Dead Mom Walking

by Rachel Matlow

  However, it was apparent to me that the only information she sought was the kind that supported her new anti-medical-establishment beliefs. She certainly wasn’t interested in reading any up-to-date medical literature from Wellspring or the Mayo Clinic. “Up to date in Western medicine means you’re being fed info by Big Pharma,” she told me. “Big Pharma owns the doctors. I’m sure they’re well-meaning—they don’t even know they’re being bought—but it’s corrupt.”

  It’s not as though there wasn’t some truth to what Mom was saying, but she came off as a conspiracy theorist. She wasn’t aware of how paranoid and fanatical she seemed. Conspiracy theorists should at least know better than to sound like conspiracy theorists.

  “People who’ve had success at curing cancer without it costing a lot have been jailed or run out of town,” she proclaimed. “Big Pharma doesn’t want us to know about these alternative cures because they can’t patent herbs. No patent, no profits!” (I imagined that if she weren’t so style-conscious she’d be wearing a hat with the slogan.)

  I tried to reason with her. “I’m not denying that cancer is an industry. But can’t both be true? Can’t it also be true that Western medicine saves lives?”

  “Yes,” she admitted, a wry smile lighting up her face. “But there are theories that they save lives in spite of chemo and radiation.”

  According to Mom’s research, the overwhelming consensus was that it was very possible to cure oneself. She really seemed to believe in the miracle cures she was reading about, despite the lack of scientific evidence to back up their claims. She was even considering going to one of the alternative cancer clinics—Gerson therapy in Mexico or Dr. Gonzalez in New York. She certainly wasn’t interested in reading the articles Teddy was forwarding her from Quackwatch. She’d fire back with her own corroboration, making sure to CC me on the emails. “Watch This INCREDIBLE FILM on Successful Cancer Therapy” read one subject line. It was a link to a documentary about Dr. Burzynski, one of the cancer quacks she’d recently become so enamoured of. I watched the first few minutes of the video, which opened with a man in a white lab coat speaking to the camera. “I was astounded!” he exclaimed. “Dr. Burzynski had MRIs of brain tumours known to be universally fatal and they had simply disappeared. It was obvious to me that Dr. Burzynski had made the most important discovery in cancer treatment ever.” Cue uplifting music.

  I was shocked that Mom could be so naive. But I could also see how persuasive the video—and all her new miracle-cancer-cure books—could be, especially to someone who was extremely scared and vulnerable. I could see the allure of the promise, the possibility of control in the face of utter disorder. They offered an alternative reality, an escape hatch from the Underworld.

  Even Oprah had a weakness for crackpots and junk science. In 2007, three years before Mom’s diagnosis, she gave Jenny McCarthy a platform to spread false claims about vaccines causing autism. And even though the actress admitted she’d learned about autism from “the University of Google,” plenty of viewers bought her messaging. Otherwise intelligent and reasonable parents were—and still are!—refraining from immunizing their children against measles. Oprah’s protege Dr. Oz was also endorsing pseudo-scientific weight-loss treatments like “magic” green coffee beans and “miracle” raspberry ketone supplements. And Gwyneth Paltrow who, then in the early days of her lifestyle blog, was championing all sorts of bogus detox treatments (before going on to hawk vaginal steaming and jade yoni eggs). This is all to say that Mom may have been naive, but she wasn’t the only one getting Gooped.

  Maybe it would have set off more alarm bells if she’d come out as a religious fanatic who opposed medical intervention because “only God heals.” But she had pockets of mainstream culture affirming her arguably just-as-fanatical and dangerous belief: that she had the power to heal herself.

  As a recovering hippie fundamentalist, I understood Mom’s mistrust of Big Pharma. But I also saw how the booming “wellness industry” exploits the anti-authoritarian part of us—the teenager in us all—that thinks we know better. And conveniently, its celebrity mouthpieces don’t need to prove their magical remedies work; they just need to prove that conventional medicine makes mistakes. I mean, who wouldn’t like to believe that we can escape our toxic world and heal ourselves with chaga mushrooms and superfood smoothies?

