The Selitzkys

Now that the immediate family knew, it was time to tell the relatives overseas. Phoning and trying to explain what was going on was going to be too hard. There would be too much emotion and too many questions and I could only speak to one person at a time. So I composed an email. My mother did not have a computer so I sent a two-page explanation of what I was going through to my sister. My sister stood in front of my mother and my younger brother Ben and read the letter out loud. From what I gathered, it sounded like the reading of my letter was like the reading of a will. They all cried and said what a wonderful human being I had been. I was glad I wasn’t there.

      My mother-in-law lived by herself in England. She was on the internet, so I sent her the same two page email. The next day there was a reply:

      I have just read your message and am so horrified but you sound positive which is admirable.  If you would like me to come over, I will of course. I always remember how good it was when you came to visit Edward and me - family are so very important. 

Fuuuuuuuuccccckkkk! She had me dead already. She said my positivity was “admirable”. Synonyms for “admirable” were commendable and unreal.  Also she equated her visiting me with us visiting Edward. We went to see him because he had only days to live.  Fuuuuuuuuccccckkkk! To add insult to injury she called and said:

      “I can’t help thinking about your poor mother. She has Ben and now you”. (My brother Ben has multiple sclerosis). “I think it’s great that you’re so positive.” (I’m fooling myself).

She sounded like she had a cold or flu so I alluded to it.

      “Are you unwell?” I asked.

      “Yes, I am short of breath and if it doesn’t clear up I will go back to the doctor.” (pause) “But they will be able to fix me”.

      It was not a pleasant conversation but she was probably the most objectively honest of everyone I told. The last research I did gave me one year to fifteen months to live.  So my mother-in-law was right to be so gloomy. They could fix her but they probably couldn’t fix me.

      By now the kids knew, our families knew, Alex’s work knew, my children’s friends knew and the Smith’s knew. It was getting exponential. I needed to set some boundaries about who else to tell and when. It was my disease and I wanted full rein over it. When there was good news it was simple. Sharing the details of a wonderful holiday or a new puppy was easy. But bad news was different. It was a burden. You had to know who could handle it.

      When Alex called Charlotte from the hospital she was naturally upset. The Smiths comforted her and that meant they were privy to my situation. But I was agreeable to that. They were like family and I trusted them with my story. When Mrs Smith rang I updated her on everything I was going through medically although I didn’t admit to the stress I was suffering.

      “What is the prognosis?”

      “The doctor won’t tell me. It all depends on how my body reacts to the drugs.”

I told her I googled my disease, and she said “yes” several times, enough to make me think she had been doing research as well. I choked up several times but fought it back. I was sure she heard me swallowing hard and fighting to get my breath back but I carried on. I told her about the steroids and how they made me feel and the chemo and the weekly hospital visits. I told her I was seeing the doctor on Monday and I would learn more as it was the first time I would be seeing him since this started. I didn’t tell her I was terrified but I did tell her I was taking a sleeping pill every night and used the phrase “in shock” several times. She said if I needed anything to let her know. She promised not to tell anyone else what I was going through. She sounded sympathetic verging on pity and that’s exactly what I didn’t want to hear. I can’t stand the pity.

      When I hung up Abby asked:

      “Doesn’t it feel good to unload?”

      “Sure.”

      But it didn’t feel good. I had now burdened a good friend with my troubles. I wanted to take it back, to release her from any obligation. So in an attempt to boost the impression that I was really okay, we invited the Smiths for dinner two weeks after I was diagnosed. Mrs Smith rang on the Saturday we were expecting them. She was not feeling well and because of my lowered immunity from the chemo drugs, she felt they should not come to dinner.  I told her I appreciated her concern.  But I was actually devastated. That phone call confirmed my new status. Anyone I told would see me as a piece of delicate crockery teetering on the edge of a shelf. One whiff of a breeze and I was history. I had always been solid and dependable but never again. It backed my resolve to tell as few people as possible.

      I especially didn’t want to tell the Selitzky’s. They were the nosy friends who wanted to know everything about your life. I dreaded their holiday drinks invitation which came on December 28^th. Alex told them I was not well and that I was going to the doctor’s the next day. Both of these things were true but I knew it wouldn’t be a good enough answer for long. I started wrestling with the idea of whether I should begin to tell people the truth, partial truth, or be totally ambiguous. Unfortunately, after refusing to meet with them several times, we were sitting outside a café having lunch, when Mrs Selitzky walked past. Her demeanor was like ice. She confronted me:

      “Are you still sick?”

It was a challenge as sure as if she had slapped me across the face with a white glove.