2013.05.06 - Longboarding

There's no denying the reality of Dad's dying today. There's no shiva to help absorb the shock of his passing. There's no religious mechanism in place to help the process have deeper meaning or resolution. And today, for the first time, Mary and I didn't spend the entire day together at a nursing home, or on a plane, or at a funeral, or at a shiva or dealing with family matters. She had her own day and I had mine.

And the reality of being alone with my thoughts and emotions hit pretty hard. I had myself of course. And I had my own practice of meditation. And I gave myself "things" to do: returning chairs, returning prayer books, buying a few things for the kitchen that Mary had requested and... I took myself to the movies. Which was a nice distraction, I suppose. But when I walked back out into the light of day, something awkward happened: people were going about their lives. They were shopping, chatting, eating and I couldn't understand how none of them knew about Dad, about his ten-year illness, about his decline, about his death and funeral. They were all just... unaware of him and of me. And I felt a wave overcome me and a bench appeared, so I sat down and just sobbed. And the sadness rolled through me and shook me this way and that for few seconds and then subsided.

But it's just under the surface now. And it's raw and red and simmering. And it's not going away. And there's nothing I can do about that. Which is fine. Because I'm not supposed to do anything about it: I just have to accept it and not fight it. It's bigger than me. I get it. I already know from surfing that no matter how big the wave, no matter which direction it's pushing or charging that there's a sweet spot there in the pocket. And in that spot, perfect harmony is achieved, perfect balance between me and the wave where I don't have to fight it, just simply allow it to propel me.

Of course, there are some days when you look at the water and think, there's no way I'm getting in to something that turbulent. And maybe this is one of those days, but I don't have a choice as to whether or not I get into my own life. I'm here. Dad's not, but I am. My life goes on and the waves continue to drive the way they do. Bigger, steeper waves usually require short boards because they're fast and  maneuverable.

Today, I accept that I'm on a longboard. My turns are slower and less precise but, then again, there's also more room for standing up and finding balance. And for that — at least for the moment — I'm incredibly grateful.

June 5th, 2010 - A Small Piece of Dessert

I am incredibly proud of my mom. And amazed. And shocked. Today was the worst day we've had since I've come home and certainly the worst Mom's had in a long time. And that's probably why making it through this day was so powerful.


The adventure started at about 7am this morning, three hours after I'd gone to bed (which is, itself, another story), when Mom called down to the basement to wake me up. Now look: Mom knows I'm not a morning person. That's because I'm not, not by fucking a long-shot, so for her to risk waking me at 7am is not only odd, it's pretty much unheard of. Which meant that something was really wrong. So I wandered upstairs through the dense fog that was my brain and found Mom in severe pain and nausea from the chemotherapy.


For those who don't know anything about chemotherapy, it can be taken in several forms: intravenously (IV) or via pill. When Mom had her mastectomy three years ago, she had IV chemo, the old-fashioned chemo, the kind you've probably heard about because it's so god-damned awful: she lost weight, lost her hair, lost her strength and frequently lost her patience as well. Chemo, basically, sucks balls. In fact, if I'm not mistaken, that's the entirety of their advertising campaign:


Chemo: It Sucks Balls. ©


But this time, Mom was taking her chemo via pills. The drug is called Xeloda. Mom's doctors explained that Xeloda would be "nicer" than IV chemo. Yes, she still might see her hair thin or fall out; yes, she might experience "some" nausea; yes, she might suffer as her hands and feet became swollen and red and irritated. But... it would be a kinder, gentler chemotherapy. You know, like walking through a field of daises at sunset... If, by "daises at sunset", you mean, "pure, fucking evil that reduces your body and mood to an utter mess in an effort to kill off the cancer".


Just six pills a day: three in the morning and three again at night, for two out of every three weeks over a nine week cycle. And, since each pill was provided for the low, low price of $30 (at least in this country), who knows how the fuck poor people in America can afford to take it, because this would have cost Mom $15,120 if she had to pay for it out of pocket.

Thanks, medical establishment. Great job. Good times. 


