The Ultimate Bond

I thought I would never forget the details of the day my mother’s first cancer diagnosis came, back in the late 1980s. But today, right now, if you ask me where I was when I heard, or what I was wearing, or what I ate for dinner that very evening, I would draw a blank. What I do remember are long, teary phone calls with my two sisters; appeals to God for grace, understanding, and (dare I ask?) healing; frantic searching of medical literature; a gazillion questions, many of which had no answers; and the resolute circling of a family’s wagons around its very life source.

My mother’s personal introduction to the world of cancer came without warning or fanfare. A bad result to a routine test during an annual physical. Colon cancer. I was not living in Mississippi with the rest of the family at the time and, unhappy with my own situation, was ready to move home immediately. I guess I thought I was the only daughter who could help her mother. Martyr complex, anyone?

Cooler heads prevailed, and even though my home base remained Knoxville, I managed to participate in my mother’s care, as did everyone else in the family — a blessing. Her treatment involved fairly extensive surgery and a regime of low-dose chemotherapy — a tolerable experience, according to my mother. All of us were in Mississippi for the surgery. At one point, my father and I rushed to my mother’s bedside in the middle of the night when she was feverish, afraid, and seemingly unable to interest the nurses in her concerns. (This teaches me something I will rely on later with my mother and father, and even myself. If possible, arrange for a friend or family member to be with you in the hospital at all times. Someone who can hear what you might miss, ask the questions you can’t verbalize, and otherwise keep track. More than once my family members have prevented an improper procedure from being performed, simply by paying attention and speaking up.)

Then, several years later, soon after a frightening episode with an inflamed breast, my mother was told she had breast cancer. This time I do remember where I was and what I was doing when the call came. I was coloring my hair in my apartment in Washington, D.C. Mother seemed more concerned with the very real possibility that my hair might turn out “too red for your skin tone” than she was with her physical prognosis.

Her mother had had the same disease, back in the days when your breasts were immediately lopped off and you were treated with cobalt. I can remember my maternal grandmother’s flat chest, but I did not know until my own mother’s illness how Grandmother Lyles’ upper body had come to be so reminiscent of smooth porcelain.

The doctors said my mother’s two cancers were not related, but if you had asked each of my family members I bet we all would have said the same thing: “How can you be sure?” For the second round, Mother decided to seek treatment at a cancer specialty center in another state. This time I was able to participate more directly in my mother’s care. The whole family traveled to Texas for the surgery, a mastectomy, and my father and I remained for the aftercare and the return drive to Mississippi.

After Mother came out of the operating room, still groggy, she gazed at her three daughters and said, “You’re so beautiful.” While Mother is usually complimentary of us, this particular proclamation came out of nowhere. My sisters and I quickly looked at one another, wondering if this might be a good time to offer up any indiscretions from our past that we had not yet confessed, what with Mother being so benevolent and fuzzy-headed. Those missing earrings, perhaps, or the thank-you notes we never mailed to Aunt Doris ...

When Mother was released to a hotel near the hospital, she still had tubes in her body. I was to clean the incisions and drain the fluids as necessary. It is possible that I wondered, “What if I can’t do this?” Maybe I even winced at the thought of such raw, physical exposure. But I do not remember any such barriers, real or concocted.

I do not have children, so I can only imagine this as an example of the unrequited love you hear parents speak of for their offspring. Whatever it takes. And, when you think about it, what’s a little oozing between mother and daughter?

No spread. No grueling chemo treatments. My father and I drank a toast to our good fortune, which included health insurance, choices for treatment, and otherwise stable health. A faith that sustained us through the not knowing; a trust that we would be all right regardless of the outcome.

Several days after we returned to Mississippi, I prepared to leave for D.C. My mother was resting on the couch in the den, in a white cotton nightgown. At least that is how I picture her. She leaned up to hug me. I bent down, and we met in the middle.