Dead Mom Walking

by Rachel Matlow

  “She hasn’t. She’s never asked me for my opinion on what she should do, and I’ve never told her.”

  Teddy looked directly at Josh. “I don’t think you’re responding to the issue.”

  “I’m not here to be cross-examined,” Josh protested. “There’s no onus on me to respond in any way other than how I am. I wasn’t even planning on saying anything.”

  “This meeting is explicitly for the purpose of us being able to share our points of view,” I reminded him.

  Teddy agreed. “We’ve been invited to state our views for the last time. If I really thought there was no way of reaching her, I wouldn’t have agreed to this. But I thought that, so long as there still is an option, people do change their minds. So I wanted to say my piece. After this day, I will never try to persuade her or give her medical advice again.”

  Josh spoke thoughtfully. “It makes sense to me to get the CT scan. I intuitively think I would get the surgery. But again, I’m not in her situation. I’m also resolute about respecting what she wants to do.”

  “We want to respect her too,” I said. “But what if Little Molly joined some Manson cult one day? We wouldn’t just respect that. If you see someone you love in denial, you need to make a plea.”

  “I get that. I’m just at a point where I accept that Mom has deeply held convictions. This isn’t helpful. No matter how much time Mom has, or any of us have for that matter, I want us to love each other well. Do I really think it’s helpful for us to sit around and give speeches about why she’s wrong and illogical? No!”

  Mom piped up: “No one’s talking to me anymore! I’m the guest of honour!”

  I turned to her. “Are you open to getting the CT scan?”

  “I want to talk to my doctor, who really listens to me. I trust her,” Mom said.

  I tried to refocus, to speak her language: “If you do get surgery, and remove the polyp, you’ll be giving your immune system a leg up. Give your immune system a fighting chance!”

  “I understand what you’re saying,” Mom said. “I appreciate all your input and love. I know you all care about me. You all want to save me. It’s not as if I’m not scared. I just have to weigh what I can do. I know which way I’m leaning.”

  “I suggest you also take statistics into consideration,” I said. “Anecdotal evidence and scientific evidence don’t weigh the same.”

  “The medical system uses rubber stats,” Mom said. She looked at me. “How would you feel if I do what you want me to do only because I’m worn down and scared enough, and then I get an infection and things go wrong? They cut a nerve by accident. How would you feel if I’m depressed, in misery, and then I die? I think you’d feel guilty for the rest of your life.”

  Nice try! Mom was doing her best “guilt-tripping Jewish mother” performance, but I wasn’t falling for it. (She raised me to be immune to this kind of passive-aggressive manipulation.) Playing the guilt card was clearly an act of desperation—one that revealed more about her fears than mine. If anything, I’d feel guilty for the rest of my life if I didn’t try to get her to seek medical help.

  I shook my head. “If you did surgery and something bad happened, I’d think At least we gave it a shot.”

  Mom took a second. “I feel that I have a really good shot.”

  I was trying not to lose my shit. “When I look to the future, I see you dying in two or three years…maybe only having another six months of feeling okay before you’re in serious trouble.”

  “The party’s over!” Mom announced abruptly. The hour was up, and Mom had to run off to a writing-coach gig. “I do appreciate your honesty. I’m this much open,” she said, holding her hands an inch apart. “Gotta go! Thanks for the egg salad, Teddy. Bye Rachie, bye Joshy.”

  And then she was gone. Teddy, Josh, and I got up from the table and moved to the living room.

  Josh spoke first. “I know you think I’m being passive. But it’s not true. I’m deeply concerned about the situation. I ask her questions, I talk to her, but her arms are already crossed. I’m submitting to you that telling her how wrong she is will not help achieve what you want. I just believe it’s better for her happiness and health for us to support her.”

  “Denial might be better for her happiness, but it’s not better for her health,” I argued.

  Teddy turned to Josh. “When you say there’s no point in telling her to have surgery, it’s probably true. I recognize it. However, I think that after visiting Dr. Stotland and the conversation today, the chance has gone from zero to two percent.”

