"Unacceptable behavior"

Memories of today are sorted in my mind into a file. It is titled "Worst Days of My Life," and this date belongs nowhere else. Today, the glow of everything being more or less OK in my life was blown clean away. One phone call changed it all, as I learned my mother has an aggressive form of a blood cancer that may take her in 18 months or less.

My mother and I have a fairly good relationship now. It has not always been like this; my teenage years were mostly awful, and there were some really bad stretches in my 20s ... and 30s ... but since I haven't asked for bail money (much) in my 40s, we have worked things out.

Understand that my mother has always been a hero figure to me. She has also been a mentor professionally, a proud example of "making it" in a man's world, a philosophical inspiration, and proof that sometimes, despite one's best efforts, one might merely be serving others as a bad example. Overall, she is a remarkable woman. I freely admit my mother is very much in the center of my life, and I am NOT ready to lose her.

This morning when she called, I almost didn't answer. I was busy! I was loading the truck, trying to get to work! Whatever. Sighing my "hello?" dramatically, I knew that if I didn't answer she would just call again. When I taught my mother to text message, I requested she reserve actual calls for "important" things. This is the only request she honors unfailingly, as there are no such things as boundaries in our family. She began to tell me that she was entering the hospital for chemotherapy, testing, and observation TODAY, as soon as a bed could be found. Due to Covid-19, our city's 5 hospitals 5 are full of critically ill patients, one of whom must die or be otherwise discharged from care before she can be admitted. I tried not to freak out at what I heard.

I gasped out "we will be there in 12 minutes or less!". She said "OK" in a tone that was not the familiar one of formidable strength and confidence. Instead, her voice sounded peaceful and understanding, which made my stomach hit the ground as I hung up. I told my sweetheart from across the truck bed, and he calmly said "OK. I will close and lock the gate, let's take the car."

Between our work, maintaining our 110+ years old home, taking meticulous care of my nearly 30 year old Nissan Maxima, and constantly wrenching on my 30 year old truck, Ed has little time or energy for much else. I realize his choice of words were code. What he also meant was "let's not make the first test drive, after I just fixed your damn Ford AGAIN, also be a drive that requires rescue." A thought sprang to mind about how much I love this man: as crappy as he is at reassuring me when I feel insecure, he is fabulous with issues of dying parents. So, off we went.

Mom was on her deck, talking to empty air like a crazy person. Of course, crazy is subjective, and objectively, she had her bluetooth in her ear. Kindly, she terminated the call and patted the seat next to her. We hugged. I sat. I told her how I felt. I chose some of her own words from the archives of my mind, from the file "Times My Mother Was Really Mad At Me."

"This is utterly unacceptable behavior, and I do not approve. I am not DONE with you yet!", I declared. If only the power of my feelings were not as fragile and weak as mere breaths. I am trying to persuade the hurricane-force winds of cancer to leave my beautiful Mama alone! For the record, delusions and denial are well known familial traits, along with stubbornness and other mental illnesses.

She laughed. I laughed. She told me the full prognosis. Most likely, 18 more months, even with chemotherapy and other treatments. Her age, her medical history, and the apparent advancement of the disease indicate this may be the best we can hope for, but that even less time is also entirely possible. I notice neon signs lighting up in my mental space; they will flash brighter and larger all day, making it difficult to focus on anything else.

Then, as is typical for both of us, we feasted on dishes of emotional minimizing and looking on the bright side, with garnishes of dark humor. After that, we made promises to follow up ASAP, as I had to go to work. Work is an acceptable form of self-medication in our family, so no offense was taken or intended.

As I walked away, I think we were both pretending we would be able to breathe the same way, with the same ease, as we had breathed but moments before. I am certain we were both pretending not to cry.

I sent photos to her later, while Ed worked more on the truck. Wishing I could buy the most amazing floral display ever created, I realistically took pictures of flowers from my garden. These digital bouquets are made possible by the sacrifices she has made, and I damn well know it. They exist because we are too stubborn to give up easily, and I find myself hoping she is even a tenth as fearless of death as she claims to be.

I am not so fearless. I am horribly afraid that Death is galloping towards her -- my frustrating, annoying, intelligent, kind, talented, beautiful mother -- galloping like His horse is on fire. I am afraid my tears will not be sufficient to quench that fire, and I will soon have nothing but ashes to grasp when I reach for my mother's comforting embrace.