On February 17th, the day
after my second monthly doctor’s appointment I rang my mother to tell her the
news about my good blood results.
“The
drugs are working so well they aren’t even sure if they will do a transplant.”
“Really?
That’s great. Keep it up.”
There
was no more sobbing which I was grateful for. After my third appointment in
March, the sole drug therapy regime and “watch and wait” attitude was out the
window. I was worried about telling her the transplant was back on. But I
shouldn’t have worried, not only was she over the tears, she was wearing her
cheerleading outfit.
“The
doctor said I was a good risk for the autologous transplant.” (pause)
“You
will do fine.” (rustle of pom poms)
“Yes.
They wouldn’t perform this operation on someone they thought
would have a poor outcome. They wouldn’t waste the money.”
“Of course not.
You are a strong person. If anyone can do this you can.” (go team)
I did not let on
to Mom that I was petrified of the transplant. I did not tell her that I was
nervously tingling all the time. I didn’t want to scare her or make her cry. I wanted her support. It
worked great. She became my biggest champion. I could almost
hear the roar of the crowd when we spoke. Her positivity made me more positive.
After my April doctor’s
appointment I gave her a few details about my upcoming biopsy and stem cell
transplant. But looking at the schedule of appointments and tests I had coming
up depressed me so I didn’t want to share the details with her.
“You are capable of doing
this.” (Give me a C)
“Thanks.”
“I feel in my heart that you
will come through the transplant well. I believe you will live a long life.”
She made me
smile. She even made me look forward to these calls with her. It was like
listening to a life coach. Her belief in me was so strong
and touched me so deeply she made me believe that I was actually going to be
okay, in spite of the bad prognostic markers. There had to be someone who beat
the odds, didn’t there? It really helped to talk to her and have her tell me I
was going to be fine.
Her role in my life was to
cheer me across the goal line. I couldn’t do it without her now. When I talked
to her in June, not long before my transplant I applauded her faith in me. She
said it was easy because I was the one who always sounded optimistic.
“You must have days when you
are down, but you always have a really good attitude. You are dealing with an
enormous amount and yet you are so upbeat.”
“You get used to each hurdle
as it comes closer,” I said calmly.
It was bullshit. You never got used to it. But I couldn’t tell her how
scared I was. I had enough websites telling me I was going to die. I needed
someone who believed I could beat the odds.
I did let my guard down
once. I told her that the transplant would be rough. I expected to be ill with
vomiting and diarrhea for a week. I immediately regretted breaking my own rules
and wanted to retract the comment. I didn’t want her to quit the cheerleading
squad. But her reaction was perfect.
“So what? Everyone gets sick
for a week, that’s nothing.”
She was right. What was a
week? I had gotten the flu for a week before. It wasn’t so bad.
This was a changing moment for me. I would go to the hospital and be
strong and not whiny.
“I’m going to go into the
hospital with a good attitude Mom. I’m not going to just lie in bed for three
weeks. I am going to get dressed, take walks and have coffee with my family. I
will be positive. “
“Good girl.” If I listened
closely I could almost hear “I’m proud of you.” Almost.
I called her twice in the
weeks after my transplant. Once to tell her I was home from the hospital and
once on her 84th birthday on August 8th. She laughed and
cried both times.
Then a month went by. I got
a letter and vowed to write back. I didn’t phone. I no longer slept with the
teddy bear. She had her own health problems and other family to worry about. I
was out of danger. She could hang up her pom poms for now.
In the excitement of my
near-death, there had been so much to talk about. I relied on her to buoy me.
She reversed my negative thinking on many occasions. But now that I was
recovering there was nothing to say. Our previous relationship re-surfaced and
our new-found connection would probably drift away until the next crisis. I
promised myself that wouldn’t happen. But I wondered if I was capable of
stopping it.
By October we were back to
speaking sparingly. I skyped on Thanksgiving at the end of November and she
spoke to me for a couple of minutes. We didn’t have much to say. I couldn’t
keep the relationship at the intensity it had reached when I was about to die.
It was okay. For a brief time she was there for me when I needed her, teddy
bear and all.
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