  “I think Dr. Stotland was a great move,” Josh said. “I’m glad I was there. I’m just not convinced that you guys telling her what to do helps. It breaks my heart when I think of her not seeing Molly grow up—”

  “That’s what I want you to tell her!” I said loudly. “It’s hard, but the truth is the only thing that ever pierces her bubble of denial. Like when she got the results of her MRI and she said she felt ‘gobsmacked.’ Or when she said she was ‘flattened’ after our visit with Dr. Stotland. Sometimes it’s important to tell people straight up that what they’re doing is wrong. Today was my opportunity to say my piece. Teddy and I took the opportunity. If you don’t want to say anything, you don’t have to. But don’t criticize me for speaking my truth.”

  “I’m not convinced that an intervention is effective,” said Josh.

  I tried to calm down and extend an olive branch. “Perhaps what we need is different strategies—to come at her from different fronts. I can be the harsh one. You can be the supportive one. Bad cop, good cop.”

  “You’re right. Maybe different strategies will help,” Josh said. “But still, I’m concerned about your relationship.”

  My relationship—or yours? I thought Josh was projecting. He was the one too scared to rock the boat.

  “I think it’s important that she know your opinion,” I said. “Sometimes she needs to be pushed. If I hadn’t pushed her we’d never have gone to see Dr. Stotland.”

  “I want you to know that I do question her,” Josh responded. “But I don’t do it in a way that will have her listen to me less.”

  “I appreciate that,” I said. “As long as you know that the herbs are not going to cure her.”

  “I hope they do.”

  “But you know they won’t—right?”

  “I hope we’re wrong. I hope she’ll live for another twenty years.”

  I was honestly confused. Did Josh really believe that Mom had a chance of curing herself? Did he just not understand the facts of Mom’s situation, or did he actually think she was magical?

  “I hear you, I do. But I’ve got to go,” Josh said, looking down at his watch.

  Then it was just me and Teddy sitting next to each other on the couch.

  “I’m glad you organized this today,” he said. “No matter what happens, I think we’ll all feel better that it took place.”

  “I want to at least feel like I’ve done everything I could do,” I said.

  “You have.”

  “It would feel worse to be passive. When people say they just want to be supportive, I don’t buy it. I don’t believe in neutrality. Sometimes I think you just have to call a spade a spade and say ‘NO! This is fucked up!’ ”

  “That’s our approach. It’s not his,” said Teddy. “Josh doesn’t like confrontation. That’s why he’s such a good conciliator. He’s good at getting opposing factions to agree on things.”

  “Yeah, but he can stand up to Ford! Just not to Mom.” I sank further into the couch. “The most important thing is that we continue to talk about it. What’s most dangerous is when we stop talking. The past two, three years we haven’t been talking about it, and the situation has only gotten worse.”

  “It’s an awful situation. I just hope she doesn’t come around to wanting surgery and it’s too late. I’m concerned that s
he won’t even be a candidate.”

  “Yeah, that would break my heart too.”

  “I can’t believe how thin she is. She’s a pencil. And she talks about it as if it’s the result of worms,” said Teddy. “When you went through the possible timeline, I think things are worse than that.”

  “Yeah, it’s scary.”

  I hadn’t felt this close to Teddy since we were kids at Disney World riding Space Mountain together. We’d always had a strong bond, but over the past few years Teddy had become a steady emotional anchor. We talked on the phone a lot more than usual. He was always there to listen to me when I was anxious or upset about Mom. He was the only other person in my life who saw Mom’s situation the way I did. I might’ve gone crazy if I didn’t have him.

  * * *

  —

  WITH MOM’S VISIT to her new GP looming, I decided to write Dr. Brunt another covert email. I said that Mom may have been misinterpreting things she’d been saying. For example, Mom often reiterated that Dr. Brunt had told her she “must be doing something right”—as if her alternative treatments had indeed been slowing down her growing cancer. I found it hard to believe Dr. Brunt would think that was the case. I closed with “She’s not going to listen to me, but maybe she’ll listen to you.”