So Mom's been up all night because her kindler, gentler chemo pills have have caused pain and nausea. She beyond exhausted. And I've been up all night because I've been acting like a friggin' motard, but I help Mom get a cup of ginger tea, organize a few things she'd requested and grab another 60 minutes of shuteye and 30 minutes of meditation (Quick sidebar: I've been practicing vedic meditation for about three years now and it's a huge help in many situations, I have to tell you).


When I got up after my nap, Mom was even worse: she wasn't eating, wasn't hydrating, and... not surprisingly, she wasn't in a good mood. So I grabbed my computer, sat in bed with her and just kept her company: I showed her photos from my nephew's briss that I'd snapped, I told goofy jokes, I got her to keep talking and, eventually, I suggested that she drink fluids and eat something. She refused. Her symptoms were such that the very idea of eating or drinking was a terrible consideration. So I asked if she'd taken her anti-nausea medication.


"I took some Compazine earlier. It didn't work."


"Do you have anything else?"


"Already took it hours ago. It's not working." Then - trying to sound as normal as possible - I offered the one solution I thought might provide some relief that she'd previously refused:


"Well, what about the pot brownies?"


I'd purchased some pot brownies for Mom three years ago, back when she'd had her mastectomy, radiation and traditional IV chemo. I'd brought them back to Philly with me from California because - as it turns out - travelling with Schedule 1 drugs is very easy in the post-9/11 world as long as your drugs look like food product. Only, despite risking my being arrested, Mom never used the goodies I'd brought her, despite losing her hair, her skin tone and her patience. But she had - for some odd reason - saved the contraband, buried them in a secret bunker known only to her in the freezer. Her response to my question was ludicrous.


"I don't want to take drugs," she said.


"Mom: you're already taking drugs. Lots of them, actually. And they're very toxic..."


"Well, those are legal."


"Yes, they're legal. But are they working...?" No response. "Mom, if you knew that something was available, right now, that might ease your symptoms, wouldn't you want to try it?"


"I... don't know what's going to happen if I take them," she said and I choked I started laughing so hard. This didn't exactly help Mom at the moment, but I couldn't help myself because I finally realized that she wasn't avoiding the pot brownies because they were illegal: she was simply scared of what might happen to her if she took them. And so, after she scolded me for laughing and after I calmed down enough to talk calmly, I simply explained how the drugs would work.


"You'll get high," I told her. "Lights and sounds will seem cool, you'll be relieved of your nausea and you'll get the munchies. It's why marijuana is so effective at combating the symptoms of chemo, Mom."


"I don't know. What if we get raided by the police?" There was a pause and then I just laughed my ass off again. But she was absolutely serious about her question.


"Mom: seriously... why would the police be coming to your home for a raid?"


"Well, I don't know," she said. "And that's exactly why I'm unsure about taking the drugs."


"Mom, you can't be that worried about a police raid, really..."


"Oh, no? And why's that?"


"Because you've kept the drugs in your house for over three years. Seems to me, if you were really worried, you would've thrown out the offending material years ago."


Silence.


"Look, it's your call. But one thing's for sure: it can't possibly make you feel worse than you already are. You're fucking miserable and need some relief. Tell you what: tell me where your secret stash is and I'll cut off a small piece for you..." And so it went. I found the secret stash buried deep in the bowels of the fridge and brought her some smaller pieces, each about the size of a thimble. I didn't want to overdo the dosage but I wanted to make sure that Mom had what she needed to get some fucking relief. And I'll give her this: despite her fears and her ethical fiber, Mom stepped out of the box and actually did something unusual and rare by being willing to try something different. But only after making me promise one thing:


"I want you to stay with me," she said. "I want you to check in on me. Don't leave me alone in case something happens." I gave her a hug, smiled, and told her not to worry: that I'd be right there no matter what. And with that, Mom ate some pot brownie, laid back onto her pillows, said "Yuck!" because she didn't like the taste and then closed her eyes.

And what happened next was even funnier. 

