Seven years past

I had a lot of disruption to my sleep for about 8-10 days there, and the last few months have just been pretty much nose to the grindstone since about November 1st, if not before that. I can’t remember the last time I had 3 days off in a row, other than when I was sick over Christmas. Beyond that, it would have been October. I’ve been slaving to the almighty dollar for a long while now, barely making ends meet, and the light at the end of it all is finally visible. Soon.

I’m so, so, so tired now. Soon, I’ll rest. Today’s a shitty day. The anniversary of finding my mom’s cancer was seven years ago today. I was seeing There’s Something About Mary at the old rep theatre near my house. I smoked a joint or two, walked back home, knowing my mom was to be in surgery until about when the film completed.

I walked in, checked our messages, and had a message from the doctor, whose name escapes me now. I remember that night so fucking clearly, in some ways. The message, “I operated on your mother. She’s in recovery now, but there’s something I need to speak with you about. Call me as soon as you can.”

Cancer, I thought. I’d been suspecting it would be. It was supposed to be your garden variety hysterectomy, but the grapefruit-sized hard mass I felt through the walls of my mother’s tummy as she waited in that hospital room that morning said anything but routine to me.

I refused to have a phone conversation. I wanted to be in person when I heard that. I sure as fuck didn’t want to be alone, that much I knew.

I’ve had that experience you see on every TV show. Not my dad, not my brother, not anyone else in my clan. Me. The one where you walk into a ward and the doctor is chatting with some nurses, all friendly like, when he hears who you’re asking for, and his face falls to something more grave. This doctor did that. Grave face, dark complexion, difficulty expressing it. “Perhaps we should step over here,” he said, “and talk.” He looked at my mom’s friend who’d driven me. “In private,” he muttered, and took me into a private office, told me I should take a seat, told me the deal.

Cancer, cancer, cancer, cancer, cancer, cancer. We don’t know. Cancer, cancer, cancer.

That might as well have been the conversation right there. There was cancer. Rare. Aggressive. Mysterious. Three cases before now in Western Canada. One woman maintaining, the other two dead. Didn’t look good. But they were “hopeful.” Yeah, and likely smoking grass and singing Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds, for all the good it did.

I was stunned, floored, and rightly fucked. I didn’t know what to do next. Called my brother. Cancer, I said. He didn’t believe me, he’s always been obstinate. So, I said it again. And again. Finally, he clued in. He took care of phoning all the relatives, which was probably a bad move, since my mother wouldn’t know herself until two more days had passed. There was nothing we could do, so we left.

GayBoy was working that night, doing dishes and shit at the bar he used to work at back then. My first stop was to see him. I don’t remember what really happened, he didn’t know what to say, really. Promised he’d try to come as soon as possible, but his coke-addled boss kept him by raging until 3.

It didn’t matter, sleep wouldn’t find me for a few days yet. I got home, my mom’s friend left me there, and I sat there in the dark, in a corner, and just waited, sobbing softly in fear and fright, until my friend would arrive before 4.

I remember GayBoy coming with beer and dope. He came in and I don’t remember where the conversation went, what came next, but I do remember that he somehow managed to lighten me up enough that I actually laughed while we watched the TeleTubbies.

That was the night, essentially, seven years ago. He stayed until it was light, probably shortly after 7, then left. But that was all right – it was light out, and the monsters only come in the dark, right?

No, it doesn’t hurt like it used to, not really. But the day rolls up, says, “Think about me,” and you just can’t get it out of your head. This is probably the best anniversary of any kind I’ve had in regards to my mom, and I think I’m well past that really hard place, but there are days when the least you can do for your departed is to spend a little time reflecting on them.

So, Mom, wherever you are, I’m sure you’re enjoying that crimson sunset out my window as much as I am. It sucks your sunset was so muddled and sudden, but I’m glad you had a few years before your death where you truly lived. It makes me glad to be taking such a risk right now… although I’m still scared, but I’m doing what it took you 47 years to learn – I’m living my life on my terms. Here’s hoping, eh? Thanks, for you know what.