  Still, I never seriously considered that Mom would reject conventional medicine altogether. She was eccentric, but not insane. In fact, I’d say that Mom was the most enlightened person I knew. She was intelligent in the traditional ways: she stood first in her class growing up, had read thousands of books, and could even recite poetry in Middle English. But beyond worldly knowledge, Mom was well-versed in matters of the heart. She had her own brand of wisdom based on personal experience, psychology, literature, and Buddhist philosophy. She had the air of a wise sage or crone, kind of like Yoda but with better skin and a more whimsical wardrobe.

  Many of her friends and students thought of her as their unofficial life coach. She once jokingly described herself as a “baby shaman.” Mom was open-minded, honest, and kind, and she always dispensed her guidance with compassion and a complete lack of judgment. She never spoke from a pedestal. She was aware of her own insecurities and less-enlightened qualities, yet she was able to put her ego aside to give others personalized and focused attention. She was as good a listener as she was a talker (and she was a pretty darn good talker).

  Mom had such a warmth and interest in other people that strangers would open up within minutes of meeting her. I couldn’t count the number of times I’d leave her to go to the bathroom and return to find her deeply engaged with a new friend. She struck up conversations wherever she went. She’d ask strangers what they were reading. She’d ask waiters and shop clerks about their lives. Mom didn’t do small talk. She spoke to everyone—her hairdresser, the woman who did her nails, even border agents—about real things.

  Mom was always my go-to person for advice whenever I had a dilemma or was feeling down. In my twenties I started opening up to her more, usually when I was heartbroken over a girl. She always knew what to say to make me feel better. I appreciated that she was never too Pollyanna: “Sometimes you just have to put on your high rubber boots and walk through the shit,” she’d say.

  As New Agey as she could be, Mom was never flaky. She always maintained a clear and critical perspective. Even when it came to self-help she was discerning. She wasn’t into trendy phenomena like The Secret, Chicken Soup for the Soul, and Eckhart Tolle. They were too cheesy and simplistic for her. Sure, she liked to spin around with her hands in the air, but she always kept one foot on the ground. MIT-trained mindfulness teacher Jon Kabat-Zinn and Radical Acceptance author Tara Brach, with a PhD in clinical psychology, were more her cup of twig tea. So I just assumed she’d come around to seeing how ridiculous—even fraudulent—so many of these purported miracle workers were, and that meditation and macrobiotics, however healthy, weren’t powerful enough to heal her. But as the weeks went by she seemed only to sink deeper into the quicksand of her fears.

  * * *

  —

  IN NOVEMBER I went with Mom to see Dr. Feinberg, another of the city’s finest colorectal surgeons. The idea was to get a second opinion, but I think Mom was mainly hoping that a new doctor would tell her a new story—one she liked better.

  Dr. Feinberg fit a familiar mould: Jewish, accomplished, self-assured. His assessment was pretty consistent with Dr. Gryfe’s. As we sat in his office, he kept quoting a “ninety percent cure rate.” “I’m optimistic that your cancer is highly curable,” he told her. What was even more hopeful was his conviction that her suspicious lymph node was probably not malignant because it wasn’t in the usual place for rectal cancer.

  But Mom was still seeing the situation like some sort of truther. “Your cure rates refer to a patient’s survival for only five years. Someone could die the day after and they would still be counte
d as being cured, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, but most of my patients go on to live for a very long time,” Dr. Feinberg reassured her. “We measure people for only five years because most recurrences happen within the first few years.”

  “It’s not a conspiracy!” I barked.

  “Things go wrong all the time,” Mom said, looking at me. “Even if the operation goes perfectly, what’s the chance of me getting an infection? Pretty high!”

  I was flabbergasted. It was as if her house was on fire and she didn’t want to put it out for fear of the fire extinguisher.