September, 16th, 2011: A Correspondance with Jim

jim,

you owe me no apologies for not having written before now. i mean that: i try not to keep score. folks speak from their hearts whenever that happens for them. life is busy: we get to things when we can. you wrote what you did when it felt right for you to do so and, for that, i'm grateful.

as for what you are going through now, when i was in your shoes several months ago, i did call it grief. i knew mom was dying even though she refused to talk about it. i knew mom was dying even though MY talking about it would only make her angry. and i was in grief not just because i knew i was going to lose her, either: but really because i'd finally realized - truly and deeply - that my fictional ideal of who my mom was and what my family MIGHT be had absolutely died. i'd always wanted my mom to be a kind, nurturing, loving, supportive, affectionate woman. she was none of these things. i'd always wanted my family to be the supportive, kind sanctuary i've always thought a family should be, like i've seen in some of my friends' families. my family was, with some rare exceptions, not this kind of family. which isn't to say that my family was awful and terrible: it wasn't. but it wasn't what i'd wanted it to be and what i'd hoped it could be. and my stubborn refusal to admit that earlier in my life caused me great pain and duress for several decades.

so yes: i was in mourning and in grief before my mom physcially died. but that grief, frankly, was my ticket out of my unending stubbornness and the resulting cycle of pain. the grief of those ideals dying was what allowed me to make peace with both mom and my family dynamic before she physically died. i was then able to be present with her for her death without needing or wanting anything from her. and that was beautiful. and i was able to be present for the others without needing or wanting anything from them. and that was beautiful.

you spoke of the price to play in terms of the disease. i think all of us have disease in some form or another. i have a disease of thinking. and as my mom finally surrendered to her cancer, i surrendered to the truth. my mom died and the fictions i'd been clinging to died as well, so i was, ironically, set free. and that surrender led to a much deeper connection with mary, something i can't describe in words, really. but it's a familiar and comfortable connection, something i noticed with her immediately upon meeting her. when her father died one month ago, a bitter irony, i was able to be present for her and am, in fact, now here in idaho for the weekend for her dad's memorial service and to meet her family.

so the ill continue to die, but the living continue to live. mary never met my mom and i never met her dad. but we survive today and continue to love one another in the face of life's continuing uncertainty. in fact, i'd say that the uncertainty of life only makes the certainty of my feelings for mary even more precious now. i understand more fully at this time, why people cling to love. as for what mom wanted for me, well... mom wanted me to be successful and to not forget my judaism. and although her definition of "successful" was far narrower than mine, i have achieved many great successes in my life and now, with mary, a deep, abiding and successful love.

and as for you, sir: there is no roadmap, no one right way, no "best" method. you'll do what you need to do and feel what you need to feel. and all of it will be right, no matter what anyone else tells you. if you see this as one of the last hurdles in the path to growing up, then so be it. perhaps you will come to realize this is true and perhaps not. but you're on the path and you'll find out what all of this means to you in one way or another. if i can give some unsolicited advice, it would only be this: be patient and with yourself at all times, no matter what. you have only one mother and she'll only die one time. you can't be present for that experience if you're busy judging yourself or beating yourself up for any reason.

all my love to you both on this most sacred journey,

d

On Mon, Sep 5, 2011 at 9:43 PM, jim wrote:

Thank you for your thoughts, David.  (I didn't want to communicate via FB if possible.) Very glad you saw this. I know about your visits east to see your mom; I was happy to see you fly back west the first time dumbfounded at your mom's spirit. That made me hopeful and happy. And I was so sorry to hear that later she passed away. (People say "lose the fight" but that isn't quite right. There is no shame in passing on, we all do that, as tragic as it is. The price to  play is steep, and seems illogical, and we didn't have a choice, but we all make it worthwhile while we are here, as best we can.) I don't think I met her, but maybe I did at tim and tanya's wedding. I hope you have solace in her memories and her full life and her successes as a person, not just as a mother. Those successes were real. And I'm glad you are in a relationship! I hope you are in love, maybe that is what you said. I hope so. What a great time to have someone very close. Your mother would want that for you. And I'm sorry I didn't say more then. I thought about that about two weeks ago. "Why didn't I send david a card?" I fell down on that, I'm sorry. You probably weren't expecting anything but I would have loved to surprise you. I still thought about her, and you, and still do. I know you so inadvertently I know her. I think you are kind; I bet you have a very good idea what I'm going through now, or will go through. It isn't grief really, yet, she's here, we talk daily. But the near future does crop up. I dread it. It seems dire; parents always have your back, no matter what happens. It is still unimaginable to lose one. I guess this is one of the last steps of growing up. I am thankful she has her mind, and didn't die when i was young, or in a host of more unpleasant ways. Thank you so much for your offer, I'm very sorry you have the experience that makes your offer attractive and no doubt helpful. love, Jim