  The day after the appointment, I went over to Mom’s place. “Did you come to any conclusions?” I asked.

  “I did. And she did too. And they’re not the same.”

  She told me how Dr. Brunt had suggested she give chemo a try. Mom agreed to get an ultrasound but she still wanted to do her own thing. There were a number of other avenues she wanted to explore.

  Other avenues? I clenched my teeth. I was upset, but I wasn’t going to bite the hook. Instead of reacting as usual, I would go meta. I spoke slowly and precisely, carefully selecting my words, as if I were questioning a witness: “If denial is a spectrum, have there been times when you have indulged in the protectiveness of denial?”

  “Yes,” Mom replied without any hesitation. “I’ve also read that it’s a very useful thing for cancer patients to do.” She broke into laughter. “It keeps them not crazy!”

  “Seriously, when?” I wasn’t laughing.

  Mom thought about it for a few seconds before letting out a deep sigh.

  “When both Feinberg and Stotland said that it was either second stage or none, I went with none. That was denial. But they also didn’t know what they were doing.”

  News to me! I’d never heard the doctors say she might not have cancer at all. Mom’s denial was like a Russian doll.

  “Any other times?” I pressed.

  “When I had all these symptoms from August to December and I didn’t think it was rectal cancer, that was denial,” Mom said. “It wasn’t conscious denial,” she clarified. “I just didn’t get it. My symptoms only happened after I ate sushi at a new place. I was feeling wonderful before then. I was going to hike the Camino again!”

  Mom went on, blaming her worsening cancer on her fall in Barcelona. A traumatic fall can shut off the immune system, she said, insisting that if she hadn’t broken her elbow she’d still be doing just fine. “I felt better than anyone I knew of my age. I had no joint pain. I could dance. I never felt tired. I felt gloriously healthy except for a touch of cancer.”

  “Do you ever think that in the future you’ll look back and think, ‘That was me in denial too’?”

  “No,” she said. “I’ve never been sorry that I chose the route I have.”

  13

  ONLY THE GOOD DIE YOUNG

  One morning in mid-March, I was on my way to get coffee with Molly when Teddy called. “Have you heard from your mother?” I could tell he was anxious. I hadn’t. He said that Dr. Brunt had just called Mom to ask her to come in that afternoon. My heart sank. It’s never good news when the doctor asks to see you right away.

  As soon as I got off the phone with Teddy I called Mom. I wanted to go with her, I said, and promised I wouldn’t say anything—I’d be there just for support. She agreed with a sombre “Okay.” I could hear the fear in her voice. She could hear the desperation in mine. We both knew this had nothing to do with bad sushi.

  When Molly and I arrived at the café I slumped down into a chair. In chess, it had always seemed to me that the real moment of defeat isn’t when you’re actually checkmated; rather it’s the second you can see your death on the horizon—the dawning of its inevitability. You’re already down a piece or more and you know that in a couple of moves you’ll be finished. There’s nothing much you can do. Your fighting spirit subsides, and you exhale a quiet sigh.

  I’d known this moment could—and most likely would—come, but that didn’t make it any less of a shock. I poured milk into my Americano, going through the motions, but I’d drifted into a fog.

  “Are you okay, babe?” Molly looked at me with tender, sympathetic eyes. She wanted to cancel her plans to head out of town that day for a weekend with friends. “I don’t want to leave you like this,” she said. I insisted she go. I didn’t want her to stop her life for me.

  “I’ll be fine,” I said. But I knew I was about to receive the worst news of my life. And I knew Molly would want to be there for me. And, well, I knew I’d prefer to handle things myself.

  * * *

  —

  THAT AFTERNOON, as Mom and I sat down in her office, Dr. Brunt immediately struck me as personable, someone who exuded positive energy. I could see why Mom liked her so much.