  “There’s only a two to five percent chance of you getting an infection,” Dr. Feinberg clarified.

  I chimed in again. “And would an infection even be that bad if it means getting the cancer out of you?”

  “Yes, it would be that bad,” she said. “People often die of the infection, not the cancer.”

  Dr. Feinberg was making a valiant effort to stay calm. “You really should have had this done two and a half months ago. You’re young, healthy, and slim. I really don’t think there would be complications,” he added. Mom laughed and comically batted her lashes at the unintentional compliment.

  Now Dr. Feinberg was really getting frustrated. He asked her pointblank: “At the end of the day, are you more concerned about the complications of surgery or the complications of inadequately treated cancer?”

  Mom explained how she was taking some time to try out her alternative remedies.

  “I’m not a fan of complementary medicine,” Dr. Feinberg said coldly.

  I could tell that Mom was put off by that, but I thought his use of the term “complementary” was quite generous—as if Mom’s herbs could actually enrich the effectiveness of surgery and radiation, or balance it out like a fine wine pairing.

  “I truly appreciate all the time you’ve given me, and I know you believe that your way is the only way, but there are about 350 different ways of curing people,” she said with authority.

  Dr. Feinberg couldn’t hold himself back any longer. “You’re misguided if you think alternative methods can help you. Those charlatans are just after your money.”

  The more anyone told Mom what to do, the more resolute she became. And I also don’t think it helped that many of the doctors we were seeing were high-achieving, confident Jewish men—just her type. Mom had been butting up against them her entire life.

  As we walked to the car, I tried to engage her in what I thought was relatively good news. Dr. Feinberg believed it was only first stage.

  “Please, darling, I don’t want to discuss it right now.”

  I backed off. I could see she was feeling overwhelmed. I recognized the same deer-in-headlights look on her face as she had when we’d left Dr. Gryfe’s office.

  Within a few hours her mood would swing like a weather vane and she’d be back to reading her new books, feeling hopeful and happy again. But in that moment she turned to me and said, in a tight, thin voice, “I’m more scared than I’ve ever been in my whole life.”

  4

  BE TRUE TO SELF

  “Unleash your Silver Fox!” In mid-November the evite to Mom’s book launch arrived in my inbox. “If you are a woman over 50,” the copy read, “Silver Fox is your portable guide to personal power, spiritual growth, and the best sexual love of your life.” Cringe.

  A couple of weeks later we gathered at Magpie, Mom’s favourite Queen West boutique. She’d become friendly with its two owner-designers, whose experimental clothes were more like performance pieces: hand-dyed leather jackets with fringes, raw-edged jeans with antique zippers, dresses that looked as though they were made of crumpled newspaper. Their creations were radical, wild, and one-of-a-kind. Just like Mom.

  When I arrived, the place was packed with attractive, stylish, sophisticated women of a certain age (Teddy, Josh, and Mom’s boyfriend, David, might’ve been the only men in attendance). People were drinking wine and mingling among the shop’s outlandishly dressed mannequins. Like a disco ball, Mom was the centre of attention, sparkling in her new silver sequinned motorcycle jacket. She dubbed it her “Silver Fox” jacket.

  Mom was holding court, greeting friends and signing copies of her book. As soon as she saw me her face lit up. “Rachie!” she squealed, opening her arms. I gave her a big hug, and she inscribed a copy of her book for me (she always signed off Love, E./Mom—a subtle reminder that even though she was my mother, she was always Elaine first). I let her get back to her fans and looked down at the cover, which featured a photo of her sitting against a tree surrounded by tall grass, holding up a glass of white wine. It was so Mom.

  I flipped to the table of contents. Chapters included “Your Life as Story,” “Writing from a Dream,” “Affordable Luxury,” “New Aging,” “Fear & Risk,” “Getting Over a Broken Heart,” “What I Call Spirituality,” “Letting Go,” and “Lovely Lust.”