June 23rd, 2011: A Gentle Surrender

Jamie and Matthew got the call from Mom's doctor somewhere around 7am: today was the day. They were told Mom's breathing had become labored and to come to the hospital quickly. Then, Dad's doctor, Courtney Snyder, called. My siblings relayed that news to him and Courtney, a man my father actually trained, said that he'd personally prepare Dad with the news. Then they called me. I skipped meditation and showering: time was of the essence. I got dressed quickly but had to take a shit. While crapping, the phone rang again. It was my brother. He was crying. He didn't need to say the words, but stumbled through them anyway: Mom had died.

It was classic comedic irony: Mom shits herself, interrupting our goodbye conversation just a few days earlier; then she dies, interrupting me taking a shit.

I finished dressing, picked up my siblings, and called the funeral home to start the process of executing the funeral I'd planned for Mom according to her wishes. And then, together, we drive over to Albert Einstein Medical Center to have one last visit with Mom. We drove in one car, something we'd not yet done on this trip. I remember that much. But I don't remember how we got to the hospital. I just remember handing over the keys to the valet parking service and then walking inside. And needing to take a deep breath. And Jamie's comment to the “security guards” at the front desk that they needn’t worry about seeing us again. Then we got into the elevator together and rode up to the eighth floor in silence.

There is, literally, nothing you can do to prepare yourself for seeing your parent dead. Nothing. There's no special mantra, prayer or deep breathing technique that will, somehow, reduce the shock of seeing someone you've known for your entire existence laying lifeless in a bed. All you can do is try to breathe and stay in the moment.

Walking down the hall of the 8th floor to her room was like being in a dream. The hall telescoped out to beyond my capacity, a blur of white tiles and beeping medical devices on rollers. As we passed the nurses station, I glanced up and saw a few faces meet mine. And I wondered: how many of these people already knew that Mom was dead? How many knew that we were her children, walking down this hall to see her for the last time? What did they think? Could they understand or were they too desensitized from seeing scenes like this every day, of family traveling from distances near and far to visit their workplace and watch people die?

As we floated in electric silence to the front of Mom's room, her night nurse aid, Mamie, made way for us to enter. Like Kerberos guarding the River Styx, she'd been guarding the threshold. I offered Jamie to go in first. She was the only daughter, she was closest to Mom in her final years and I thought it would be appropriate for her to lead us in. She was already crying on the threshold. But I don't blame her. What awaited us inside was otherworldly.

Mom was laying in bed in nearly the same position we'd left her the night before: arms and feet raised on pillows to help keep her comfortable, leaning slightly to one side. Her mouth was open and so were her eyes. But her skin had already changed color slightly. And it was cool to the touch. If you've never seen a dead body before, there's... there's just no mistaking it: you know right away. There's a look, an energy, and an emptiness around death that is both seen and felt because it creates a silence around it, like a vacuum.

Jamie took Mom's hand and looked into her face and said, "Oh, Mom...  Oh, Mom..." Matthew went around to the other side of the bed and put his hand on her arm and just looked at her, helpless to change the situation. I put my hands on Mom's feet from the end of the bed. They were cool to the touch. And I wept, silently at first and then out loud, for the passing of a woman I admired, respected, loved and, sometimes – in later years - truly despised. And when Jamie had moved away from the bed and sat down in a chair, I moved to where she'd had been on Mom's bed. And I took a deep breath. And I put my hand on Mom's. And I said to myself:

"Do not look away, David. Look into the eyes of your dead Mother. See her. Be here with her now. Do not be afraid. Do not look away from her death. You will regret that. Look upon her and see her as she is now and know that she is gone."

