A Taste of Bliss

by Adrian R. Hale

  She is wracked by a wicked cough that causes me to cry harder. She’s always been a smoker, for as long as I can remember. Her gritty cough was as ubiquitous as her laugh. I want to take back everything I ever said about her getting cancer as a threat to get her to stop smoking. I feel somehow responsible, as if I willed her to get sick.

  “Mom, I’m coming down to see you. I can’t believe this is happening over the phone. I just want to hug you right now. Can I stay over tonight?” I am already throwing a few things into a duffle bag and changing into jeans before she replies.

  “I’d really like that, Blissy. You don’t have to stay if you need to be back in San Francisco right away.”

  “I don't have a job booked tomorrow, I can totally stay.”

  “Well that makes me feel better. Maybe you can go to the doctor’s with me tomorrow? I really don’t want to go back alone. It’s been hard enough getting all this news by myself.”

  Oh jeeze. I feel like the worst daughter ever. I’ve been totally ignoring my mom’s calls and letting my life take priority without a second thought to how she was doing. I’m the only family she has.

  “Of course, Mom, I’ll go with you to as many doctors’ appointments as I can. I’ll be there in about an hour, hang in there. I love you.” I fight back tears as we say our goodbyes and I rush out to the living room.

  “Where you going so soon? You just got back from your shoot.” Willa sits up from where she was sprawled on the couch and pauses her Sunday Netflix marathon.

  “My mom is sick. Cancer. I need to go spend some time with her.” I can’t help the distracted manner of my reply to her while I search for the keys I just had.

  “Oh shit, I’m sorry Bliss. That sucks. Is there anything I can do?” Willa looks as unhappy as I feel. I love her to death for being such a concerned friend.

  “I don’t know yet, but thanks for offering. I’ll be in touch, I guess.” I look at her, feeling her pity settle heavily on my shoulders. Pity for both me and my mom. I can tell she doesn’t know what to do or say either.

  I leave hastily, frantic to get to San Jose to see Mom. When you think of cancer, as a healthy person, you imagine the worst, but in a positive way. You see pink, the only color I think of when someone brings up cancer. You see the victorious stories of survivors in magazines, the cancer research fundraising that is everywhere. You see walks and rallies, and ribbons on cars. You think there might be a chance of ending this disease once and for all, of fighting it and living.

  When cancer touches your life, you don’t really see how it can get better. It’s all mysterious and confusing, medical jargon and killing treatments. You’re underwater, fighting for breath with people telling you it will be fine, you can do it, when all you think is that you’re dying. And I don’t even have the cancer.

  I can’t drive fast enough to get to my mom, anxiety riding my heels, ready to devour me. I can’t lose her. I just can’t. I know children are supposed to outlive their parents, but I imagined she would live to a ripe old age and see more of my life. Maybe see me get married, start a family, see more of the world like she’s always wanted. Even I, with my limited knowledge of cancer, know a stage four diagnosis has a very low success rate for treatments.

  My mom is going to die. Tears blur my vision, making it hard to see. I quickly wipe my eyes and focus on the road, knowing I will have to pull over if I keep crying, and that will take me longer to get to her.

  Pulling up to my mom’s apartment, I grab my bag and race inside. I nearly knock her over when I barrel through the door and find her waiting for me in the small entryway.

  “Oh, Mom—” I pull her to me for a crushing hug, holding on tight as we both dissolve into tears.

  “I just can’t believe it, Bliss, I just can’t.” Her thick voice moves my hair as she speaks, her arms possessing a strength that cancer hasn’t stolen from her. Yet. Maybe it’s not as bad as we’re thinking. Wouldn’t she be wasting away already, if it was so bad?

  She pushes away from me so she can take me in. We’re both a sight; our matching clear blue eyes are red and swollen, our oval faces tear-stained. Growing up, people told me so often how much I looked like my mom that I sort of hated to hear it. Right now all I want is to go back and thank each of those people for their compliment, because my mother is beautiful, strong, and amazing. Whenever Mom heard the comparisons, she would always say she made me herself. It seemed plausible when I was little, as I have never met my dad.

