Hard

Mom moved in.  It’s been a few months.  Three months, actually.  And it’s been hard.  Sometimes beautiful.  Sometimes sweet.  But mostly hard. 

Anytime you add a person to your household, the adjustment is rocky.  We know that from being foster parents.  And living with your mom again in your mid-forties is a definite change.  It’s not that anyone is doing anything wrong.  It’s just… different. 

We are tall people.  We keep things on the top shelves.  Mom can’t reach them.  So when she unloads the dishwasher (which is lovely), she stacks all the tall shelf things on a table for me to put away when I get home (which is annoying).  It’s stupid.  I know that.  She can’t BE TALLER.  I’m grateful that she unloads the dishwasher.  So why am I annoyed?  I don’t know.  I just am. 

There are a whole series of dumb, slightly irritating things.  We eat different food.  We have different schedules.  We relax in different ways.  

But none of those things is the thing. 

The thing is the fact that she’s here because of the cancer.  The stupid, life-changing, heart-breaking, soul-sucking cancer.  Breast cancer.  And from what I understand, it’s the worst kind of breast cancer.  Triple-negative, which means it doesn’t respond to targeted treatment or  hormone therapy.  Stage three (not four, so I guess that makes it the second-worst kind). 

Mom lives in Florida, which isn’t exactly known for cutting-edge medicine. So she’s here to get the best care she can get.  Every Monday, I bring her into Boston for chemo.  We get there early. We mask up on the way to the front desk.  We check in and answer the same questions.  “Name?  Date of Birth?  Who’s with you today?  Any flu symptoms? Any new rash?” The receptionist hands us our name tags and then sends us upstairs for the blood draw.  We check in with a different receptionist and Wordle while we wait. Once the blood draw is completed, we have the gift of time.  

While the hospital staff evaluates and analyzes and shares results, we head up to the third floor cafeteria.  The food here is surprisingly delicious.  Mom gets a spinach and egg white croissant with a cup of fruit on the side.  I always get a cup of coffee, but I switch up my breakfast.  Sometimes a veggie frittata.  Sometimes a ham and swiss sandwich.  Sometimes an omelette or a muffin.  We leave our paper containers slightly open, because we know the drill and the cashier needs to see what’s in there.  We check out and find a table near the window but away from the other people. We settle in and pull off our masks.  We watch the time and speculate about how long things will take today.  

After breakfast, we head up to the ninth floor.  Check in again.  Someone takes her vitals.  More waiting.  Sometimes we see the doctor.  Sometimes the nurse.  Sometimes we head right to the treatment room for the infusion.  

In a weird sort of way, I enjoy these days.  I enjoy the predictability.  I enjoy the time with her.  I enjoy the comfortable silence.  

We play Scrabble during every infusion.  Mom loves Scrabble.  She cheats, but I’ve decided to stop pushing against it.  If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.  So when the board is all blocked up, we’ll ask each other and look it up.  Is Qi a word? (Yes.)  What about Ta?  (No.)  We’re pretty evenly matched, and during a particularly long infusion, we can get in more than one game.  

We have the same nurse most days. Sandy. She’s amazing.  Knowledgeable and kind and compassionate.  She shares tips and tricks and is encouraging and patient and wonderful.  Thank God for these people.  The doctors and the nurses and the phlebotomists and the receptionists and the cafeteria workers who are making the unbearable bearable. 

My sisters have also been amazing.  They’ve all traveled here to take a turn performing this Monday ritual with mom.  They’ve  sent gifts and spent time and taken days off to help in this marathon of caring.  

Mom has just finished round one.  The first round of chemo, punctuated by tests and imaging and countless conversations.  Then round two will begin.  Then the first surgery (to move her pacemaker).  Recovery.  Then the second surgery (a double mastectomy).  More recovery.  Then radiation.  At least, that’s the plan.  Each step is dependent on the others, dependent on the images and the results and her responses.  

And as much as our hospital visits are predictable, her responses are not.  The effects of the medicine are cumulative.  Every week, she feels a little bit worse.  A little more fatigued.  A little more itchy.  A little more sick.  A little more insomnia. 

A little more depression. 

I mean, what’s more depressing than cancer?  Of course, we try to stay positive.  We are optimistic and faithful and hopeful.  But sadness sneaks in.  And when she appears, it’s best to let her stay and sit for a while.  If you shoo her away too quickly, she returns with a mask.  Anger.  Frustration.  Impatience. Those are her favorite disguises. 

Which brings me full circle, I think. Sadness. Frustration. It’s all hard.  

And none of them are going away.  Not the sadness.  Not the fear.  Not the frustration.  And not mom.  She’s here.  Thank God.  She’s still here.  And while she’s here, I just have to keep inviting joy to join us.  Family game night.  Takeout Chinese food.  Hamilton sing-alongs.  Top-down rides.  Knitting together.  Baking together. Trips to the library.  Tea and conversation.  Ice cream in the sunshine.  So many Scrabble games.  

That’s life, right? It’s not meant to be easy. In fact, all the best stuff is wrapped up in a whole lot of hard. So we lean into it. The good and the hard and the beautiful and the awful. Glennon Doyle calls it ‘brutiful.’ Brutal and beautiful. Lovely and awful. Fun and irritating. Like playing Scrabble with a cheater.

Pick your letters. Let’s do this, Mom. I love you.