Who to tell?

There are hundreds of blogs, video diaries, and discussion forums by people who are about to rest in peace. They want the world to know what they are facing, they want to reach out to others going through similar pain, and they want to leave a piece of themselves behind for all eternity, or until YouTube is replaced by something better.

      I felt completely opposite. I was ashamed of myself and of my body. Like an alcoholic or a gambler I now had a horrible, embarrassing, dirty secret. I didn’t want anyone to see me like this. I wanted to hide. But you cannot stay under a rock forever because friends call, relatives want to skype, and employers want to know what’s going on.

      I set out to minimise what I considered to be collateral damage. I didn’t want people to know because I didn’t want them to edit their conversation to stay away from things that might be sensitive to a dying person. I wanted to be as normal as possible for as long as possible.

      On Friday December 16^th when I was officially diagnosed, only Alex was in the hospital with me. He rang our younger daughter Charlotte, who was at a friend’s house. Let’s call them the Smiths. So minutes after the doctor confirmed I had plasma cell leukaemia, Charlotte knew and the Smith’s knew.

      The next day, Saturday, Alex rang his boss and told him. His boss told everyone else. I refused to go to his office Christmas party that evening. I pictured myself as a tiny person, like Alice in Wonderland sitting on an oversized chair with my legs dangling. The guests would all lean over and stare at me. Over their swirling glasses of pinot noir they would ask humiliating questions and tutt tutt with feigned concern.

      “Are you in any pain?

      “Poor thing.”

      “How long have you got?”

      “Such a shame.”

      “What’s it like to be dying?”

      I felt like the pity train was already in full gear.

      My older daughter Abby was coming home from America in three days’ time. I rehearsed the conversation I would have with her in my head. Then I rang her.

      “Hi honey. I’m sitting by the Christmas tree. I’m really looking forward to you coming home.” (sniff) It was no good. I couldn’t tell her. I was on the verge of tears so I handed the phone to Charlotte.

      “Should I say anything?” Charlotte whispered.

I shook my head. I couldn’t do it over the phone. Suddenly I was heartbroken over the limited amount of time I would have with Abby and the time that was already gone. It went deeper than the hours that would be robbed from me because of my disease. Even if I survived, at age 23, Abby would never live with us again. In that moment, sitting by the tree full of ornaments the family had chosen together, I was wistful that everything for me, as the mother I had been to her for so many years, was now over.       

      On Tuesday Charlotte and I picked Abby up from the airport at 5am. The conversation on the way home was fun and fanciful and I didn’t want to break the mood. It wasn’t the right time. We got home and I helped Abby make her bed. Alex gave me a look that I knew meant “Have you told her?” and I just walked past him. She wanted a shower and something to eat, then a nap. There was plenty of time. She deserved a few minutes of happy nostalgia before I ruined her day. I took a sleeping pill. A few hours later we were both in the living room. 

      Abby was curled up on one of the softly padded chairs. I pictured her as a ten-year-old, sitting opposite me, smiling and showing me a drawing she had just made. It was a dolphin, her favorite thing to draw. I was upset about something and she gave me the dolphin and asked: “Are you alright?” I was so proud of her, the way she knew me. The way I didn’t have to say anything. I was as proud of her on the day she drew that beautiful dolphin as I was on this day when she asked me again:

      “Are you alright?”

      “I have some bad news.”

Abby looked into my eyes and waited for me to finish.

      “I have a type of blood cancer and it is really bad.”

She hugged me and we didn’t say anything for ages. Then she asked me lots of intelligent questions about my treatment and my doctors. She was always a good listener and as usual I told her everything. Then I immediately regretted giving her such a weight to carry on her shoulders.