And I tried. But I could not see that she was gone. Instead, the permanence of her life became a powerful illusion even after her death: I continued to see her chest rise and fall as she lay there. I knew it wasn’t happening. I mean, I absolutely knew that my mind was playing tricks on me but the vein there on the left side of her neck... It was beating still, wasn't it? Didn't it move just now? Didn't I just now see that vein pump as it had been pumping the night before? I thought about mentioning what I was seeing but remained silent. Moments later, Jamie said, "It looks like Mom is still breathing," and, relieved, I blurted out, "I know!" grateful that someone else was there with me, dreaming the same lucid dream.

Jamie's phone rang, the same, obnoxiously loud ring she refuses to alter. She glanced at its screen. "It's Aunt Gert," she said.

"Not now," I said and she put the call through to her voicemail. Jamie rarely listens to me, but in this moment — a moment of raw, emotional human-ness — both my siblings followed my lead. "No phone calls right now," I said. "I think we should take a few minutes to sit here with Mom and just... be with her." And so it was.

I opened the curtains that had been drawn to keep the light from Mom's eyes. Light from the morning entered the room. The view out of the window started with the heliport and extended clear across the Eastern half of Philadelphia and over to New Jersey. We sat silently around Mom. We looked at her. I picked up her limp arm, found her hand from under the sheet and put my own in it. Her fingers were turning a shade of blue I can't describe. I continued to see Mom breathing. After a while, I made my way back to another chair. We shifted uncomfortably. Occasionally, someone spoke, a memory here, an off-color joke there. We cried. But we were together, Mom's three children, still there, surrounding her in bed, for one last time.

A nurse came in to remove a few tubes from Mom; I asked her to please save that for after we'd left. I don't think any of us could have beared to watch a person we didn't know manipulate Mom's body in order to disconnect her from the various devices and tubes.

Sometime later, I couldn't tell you how long, Mom's oncologist, Dr. Leighton, came into the room, followed by Marv, Dad's business partner for nearly twenty years. And they both expressed their sympathy. I shook their hands. Crying, I thanked Dr. Leighton for all he'd done to help Mom to survive for as long as she had. He shook his head, saddened, and called her a remarkable fighter. Marv asked if there was anything he could do. Jamie said, "We admitted Dad to Jeannes Hospital a day ago. Go visit him. He could use all the help he can get right now..."

There was a pause and we all looked at Marv. He stumbled out that his schedule was, you know, kinda tight on this particular day and that, well, he'd really need to spend the entire day at Einstein Medical Center and, you know, we'd just need to see, wouldn't we...

When the two doctors left, I drifted down to the nurses station and, over the beeps and boops of the machines there, asked them to please call Goldstein's Funeral Home to begin the process of claiming Mom's body for her final journey. They said they would, of course and offered condolences, respectful to not make much eye contact.

I walked back to Mom's room but didn't sit. "I'm going to say goodbye to Mom, now," I told Jamie and Matthew. "I don't need to see her again. In fact, I don't really want to see her again at the funeral in her casket. I'd just prefer to say goodbye now and leave it at that. And I just wanted to let you know in case you felt the same way..." They both nodded in agreement. This would be our last time seeing Mom. I walked to the left side of her bed, put my hand on hers and leaned over to kiss her forehead. It was cool under my lips.

"Goodbye, Mom," I half stammered, half swallowed. I'd started crying again, quietly this time. And then, looking at her face one last time, I took a breath, turned my back on her and — one foot in front of the other — walked from her room, a gentle surrender into the chaos of whatever came next.

June 27th, 2011: Old Friends

Last night as the Rabbi Rosenbloom led us in Ma'areev services after dinner here at the house, we had a most welcome but unexpected guest.

I got a tap on my shoulder from Jamie who pointed into the dining room. And there, almost hiding behind an archway so that he wouldn't be seen so easily, stood Charles Davidson, my old cantor from Adath Jeshurun, and one of the men I truly loved as a young boy for his talent, his heart and his dedication to Judaism and music. Charles had taken an interest in me when I was a boy as I could sing, I could read Hebrew, I could chant from the Torah and, for a while, because I'd considered becoming a cantor or rabbi myself. He was, in some ways, an unofficial mentor although I doubt he ever knew it then.

