Comfort

I don't think that I'll ever be able to eat a grapefruit again. I came to this conclusion at about the same time the doctor was drawing his diagram on the dry erase board of the tiny, windowless consulting room my sister, my brother and I were sitting in.

I was looking at the carpet when he began talking to us about the grapefruit-sized cancerous mass that had invaded my mother's body. The carpet was dark gray Berber with flecks of colour. In my mind the flecks were red and blue and purple, but honestly I'm not certain of the exact colours today. They wove themselves together as tears sprouted from my eyes, but I remember trying to concentrate on the fibers so I could remain strong enough to ask important questions before the doctor left the room.

What did a 60% 5 year survival rate mean? What happens now? What does radiation do? And chemo, what exactly is chemo? Why did this happen to my mom? Is this genetic? Is there anything we can do to help her through this?

It felt like time raced by at some moments and slowed to a crawl at others. I'm not sure how long we were in that room, but after the doctor had answered our questions and left us alone, my brother, sister and I sat in silence for a moment. Then, I stood up and erased the picture the doctor had drawn on the board - it seemed as if it were too private for a stranger to view. We gathered our things and walked out of the room. Someone else would be needing it shortly, and I prayed silently that the next people visiting that room would be receiving happier news than we had just heard.

Our group trudged upstairs to my mother's hospital room to wait for her. In the elevator there was silence. It was as if we were mourning something. Perhaps we were mourning the belief that everything was okay, that the doctors were simply overreacting. After the doctor confirmed what we all were wishing not to hear, there was no way we could be in denial any longer.

That moment of realization was frightening - the moment when I realized that my mother would need a respite from being the caregiver. That she would need to be cared for and cheered up. She would need to be comforted rather than be the comforter.

But my mother is so strong. In the hospital, as she lay in the bed with tubes and IVs plugged into every part of her body, she told me that she felt lucky. She felt lucky to have more time to be with her family, that she caught the cancer in a very early stage, that the odds were on her side. She felt lucky just to be alive and have the chance to fight.

And my mom will fight. She's happy, she's active, she smiles and laughs. She has such a positive outlook about her illness.

Even though I thought that I would need to comfort her, she is still comforting me with her actions and words. And she amazes me more every day.