Almost a year ago to the day, my mother was diagnosed with an extremely aggressive form of cancer. At the time it was a bit of shock, largely because she was the sort of person who was healthy, and because there was until that moment no trace of cancer in the family ever manifested itself. Like at all. Women in our family live into their nineties. They generally die because well, 96 is fricking old. Something critical wears out eventually.
I can remember the very moment my mother felt sorry for herself; it lasted about as long as it took her to ask the doctor when the treatments would start. Roughly between five and fifteen seconds. Before the doctor finished explaining what had to happen next, pity part over.
And she fought like Muhammad Ali gearing up for the George Foreman fight. Her very own Rumble in the Jungle. Except the title in question was a lot more important. There were good days, ok days and really awful days. There were days the drugs and the radiation fogged her mind so completely, her confusion was palpable.
For the next six months, the one thing she kept coming back to was numbers. As in how many treatments remained. She did everything they asked and more.
So it’s a year later now, and yesterday Mom and I went out for some fast food, the first she had eaten in over a year. And she asked me if I wanted anything for my birthday. In my mind, there could be only one answer.
“I already got everything I want. You’re still here.”