And when I turned to see him, I smiled broadly and blew him a kiss. I was, truly, overjoyed. I mean I really love this man and I haven't seen him since he retired as a cantor from our synagogue and teacher at the Jewish Theological Seminary well over ten years ago. I was so happy that he'd come to join us davining that I instinctively turned back to my prayerbook and closed my eyes.  I heard his voice,  that deep and wonderful voice, the same one I remember from my youth, and I was, suddenly, transported through time...

There was time I was invited to lead Friday night Shabbat services in the main sanctuary, something rarely, if ever, allowed for a 16-year-old boy; there were the frequent Shaharit services where I was invited to chant from the Torah for morning minyan; the many additional mornings when, as a Torah teacher, I'd assist as one of my own students to chant from the torah; the singing with Jamie in the synagogue youth chorale, where Charles would accompany us on the piano as we sang traditional and modern Jewish songs, some of which he'd composed himself; the high honor of being asked to read The Ten Commandments in the main sanctuary, one of the only times during the year when the entire congregation must rise as you recite the central laws of the Jewish people.

And then there was the one year, on some special occasion I can't remember, when I was called to read from the Torah in the main sanctuary. On that morning, I was accidentally pointed to the wrong place in the ancient text to begin my chanting. I couldn't find my way and panicked. As a result, I stumbled through my portion disastrously - a very great embarrassment before the assembled congregants - and left the sanctuary barely able to contain my tears, finally breaking down in the foyer, outside. Before even a minute had passed, I felt a hand on my shoulder. When I turned around, there was Cantor Davidson. He had actually left the services to come out to the foyer to check on me.

"I'm sorry, David," he said. "You were sharing several verses with the reader before you, something we do from time to time, and the Gabbais forgot to reset where your portion was to begin. It wasn't your fault. Don't be upset, it's OK." He hugged me, smiled and walked back into the schul.

When we embraced again — this time for shiva in the living room of my parents' home as Rabbi finished Ma'areev — I looked into his face. He looked older but the same, really. Time is a funny thing sometimes, isn't it? We kissed each other on the cheek.  I told him that I loved him, that I missed him and that it was nice to see him. He spent some time consoling my father. His own wife died of Lewy Body disease, so he was no stranger to Dad's condition.

Old friends are like a healing salve applied to a fresh wound, they ease your pain, lift your spirits and remind you of who you truly are.

July 21st, 2010 - The Talk

I called Mom and Dad as I was driving home earlier this week. Now that I'm back in Los Angeles and across the country from them, I try to call at least once a day for my own peace of mind as well as theirs: I want them to know that I'm still here for them, but I also choose to be invested in their lives, despite the distance.

And that evening, as I drove home, something wonderful happened: Dad picked up the phone and was crystal clear, absolutely clear in a way I'd not heard him in a many months — he was speaking loudly enough so that I could hear him, he was speaking in full sentences, and... he was making sense. To suddenly and unexpectedly have my Dad back, to be able to clearly hold a conversation with him… Well, it was profoundly moving to the point of tears since that rarely happens any more.

That's the good news.

The bad news is that what he discussed with me was heart-breaking. He told me that he and Mom had fought the previous night, after eating dinner with friends. "She yelled and screamed at me for about fifteen minutes; then, she said the thing I've been waiting for her to say, afraid that she would say..."

"What was that, Dad?" I asked.

"She told me that I was the reason that she has cancer. She said I caused it, that she's sick because of me." I felt pain, a deep pain in my gut. The pulse in my neck seemed like a rock concert. My depth perception did that weird thing you see in the movies where the camera is pulled away from the subject while it simultaneously zooms in. The traffic around me morphed into something more like a video game than real life. I took a breath and spoke what was in my heart:

"I'm so sorry, Dad."

"It's not your fault, babe."

"I know it’s not, Dad, but…  Mom sometimes takes out her anger on you and me and others, but: that wasn't nice, it wasn't appropriate and it wasn't true, Dad. You're not to blame for Mom having cancer. And she's not to blame for you having Lewy Body Disease. I’m very upset with her for what she said. I want to say something to her.”

