbeing. The test could be elevated because of growing cancer, but also for other common reasons. My mother’s CA125 had been high when she was diagnosed with cancer, had dropped after her initial surgery, and was now bouncing around in a way that was hard to draw meaning. She could have a normal CA125 and still have cancer; but she could also have an abnormal CA125 and not have cancer. Her doctors had tracked the relative changes as a signal for cancer growth. My father studied the numbers as though he could will my mother back to normal through his force of concentration. He drank my mother’s juice box as he stared at the notes.
I glanced at my mother and father periodically–looking up from an article about living with cancer–and saw what I had seen my whole life. My mother, so sure she would outlive my father; and my father so sure he would go first. My father looked undone in his pilly sweater sprinkled with cracker crumbs. So unsteady. My mother looked fresh, her hair neat and clothes tidy. A determined look spread across her face as she rested with fingers intertwined under her chin in a relaxed prayer pose.
I felt her confidence in my bones.
*
Up and down the highway I drove from Berkeley Avenue to Pennsylvania Avenue to the chemo lab and back. My car pulled sideways through the spring winds—insubstantial over even this short journey.
*
The next time I visited my parent’s house, I discovered that my mother had created a sanctuary in her bedroom. A lounge chair anchored the corner, and within reach a glass of water and bifocals rested on a dresser. A basket bulged with novels and the ever-present binder of medical records. An English garden wallpaper grew in the background of her corner space. My mother nestled into her lounger in her velvet robe under a blanket crocheted by a local church lady. I sat on the adjacent bed and we talked. My father puttered in the basement, pushing medical bills round his desk. Each of us had found a grove—a way through what we now knew was chronic cancer.
“You are so strong,” I said. My mother still looked like Superwoman to me despite her shrinking size and peach-fuzz hair.
“Do I have a choice?” she said. Her voice rang forceful, yet tinged with exhaustion. “I don’t always want to be.” She bowed her head as though she was talking to herself.
I breathed in her thought. I recognized it as my own.
* * *
Writing prompt: Create a list of moments when you’ve felt strong. Then create a list of words that provide a metaphor for those moments. For example, would you describe yourself as superwoman, or an oak tree, or a rock on the beach? Consider whether there is a contradiction between the feeling of strength and what strength looks like physically. Free write (without censoring yourself) a description of one of those moments.
Author: Pamm Smith
Image Source: Dulcey Lima on UpSplash
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