  “You dyed your hair pink. When did you do that? I like it.”

  I laugh, because it is so like my mom to notice and comment on my hair at a time she should be worried about what’s going on in her life. She’s been a hairstylist for twenty-five years. I grew up coloring in My Little Pony books in the break room of the salon she worked at while she colored hair out front. When I was old enough, I would sweep up hair for her, and then in middle school I started shampooing her clients and assisting her after school.

  I always knew I wanted to be just like her when I grew up, because making people beautiful made more than a difference on the outside; it also helped to restore them inside. I chose to go through a cosmetology program while still in high school, spending half of my days for two years learning how to cut and color hair.

  I continued in my mom’s footsteps after I got my license by working at a salon. Instead of staying in San Jose, I moved up to San Francisco to work at The Vaughn Group salon in an assistant position while taking makeup classes. After a year working my tail off assisting other stylists, I realized I needed something else entirely to fulfill me. I began taking on-location jobs through The Vaughn Group, which gave me a new direction to do what I love—make people pretty—and that’s when I saw that I could do hair and makeup as a living instead of working behind the chair. That little dream grew until a salon that allowed me out only once in a while couldn’t contain it. I wanted the freedom of only working events and weddings that the salon just couldn’t give me. Now, thanks in part to Mom’s lifelong inspiration and dedication to what she loves, I am making my dreams come true.

  “Just recently. I’m glad you like it.” We head to her couch and sit. Now that I am with her, I have no clue what to say, or how to comfort her. My mom has cancer. She’s going to die.

  “Blissy, don’t look so sad. I hate it when you’re sad.” Mom pushes the hair off my face and behind my ear, the corners of her eyes creased and her eyebrows drawn together.

  “Mom, how can you even think about me? I’m sad because I don't want you to be sick. I wish there was something I could do.”

  “You’re doing it. All I want is to spend more time with you, while I have it.”

  “Oh, jeez, Mom.”

  I drop my head into my hands, fresh tears coursing down my face. The weight of her diagnosis has my heart in a vice-like grip. She puts her arm around me and pets my hair until I manage to stop my sniffles, wiping the tears away with the back of my hand. I shouldn’t be breaking down like this. I need to be strong for her, and here she is comforting me.

  “What did the oncologist say? Do you have a prognosis?”

  “Well, I know its stage four, so it doesn’t look good. I’m meeting with a specialist tomorrow to go over my treatment options, will you come with me?”

  “Yes, of course I will. I’m yours all day. I just have to get back to the city sometime tomorrow night because I have a job booked Tuesday morning.”

  “Did you finally quit The Vaughn Group?” She astutely gauges my answer, always one step ahead as she hands me a tissue to wipe my face. Thankfully, I had taken off my makeup before coming down here, so there is nothing to ruin with my tears.

  “Yeah, about a week ago. It’s kind of scary being on my own.”

  Mom looks at me with pride, a smile softly stretching her gently lined face. “I am so proud of you, Bliss. You have always been good at doing exactly what you need to. You were so brave to move up to San Francisco to pursue your dreams, and now to step away from the
salon atmosphere to change the course you are on. You outgrew that place ages ago, and you have all the potential in the world to make it on your own just fine. I see big things for you, baby.” Her eyes are all unguarded honesty and love, breaking me inside with her faith in me.

  I lean my head back on the couch and blink back tears. My mom has always been my biggest champion, seeing big things even when it was just making friends at school or trying out for a sports team.

  Mom lays her head on my shoulder and sighs. “It’s gonna be alright, Bliss. Like our song.” She begins to hum Songbird by Fleetwood Mac. She has been singing it to me since I was a baby. Her raspy voice always lent a grittier edge to the song, but the words were both soothing and encouraging. Soon, her humming turns into coughing that continues until she is nearly gagging. She reaches for a box of tissue on the coffee table, covering her mouth until her fit subsides. While she tries to hide it, the bloody tissue she crumples up and stuffs next to her does not escape my notice.