“I would appreciate it if you didn’t,” Dad said. I was rendered speechless for ten seconds. My Dad actually asked if I was still on the line. After all of the things he’d asked me to say to Mom during my six-week visit home — that she should consider therapy, that she needed to have some support group, that she needed to face her fears about Dad’s dying and her own mortality — to have him now request that I not say anything was surprising. And upsetting.

“Well… to be honest, I don’t know if I should have asked for your approval, Dad. Something needs to be said to Mom. That’s not OK what she said to you...” But Dad again requested otherwise and, as he was of clear mind, I told him that I would honor his request. I didn’t want to, but I gave my word, told him that I loved him and we ended the call. When I hung up, I remember thinking that all I wanted was to dishonor Dad's request and find some excuse to talk about what had happened with my Mom. I got my excuse the next morning.

On the way out the door to bike to work (and, yes: some of us do bike to work in Los Angeles), I called Mom to say a quick hello. She was at the doctor’s receiving one of her infusions. I hadn’t remembered that she’d had an appointment. And, since Mom is constitutionally incapable of not picking up her phone when it rings, she answered, sounding tired and weak. This caught me off-guard. But not as much as her almost immediately asking me, “So what did you and Dad talk about last night?”

Here was my excuse. If Dad was upset, I could just tell him that Mom had asked me a direct question and that I’d given her a direct answer. Only… I stalled. I told Mom that I'd just called to say "hi" and that we’d have to talk later since I was heading into work. Which was only partially true. The full truth is that I stalled because I was angry. Really angry. Beyond angry, actually. I was incredulous and fuming and I wanted to read Mom the riot act and say, "Are you fucking KIDDING me? You're blaming your husband because you have cancer? You're screaming at someone who is physically and emotionally defenseless? Fuck you. I don't CARE if you have cancer. Go fuck yourself for saying shit like that to my Dad."

Only saying shit like that to my Mom wasn't going to help. Not at that moment. I wasn’t prepared to have a difficult and emotional conversation while she was in such a weakened state and in a hospital, receiving an infusion of drugs. I needed to cool off, to take some time to think and strategize. Which I did. For about four days. And during that time I thought: would Mom really have told Dad that he was to blame for her cancer? Possibly. Would there be another side to the story that Dad hadn’t mentioned to me? Possibly. Would Mom be upset if I asked her about the incident? Probably.

And so it came to pass that later that week — when we both found the time to chat — that I told Mom how Dad had related their having a fight earlier in the week.

“We absolutely did,” she said.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” I asked. 

“Well, Dad was being very difficult after dinner. He wouldn’t do what I politely asked him to do and I got very angry with him. And resentful.” I waited for her to continue. She didn’t.

“What was it that you were asking him to do?”

“Basic things. Not sitting in a chair and falling asleep all day, not putting his hands in his food when eating… But he was just being disagreeable and I can’t take it anymore. I got angry and let him know that I couldn’t take it anymore.”

“Did you say anything to Dad that you regret,” I asked, giving her the opportunity to say more.

“No.” I waited for her to continue speaking, but she didn't.

Now lookit: Mom's stubborn, impatient and often navigates life by fear and anxiety, but she's no idiot. She probably already knew the rest of the story that Dad had told me. So, I took a deep breath and asked the $64,000 question. Actually, it was a statement, not a question, although - to my credit - I made it into a question at the very last moment in my own retarded awkwardness by raising my voice at the end of the statement like when a two-year-old asks for a cookie:

“Well...Dad told me that you blamed your having cancer on him?” Mom didn't hesitate for a moment.

“That’s absolutely correct. He’s the reason that I have cancer. All of the years that I’ve been taking care of him and dealing with his illness have made me ill. That’s how I feel. That’s just how I feel. That’s the truth.”

I began stumbling out a response as waves of anger rolled over me.

“Mom, I know that - deep down - you probably don’t feel that...” I stopped myself and re-calculated. “Here’s what I think, Mom: I don’t think that Dad caused your cancer anymore than you caused his Lewy Body Disease. And I think you know that. And I think that maybe... you let your very understandable feelings and frustrations get the best of you in this case."

