Page 103 of Holiday Love
“The metastasis in my bones and my lungs has gotten worse. Bigger. More of them. My tumor markers are climbing.”
She watches me carefully, as if she’s more worried about me than herself.
“So…you’ll change meds? Start a new treatment?” We’ve been down this road before. Every time the cancer spreads, they swap her pills for new ones, usually hormone blockers meant to starve the tumors. “There’s something that can help, right?”
“There’s always something,” she says. “It’s just that the options keep narrowing. The side effects get worse. It’s like trying to squeeze through a hallway that keeps shrinking.”
I swallow hard against the knot in my throat and insist, “It’s not over. You’ll fight.”
Her voice stays steady, kind. “Of course I’ll fight. But I need you to understand, Helen…sometimes fighting means choosinghowyou want to live. Not just how long.”
I look away, out the window, so she won’t see the despair in my eyes.
The waves keep rolling in, steady and uncaring.
“Please don’t give up,” I whisper, staring at the ocean like I’m asking it, not her.
“I’m not. Not yet. I’ll do the treatment, I promise.” I turn back to her just as her chin trembles once, then settles in her palm. “It’s actual chemo this time.”
Dread coils in my gut. I remember the first time, how she lost her hair, how she vomited for days, the headaches so brutal she couldn’t even read or watch TV. She’d just lie there in bed, eyes closed, hurting while my dad and I watched, helpless.
“You mean the infusions?” I ask, my voice small. “The ones that made you so sick?”
“Unfortunately.” She’s looking out the window again, her expression distant, like she wishes she could fly away with the birds.
“Oh, Mom. I’m so sorry. I know that’s not enough, not even close, but…” I trail off, lost.
How do you put something like this into words? How do you name a pain this big? Grief doesn’t translate. Language is too blunt, too dull. I need a scalpel to describe what I feel, but all I have are butter knives.
The tears come fast, filling my eyes before I can stop them. I sniff quietly, blinking hard. I don’t want her to see, don’t want to make her feel likeshehas to comfortme, not when she’s the one who’s suffering the most.
She reaches over and pats my hand. “I know, honey.” She does a double take, noticing I’m crying. Mom scoots her chair closer and wraps her arms around me. The second I feel her hug, I break. The sobs come hard and fast, shaking my shoulders.
“It’s not fair,” I cry into her sweater.
“No, it’s not.” She rests her cheek on my head.
“I’m so scared,” I whisper between sobs. “I worry all the time. What if this is our last Christmas together? What if you’re not here next year?” I pull back just enough to look at her face. “I’m so sorry. I hate thinking like that. Ihateit.”
She lets out a soft, bittersweet laugh. “Why do you think I went so overboard this year? All those decorations I sent you. That giant tree.” Her lips twitch. “I know it’s not your style. But I kept thinking, what if this is my last one? I felt this pressure to make it perfect. I just wanted to give you a memory that would last. Something you could keep long after I’m gone.”
I’m crying so hard now, I can barely breathe. “Please don’t talk about that. I can’t handle it.”
“We need to talk about it, Helen.” She pulls me closer again, presses a kiss to my temple. “It’s real. It’s happening.”
“I know,” I choke out. “But I want to pretend. I keep thinking if we never acknowledge how sick you are, then…then you’ll never die.”
The word scrapes out of my throat, burning as it echoes between us. It’s the first time I’ve ever said it aloud. The first time I’ve attached it to her.
She runs a hand gently over my hair, smoothing it down like she did when I was little.
“Everyone dies, sweetheart. I just know the name of what will take me.” She exhales slowly. “I hate it too. I’m angry, I’m scared, but more than anything, I want us to be honest. I don’t want to go with regrets. I don’t want any words left unspoken.”
That makes me think, what have I not said to my mother that I’ll regret if I don’t get the chance?
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “For all the ways I let you down.”
She pulls back just enough to look at me. “What do you mean? You’ve never failed me.”