  Dr. Brunt started off with some casual small talk. It turned out that her sportswriter brother and I had worked together at Q, prompting her to make a few disparaging remarks about Jian. Seriously, was there no part of my life he hadn’t contaminated? It might’ve been comical if the sheer mention of his name hadn’t ramped up my already high anxiety.

  Dr. Brunt opened Mom’s latest scans on her computer and finally got to the point. She explained that there were cancerous lesions all over Mom’s liver.

  “Is this what they call ‘mets’?” I asked. I distinctly remembered Dr. Stotland mentioning liver “mets”—metastases—three years earlier as an indicator of having only six months left to live. (It had stuck with me because, up till then, I’d associated the word only with the baseball team.) Dr. Brunt answered affirmatively.

  So there it was. Checkmate.

  Dr. Brunt kindly yet matter-of-factly made clear to Mom that her cancer was terminal, but that she could perhaps live for another year or two if she did palliative chemotherapy. She said she could make a referral to an oncologist at Princess Margaret Hospital if Mom wanted to explore that. Mom had the recognizable deer-in-headlights look on her face. She nodded slowly and said she’d think about it.

  We left the doctor’s office in a daze. For once in our lives Mom and I were silent as we took the elevator down to the ground floor. It seemed trite to ask her if she was okay, even though I wanted to make some sort of emotional connection. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t even feel like I was in my own body. It was as if I were looking down on us from the security camera in the corner. As if we were playing out a horrible scene that had already been written.

  I was at once heartbroken for Mom and supremely angry that she’d let things get to this point. Yelling “I told you so” had been so enjoyable when I was a kid, but now there was no satisfaction in being right. Just a well of pain and anger—and underneath that a vast expanse of sadness I was only beginning to know. But it was strange: on the surface I hardly felt a thing.

  We walked out of the building and found ourselves squinting in the midday sun. Mom finally broke the ice. She said she knew of a great Italian restaurant on the next block. She barely had an appetite anymore, but we decided to go for lunch. What else were we supposed to do?

  As we walked slowly, arm in arm, down the sidewalk to Nove Trattoria, I was reminded of when I used to walk with my ninety-year-old grandma. For some
one who’d always appeared “ageless,” Mom was now aging rapidly. Over the last three months it seemed as though she’d lost fifteen pounds and gained fifteen years. She was frail and less steady on her feet. And I’m sure the shock of what she’d just heard wasn’t helping. As we strolled along, my resentment melted. I wanted her to be able to lean on me.

  We sat down for lunch and Mom ordered a glass of expensive white wine. She didn’t care for alcohol anymore, but she would have a sip. “It’s for the gesture,” she said. When it arrived, Mom raised her glass in resignation and looked me squarely in the eyes. “Only the good die young,” she cracked. My eyebrows shot up. It might’ve been the saddest joke I’d ever heard.

  * * *

  —

  THAT EVENING I went to a friend’s birthday dinner. I was still in a daze, floating outside my body, watching myself carrying on like normal. It hadn’t even occurred to me to stay home and, I dunno, cry?

  When I walked into our neighbourhood wine bar I saw a sea of familiar faces. I took an open chair next to Steph, an ex-girlfriend, and tried to engage in regular conversation. I didn’t want to upstage the celebration, but I was distracted by the scrolling news ticker in my head. My mom’s going to die. My mom’s going to die.

  Steph picked up on my energy. I might’ve been able to fool the others, but not her. She asked me how my mom was doing. We’d dated in the early years of Mom’s diagnosis and Steph really cared about her, so I was compelled to be honest. “Well, we actually just found out that her cancer has spread,” I heard myself saying, amazed that the words were coming out of my mouth. “It’s terminal.” As I spoke, it was as if I were delivering the news to myself, too. Saying it out loud, even in a hushed, dissociative tone, suddenly made it more real.

  I was grateful that it was Steph sitting next to me that night. There was still an easiness between us, and so it was comforting to have her by my side, both of us quiet and deflated, digesting the impossible news. We sat there silently for a bit, conscious of the bizarre juxtaposition: wine was flowing, people were laughing, and Mom was going to die.