I waited for a response. There was none. So I continued.

"Mom, Dad's disease makes him sleep almost instantly, he falls over, he needs constant supervision and can't even get himself dressed, undressed or bathed without help. Do you think that maybe you're expecting too much from him right now?"

"I don't think so…"

"Mom…?"

"I don't know." And now the part I'd prepared before hand.

"I don't blame you for getting upset at Dad, Mom, I got upset at Dad while I was home. You saw it yourself. It's incredibly challenging and upsetting to be around him. All of us know that, Mom. All of us. You're allowed to be upset and angry and sad and bitter and feel like you want to punch someone. It makes perfect sense."

"Thank you…" I heard some sniffles on the other end of the line. A chink in the armor had appeared. I made a plea.

"But Mom, you can't say things like that to Dad. It's not fair to him and it's not true. And you know that. And I know that you know that. So, please: if you get upset, maybe… maybe just walk away for a minute until you can cool off? Call me and vent to me, instead. I'm here for you. We all are."

And then the tears came. Someone had understood. Maybe not entirely, maybe not from her unique perspective, but someone had understood and had told her so. And with that understanding, promises. Promises that she'd try, that she'd work on venting to me instead of at Dad, that she'd attempt to see him for what he was, not for what she desperately wanted him to be. And, even though I knew the effort wouldn't last, I told Mom thank you and that I loved her.

And in that moment… I did. I'd said what I'd needed and even managed to connect deeply with Mom in the process. A huge victory. For both of us.

I pulled up to my apartment as we finished talking. I parked and remained in the car, absent-mindedly watching the traffic stream past my window, metallic blood cells winding their way to another part of the city's growing body. In another minute I'd make my way upstairs, be greeted by two hungry and affectionate cats and settle in for the warm July evening. But, for now, I allowed the rhythm of the city to lull me into a sense of peace before leaving the peace of my car.

September 15th, 2010: Dear Mom...

This is the letter I should send to my mother. I won't. Because while it might make me feel better about saying some of things I want to say, it will only cause her - if my mentioning it on the phone is any indication - more anger and rage, something none of us need right now.

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dear mom,

i hope that you'll enjoy the marijuana cookies i sent you and use them every day. that medicine - as all of your children will tell you - seems to be very helpful in keeping you in a good mood and out of pain. and i'm glad you got them in time. finding a way to safely send them to you was important.

as the new year begins and the call to be introspective is strongest, i believe it's time that we face a few difficult facts as a family:

first on dad: dad is dying more quickly now. both physically and cognitively. he requires round-the-clock care and assistance which means hiring someone to be awake and available for the overnight shift at home. this will allow you to get more sleep... which you need. getting up throughout the night in order to supervise dad's frequent urination and wandering is having a negative effect on you. i'll talk to pam about the options. but that's only an intermediate step. when dad's physical condition deteriorates to the point of not being able to move without assistance, we'll need to consider putting him into a nursing home. there, hopefully, he can receive more appropriate care in an environment that's already suitable for wheelchairs and handicapped functionality. but that means we really should start doing research on which potential places would be a suitable fit for the family. ignoring these facts now will simply cause more pain later. the time to start exploring options is now.

lastly on you: now is the time for you to engage in some form of therapy. it's not appropriate for you to continue yelling and screaming at your husband and children, mom. it doesn't help dad, it doesn't help you and it makes your kids feel awkward and sad. so please stop stalling, making excuses and blaming me for bringing up the obvious: you deserve the luxury of having a professional to help you cope with your emotions of grief, pain, sadness and anger. your children love you, we want the best for you but we don't like you constantly yelling at us. 

while you've been very successful at handling some of your cancer recovery on your own, you need some help in dealing with your emotions. and there's nothing wrong with that, so don't blame yourself or feel like you've failed: and as we discussed while i was back east this summer, there's nothing wrong with needing help. everyone needs help. everyone including you. and no amount of yelling at me is ever going to change that.

as i promised on the phone today, i will continue to recommend what i feel is right for you and dad at this time. you don't have to agree with me, but i'll still share it with you and hope that you take some of my recommendations.

love,

david