  Oh, mom…

  We spend our afternoon on the couch, watching silly 80’s movies on Netflix and talking about our lives. Mom reminisces about growing up in the 70’s and 80’s. She tells me that hair was “real” back then.

  The hair was real big, anyway.

  Mostly we just enjoy each other’s company, a rarity with our schedules and me being just far enough away to make a quick trip difficult. She has frequent coughing fits that nearly always end with a bloody tissue. I get up to bring her a trash can so she can dispose of the evidence of her sickness. She looks at me sheepishly, but I also see the fear in her eyes.

  I know the appointment with her specialist will bring a new light to this whole situation. Right now, I am fighting just to feel hopeful. There’s got to be another option, experimental treatments, anything to extend her life. I can’t lose my mom.

  Chapter Seven

  The oncology waiting room is bright and cheery, probably because cancer is a black, horrible disease that eats cheer for breakfast before spitting the bones in your Cocoa Puffs. We have to wait a short while before the nurse calls us back to the doctor’s office. The doctor is a petite lady of indeterminate age, with gorgeous almond shaped eyes that twinkle. Yes, twinkle. She could very well be an elf with a doctorate of medicine.

  “Hello, Ms. Kaufman, I’m Dr. Ong.”

  “Please, call me Lisa. This is my daughter, Bliss.” We shake hands and sit down on a low taupe couch as Dr. Ong takes a white chair across from us. I take Mom’s hand, squeezing in reassurance. We’re in this together. She’s going to be fine.

  “I’m glad you have someone with you, Lisa. Fighting cancer is rough, but even more so on your own.”

  Mom nods. “I’m lucky to have Bliss.”

  “I’m not going to blow smoke up your ass, Lisa, or tell you this will be easy. Stage four lung cancer is a bitch.”

  I stifle a laugh as the tiny elf lady surprises us with her choice of speech. I guess laughing inappropriately is better than crying. I like her, and I am glad she’s my mother’s doctor.

  “We’re going to jump right in and go over your options. Now, this won’t be easy to hear, but I want you to keep an optimistic attitude, as we have some options for dealing with a case like yours. You’ve already had a bronchoscopy and lung biopsies, as well as other tests that determined your diagnosis.” She gets out of her chair to put up a couple of chest X-rays on a light board across from us.

  “Our tests proved that you have non-small cell lung cancer. I’m going to call it NSCLC to save time. Unfortunately, it has spread throughout both sides of your lungs, as well as into lymph nodes in your chest.”

  She circles dark spots in both lungs with her finger. “Those are the primary and metastatic tumors in your lungs, but they’re not the only ones.” She points to several other small dark spots. “We don’t know without doing more biopsies, but we can be almost certain that there is distant lymph node metastasis, meaning the cancer has spread to your neck,” she points at the throat section of the x-ray where we see shadowing, “and most likely into your brain, as is common for many cases of stage four NSCLC. You could also have tumors in your liver, bones, and adrenal glands.”

  I can’t help the tears that are pouring silently down my face. Her body is a raging cancer party, and the tumors are trashing the place. I look quickly at mom, but she is a stoic rock of determination.

  “Would you like a moment to process this?” Dr. Ong asks kindly.

  “You can keep going, Dr. Ong. I want to know everything,” Mom says, while patting my hand. “You can’t fight something without knowing all of its ugly faces.”

  Dr. Ong smiles at my mom, but there is a look of futility there. Even she doesn’t think Mom will be able to win this fight. “With the widespread nature of your disease, it is very hard to treat. We can operate to remove the tumors from your lungs and brain, taking as many lymph nodes as we can on our way out, but there will be inoperable tumors, like the one near the center of your chest, as well as other sites.” Dr. Ong taps a pen into her palm, her gaze focused inward as she thinks of treatment options.

