There.
I thought I might dance around it for awhile, maybe segue into it with a meaningful quote or treatise on life or something, but in the end, all you can do with Cancer is blurt it out and get it over with.
Here's the part where I take a ragged breath and try not to cry. Imagine a very long pause.
Grams is 76 years old. She's been through a lot in her life, and though I like to think that she's strong, seeing her in these last few days since we've found out, I feel like she's very small and weak and needs protecting.
We have to drive about an hour to the hospital in Regina that will do the surgery. Part of me wants to kidnap her, put an oldies tape in the car and drive across Canada to see what she can show me. The other, more sensible part of me knows that she should have it taken care of as soon as possible.
They caught it very early. The doctors gave her an option. A mastectomy or a lumpectomy followed up by chemo and radiation therapy and drugs and hormones and all that cancer-eradicating jazz. She opted for a mastectomy. Mom said she felt guilty for convincing Grams to go for the mastectomy. It's early enough that a lumpectomy would work just fine. Technology has improved vastly. But still. Get it all. God, if it means we'll know for sure, chop that mother off! I'd rather have a Grams with one breast than no Grams at all.
Okay. Enough with the sadness. I have faith that the doctors will get it and my sweet, loving, caring, money-tucking-into-my-pocket, Eat!-You're-skin-and-bones-you!- worry-wort of a Grandma will be returned to me good as new, sans left breast.
The first time I drove her up for a mammogram, my Grandpa had given us the wrong directions. It didn't sound right in my head, when he was telling me where to go. I mean, I know the city pretty well. I lived and worked there for four years. There are no office buildings in that area. It's residential. I knew that. But my Grandpa hates to be wrong. So I followed his instructions. And they were wrong. But I finally figured out (by phoning the office) that there were two 28th avenues.
Well, Grams was so flustered.
"Oh, he'll be so upset that we got lost!"
"Why? It's not like we're late or anything."
"I can't believe we got lost!"
"Grams, we made it to your appointment with time to spare. It's no big deal."
"Still, he'll be upset!"
"So don't tell him we got lost!"
(Honestly. I love her, but she frustrates me sometimes.)
But she did tell him. And he was upset. I got no less than three phone calls that day.
"So, Grandma tells me you got lost."
"Yeah."
"Well, did you follow the instructions?"
"Yes. They weren't the right instructions."
"Well, where did you go?"
*Pause*
(Calmly, calmly Tanis. Speak not to him as if a child he were.)
"I followed the instructions. I went where you told me to go. It wasn't there. We phoned the people and they told us how to get there, which we did."
"Well where was it?"
"Down Albert Street."
"How far down Albert Street?"
"Until 28th Avenue."
"Yeah, but what I mean is, how many blocks is that from the street that the mall is on?"
"I don't know. It's between Canadian Tire and the Golden Mile Mall."
"Which one is it closer to?"
"I don't know!"
Imagine three different variations of that conversation. In the same day. Then, go to bed, wake up, and imagine it again the next day.
Then, I go over to their place for tea and I hear him on the phone, explaining to some nameless Legion buddy of his that "the women got lost." ARGH! Yes, from following your directions! No mention was made of the fact that "the women" figured out that they were lost, got the proper directions and got there with half an hour to spare and a burning desire for a Pita.
So by the time of her next appointment for a biopsy, he's pestered both of us so much that Grams is flustered and I'm just pissed off. (Seriously, I have two moods. Calm and easy going, and pissed off.) We go up. Without incident. I know how to get to the hospital, thank God. A week later, we get the call that she needs to come up to discuss the results of the biopsy. Bad news. Good news would have been delivered over the phone. So mom takes the morning off work and we all go. When we get into town, mom stops at a gas station so she and Grams can pee.
When she comes out, she's got a bunch of maps with her. I'm like, why do you need maps? We know where we're going. Yeah. But Grandpa wants her to look at them and trace our path from the first time we were up there. When we got lost.
Oh. My. God. People! This was ALMOST A MONTH AGO! Who CARES? But she's done this for him anyway. Because he doesn't want to admit that he's wrong. So whatever. We're on our way and I'm looking at the maps and thinking: These are the expensive maps. She should have taken a free map. So I say so. And she says: "Well, they were free." And I point out the price tag. ($3.75) Whoops. Should have kept my mouth shut.
"But the man at the gas station told me to help myself! They were on a rack that said free!" *Pause* "I think."
Well. She wants to turn the car around Right Now, Missy! so she can go back and pay for them. And my mom, who is a horrible city driver, is clutching the wheel of the car so hard that her knuckles are white. She's all "Oh for heaven's sake, mum! It's four dollars! It doesn't matter! We're halfway across town!"
So we don't pay for them. We go to her appointment. We wait. I head to the Pita place because the burning desire is back. I stop at Shoppers Drug Mart. I buy a special edition of Scientific American all about the evolution of humans. I walk back to the office. I sit. I read. Homo. Homo. Sapiens. She's the last patient of the day. (God, they took forever. I never understand why they book out of town patients for an appointment at 2:30 and then don't get to them for an hour!) My mom goes in with Grams. They come out. Mom whispers to me that it's cancer. Mom has to use the bathroom. Grams has to fill out forms. I go up to the desk with her. She asks the nurse what some of the questions mean. The nurse helps her fill it out. Grams goes to get her jacket. I tell the nurse that she is lying about only smoking one cigarette a day. I change it to six. I add an "approximately."
We head out. Grams cries on the elevator and as I hug her, I get that feeling that she's so weak and old and frail. As I rub her back in what I hope are calming circles and whisper what I hope are supportive murmers, I am jolted by the familiarity of this. When I was a little girl, my Grams would look after me while mom was at work. And she'd always insist that I have a nap. And I'd lay down on her big bed with the big, wedding-ring pattern quilt and she'd come and sit beside me and rub my back and hum until I fell asleep. I don't want to cry here.
When we get to the car, the tears have been shed, and the internal worrying has begun. I can tell by the way they both light up cigarettes as soon as they are safely inside the car. I roll down the window and do my best to bite my tongue. I HATE that they smoke. I think it's one of the most loathesome habits in the world. I don't know anybody who disagrees. I don't want to turn this into an "If you smoke, you're an idiot" rant. I just want to share with you the sad, sad irony in the situation. Both of these women mean the world to me. My mom has had cancer. My grandpa, Grams' first husband, died of cancer. After hearing that she has cancer, what is the first thing they do? Smoke. Right. Insert bewildered head-shaking here.
After getting this news, Grams decided she wasn't hungry and neither were we, so we agreed to just go home. And as we leave the city limits, Grams leans her head on the window and I put a hand on her shoulder.
"It will be okay," I say.
"Oh, honey! I just feel so bad about those maps!"
Ahh. So when we go up tomorrow, if you see a purple mini-van, don't turn us in, okay? We're on the lam.
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