The Cancerous Silence

Well... today's plan was to finish up the details at the remodel in the morning, and then head off for some ceramics studio time at 1 p.m. But as I was inbetween snooze alarms, I received a phone call from my mother... It's her day off, and she is not an early riser, so I was immediately concerned.

Apparently mother needed me to drive her to a doctor's appointment. Considering she rarely shares any personal or medical information with me, and I've been on her case to go, I was surprised, and even more concerned, that she felt she needed a driver. I asked her what was wrong.

"I have a headache." She replied.

Cut the crap, mom. She's a registered nurse. She wouldn't go to a doctor for a headache, but I wouldn't cross the invisible line she has drawn and ask her what was really going on. Another terrible dynamic in our mother/daughter relationship. For years, I have allowed her to keep everyone at arm's length... and that has to stop. My mom is theoretically young: 61. But, she has a terrible diet of Pepsi and fast food, she's overweight, and has a nearly lifelong history of high blood pressure. And...

She's had cancer.

I think any child of a cancer-stricken -and- survived parent lives with a nagging fear that it will come back. Every sniffle, every "headache," takes you back there. Back to the days when you cry when no one is looking, wondering how you could really make it through the "what if" that no one wants to talk about.

When my mom had cancer, I was in my early twenties. Just starting to figure out that bad shit happens, and that some times life isn't that fun. I used to say that if anything ever happened to my mom I'd be committed to a "loony bin." And I wasn't far off...

I couldn't share my fears with my mother; she had her own. I couldn't share them with family; she swore me to secrecy. I coudn't share them with my friends; that would be a burden, wouldn't it? So I carried this truly cancerous silence with me, and it ate away at my sanity; my soul.

At one point, I recall considering getting "knocked up" so that my mom could have a grandchild before, well, before you know. I think even God wouldn't have chosen that permanent bond between myself and my "boyfriend" at that time, so he secretly shut down the egg factory. I just knew that there were things that my mom must have wanted before she, you know, and I didn't want her to miss out on a thing.

So... since I didn't get pregnant, I got drunk. A lot. And by myself. I would go through my daily routine with a painted on smile, with my head held high, as if nothing were wrong... as if I had not a care in the world. My denial was scheduled. I was in denial daily, between the hours of 7 a.m. to 11 p.m. It was only during those late hours that I engaged in an internal battle of acknowlegment and fear. I found myself going to the bar alone, occassionally telling a stranger about my nagging fears, but never, never crying. I saved the crying for home. Part of me wanted to scream at the top of my lungs, but the other part sought solace in pretending it wasn't happening. I never felt so alone, and if she, you know, I would have been even more alone.

Thankfully, mother pulled through, and so did I. But, she still has health issues that worry me. Today, the doctor told her that her blood pressure had become very high and that she has to take a medication immediately, and return tomorrow morning. That's not good. She could have a stroke... a heart attack. She could need to be hospitalized. And what she really needs to do, is get real about her life, and her health, and I need to get real with her, and tell her that if she won't do it for herself, that she should at least do it for me.

I grew up in a strange sort of silence. Love that was implied, but never spoken. Knowing my father existed, somewhere, but not daring to ask. Carrying my own fears, and questions, but never finding the courage to express them in words. Fearing that I would lose my mom, before she really understood what she meant, and means, to me.

Maybe this is her first step. Her first step towards acknowledging that at some point in our lives, the roles of child and parent become somewhat reversed, and that we, the children, are capable and willing to be caregivers. Her first step towards knowing that after a lifetime of sacrifice, she has earned the right to "interrupt my day." Perhaps the lines of communication, real communication, are being connected. Maybe on a trial basis, but alas, connected.