  I braced myself as I continued to the preface.

  “I want to share my transformation from ‘ugly duckling’ into Silver Fox,” Mom began. “It took me from puberty to post-menopause to come into my own as a confident woman. Now, in my sixties, I find I am sought after.

  “Even the term ‘Silver Fox’ is most often associated with men rather than women,” she wrote. “Older men are still considered sexy, and are supported in their natural desire to find sexual partners. Older women are given different messages.”

  Mom was taking the label for herself! She was going to redefine it.

  “Who is a female Silver Fox, you may ask? A Silver Fox has lived long enough to have ripened into her sleek and silver self. She is ready to live and love fiercely and fearlessly. She is in her prime because she knows who she is, knows what she has to give, and knows how to give it.”

  The book—filled with tips, writing exercises, and excerpts from her own journals—was all about teaching “women of a superior age” how to reclaim their strength and magnetism by journaling. “It’s simply the best tool for learning the foxtrot of love,” Mom wrote.

  “I will guide you on an expedition that I have been on for much of my life—the search for the self through journaling. The more we become our true selves, the more we become irresistible. Putting down real thoughts and feelings, reading those thoughts and feelings, listening to our words, honouring the unvarnished truth—journaling in this way leads to love and compassion for self and other. Our words lay down a trail to success, in love and in life.”

  I never made it past the introduction. I was very proud of her, but I wasn’t really her demographic. And honestly, I wasn’t interested in reading about the details of my mom’s love life.

  * * *

  —

  SILVER FOX AROSE from Mom’s experience as a lifelong journaler and teacher of journaling. For more than twenty years she’d been leading a women’s writing group at a local community arts school. I wasn’t exactly sure what went on in their weekly get-togethers (“Whatever happens in the circle stays in the circle”), but from what I’d gleaned, there was a lot of laughing and crying. Mom was known for her ability to create an environment where everyone felt safe to write down their deepest sorrows, regrets, anger, and fears, their most severe self-doubts and litanies of self-judgment. She empowered her fellow women to honour and accept their pain, not as a burden but rather as an important part of their personal history.

  Mom’s energy and enthusiasm for teaching was legendary. She lit a spark of creativity in people and made everyone feel as though their story was worth telling. When Mom shone her light on you, you felt lifted up and seen. It’s no surprise that the women in her life held her in such high esteem. So many of them credited her with helping them truly accept themselves, warts and all. Mom was their role model for how to live life with integrity and courage. Even that night at the party one of Mom’s friends cornered me to say, “I’ve learned so much from her as a teacher, and more i
mportantly, as a human.”

  Mom didn’t believe in enlightenment, at least not as an absolute. She didn’t believe in reincarnation. She didn’t believe there was a god who had her in mind. What Mom truly believed was that everyone has a story—a personal narrative that’s constantly replayed and revised—and that awareness of it could lessen suffering.

  “We write to uncover our truest selves, but in the telling, we are also able to create the person we want to be,” she wrote. “As we write our journals, we revise our life scripts. We shape sentences to reshape ourselves.”

  Mom said she had a desperate need to journal to free herself from family conditioning—those limiting beliefs, protective habits, and defensive behaviours she developed early in life. And so she was constantly writing in her journals. They looked more like scrapbooks: a mix of classic diary entries, positive affirmations, inspirational quotes, stated intentions, letters to herself, unsent letters to others, and New Yorker cartoons.

  * * *

  —

  MOM AND HER little sister, Barbara, grew up above their father’s store, Mitchell’s Menswear, in North Toronto. Their dad, Benny, was a Communist Jew who’d come from Poland as a teenager knowing only a few practical words in English (“Me shorten, me lengthen”) and managed to become a successful fine tailor. Their mom, Frimmy, had grown up in a large Orthodox Jewish family in Winnipeg during the Great Depression. She was a devoted wife and stay-at-home mother.