  “We could do several rounds of aggressive chemo and radiation, and put you on a few drugs to help control the spread and formation of new tumors. Honestly though, that may only help to prolong your life, and is not to be looked at as a cure. We can do a round of PDT—photodynamic therapy—and place stents to help relieve your symptoms, like constricted airways and the pain associated with the lung tumors. A combination of these options will help make you more comfortable.”

  “You’re basically telling us that even with all of these options, drugs, and pumping poison into her body, she’s still not expected to make a full recovery or enter remission?” I force the words out slowly, trying desperately to pump the brakes on the rising hysteria that threatens to leave me rocking in the corner.

  The sympathy in Dr. Ong’s face is more than I can handle. She fucking pities me for my wishful thinking. She has no clue the desperation I am feeling right now, the rage that is building, clawing my throat raw, and the enveloping sadness that is paralyzing.

  “Bliss, your mom has stage four cancer. There is very little we can do to treat and remove everything that is attacking her body. I will do anything in my power to help her fight this, and to make her as comfortable as possible. We can start chemo as soon as you want, double it up with drugs to shrink the tumors, and hit her with targeted radiation to the brain and lungs.”

  “I don't want anything aggressive. No chemo, or radiation, no medication that will knock me out and destroy my body while trying to manage this cancer.” Dr. Ong and I both whip our heads toward Mom.

  “What? Why would you refuse treatment?” I ask her, horrified by what she is saying.

  “Bliss, all that will do is weaken me and force me to be miserable for the next few months, right Dr. Ong?”

  The doctor gives Mom a slight nod of affirmation, but the sad look on her face says she’s not entirely happy about it.

  “I don’t want to be stuck in a bed, puking my guts out. I don't want to fry my insides with radiation. I don’t want to lose my hair, or hate my life so much from the treatments that I wished for death. I want to live, baby.” Mom looks at me, taking my hands in hers.

  “I want to see places I’ve never been to. I want to spend time with you. I want to go skydiving or bungee jumping or something equally as crazy. I don’t want treatments to ruin what time I have left, if I have already been given an expiration date.”

  “You should still consider medication to relieve your current symptoms. There are options that aren’t as aggressive as chemo or radiation,” Dr. Ong tells us. “We could get you into a clinical trial for new medications that have been showing promising results.”

  “Mom, you have to at least consider what she’s saying. You can’t just go on like this, coughing up blood, growing short of breath when you walk short distances, and getting dizzy when you stand up too quickly. I know you have tried to hide it, but I c
an tell this is hurting you. If there is something that can help control all of that, keep you comfortable, you have to do it.”

  “Sweetie, I’m not saying no. I just want to know exactly what these medicines would do. And how much they cost.” She looks down quickly, before addressing Dr. Ong. “I pay for my insurance out of pocket, and it isn’t very good. I’m afraid it won’t cover the cost of my treatments.”

  “You will have to check with your insurance company to get those details. I’m sorry I don’t have a better answer upfront for you. There is a promising clinical trial available to you, should you meet the eligibility requirements, and it would be covered by insurance and the research costs, rather than out of pocket. You would continue to need to meet your co-pay for doctor visits, and I am sure you have a deductible that will need to be met during treatment, but we can make this work for us.” Dr. Ong opens a desk drawer and removes a few pamphlets to start a folder with information for us.

  As Dr. Ong explains different facets of typical and experimental treatments for NSCLC, I am washed in information overload. I really, truly was hoping this appointment would lead to a prognosis that was scary, but positive. Something along the lines of “you’ve got a shitty hand, but we can play it so you win, and beat this.” Mom refusing aggressive treatments that could improve, but not eradicate her cancer, is disheartening. I would be remiss in saying I don’t understand where she is coming from, because I get it. I just don’t like it. My brain is screaming for her to adopt the strongest plan of action she can. Ride into battle with her chemo sword and radiation shield, slay cancer dragons with experimental drugs like a holy shaman.