THE WHY? FOUNDATION - TOUCHSTONE THURSDAY
Eight months was still a lot of time, I remember telling
myself. With fuzzy kid-logic – in which hours are days and days are months – I had
convinced myself that this was such an infinitesimally small problem that like
an ant under my shoe I shouldn’t give it a second though. In fact, I should ignore
it. Elephants in rooms, after all, only exist if you let them. So I turned a
blind eye toward it. In the 90’s, when soda was cheap and video games were
starting to make it possible to live lives you never thought existed, it was
easy enough to distract myself. Out of head, out of mind. Eight months was a
long… long time.
I hated school. I mean, really, what kid didn’t, but school
was school. I remember spelling it
“skool” in my book reports as a juvenile middle finger to my grade school
teachers – you can’t get to me. You can’t
teach me (belligerent eye roll). My mother drove me to school every
morning. It was a short drive, maybe two minutes, short enough that most days I
had to walk. But two minutes is an awfully short time. Short enough that it’s
difficult to convince my mother that my stomach is feeling particularly
grouchy. I complained heavily, with plenty of nasally whine and, sighing,
caving under my insistence; she drives past the front door of the school and takes
me home. I play it straight, don’t blow my cover, on my way home, which is key
to finagling my way out of another day of classes.
There was no official family announcement that I can
remember. As an eight year-old, the finality of death was still a relatively
new concept and one that still seemed absurd. I didn’t even quite know what was
happening to my mother. She had leukemia, I knew, something nasty to do with
her white blood cells, but most of her disease was nothing more than whispers
behind closed doors. I don’t know if my parents were trying to keep me in the
dark intentionally, to protect me, or if I genuinely didn’t understand. All I
know for certain is I didn’t know for certain.
We arrive at home, and I’m told to lie in bed, which I do because,
hey, lying in bed is better than sitting at a desk. My mother brings me a bowl
of soup and, to pass the time, she reads to me. This is not an uncommon sight
at my house – me lying in bed, my mother in the chair next to me, some wild,
large, philosophical fantasy novel, with enough imagery to keep my impatient
and TV-trained brain occupied. Today, it is the final book in the Chronicles of Narnia. I sip soup and
listen to her read The Last Battle,
as Aslan – the great a noble lion and quite unsubtle metaphor – judges all of
those who have fought in the great battle. The good guys are invited to join
him in His country and, with that, Narnia comes to an end. Father Time calls
the stars down from the skies, he puts out the moon and the sea washes over the
land. Narnia is no more. My mom has read this book to me a few times. She
always pauses at this part.
Around this time I started seeing Mrs. V, an older woman who
looked as though she was plucked from someone’s garden. She invited me to her
office once a week during school and, at the time, I was none too concerned why
as I strutted room to the envy of my classmates. Mrs. V and I would sit in her
small office where I would fill out puzzles, draw, and do visual word
challenges. I thought I was pretty damn special at the time. As though I might
be just awesome enough to play for an hour a week with Mrs. V while answering
her trivial and banal questions about my family. I would later learn that Mrs.
V was a grief counselor, who was preparing me for the death of my mother.
I spend the rest of the day walking around with my blanket
around my shoulders, trailing after my mother like the world’s most annoying
jet stream. My stomach feels fine. It always does. And she knows this. Yet I’ll
pull this stunt a few more times over on my mother in the coming months. Each
day on the short car ride to school I’ll groan and complain with the bravado of
a Shakespearian actor on his deathbed. And day, I’ll wait in bed for my bowl of
soup and whatever fantastic book has been dug up from our basement library. What
I won’t admit at the time, however, is that this isn’t about skipping class,
the joy of knowing my classmates are stuck doing math workshops in Home room, or
playing coordinated tunes on hand bells in Music. No, staying home from school
isn’t so much about “school” as it is “home.” Because home is where mom is. And
any day more I get to spend with her is a better day than one spent away.
Because these days go by so, so very quickly.
Eight months became weeks, became days. For reasons that she
can explain better than I, eight months
came and went with little ramification. Throughout the rest of my childhood, I
was told not to get my hopes up, not to expect her at my baseball game come
next spring, or to welcome me home from my driver’s test, or even at my high
school graduation. But as I write this, having graduated from not one but two
educational institutions, she is skiing somewhere in western Colorado. This
past summer, she was told that one more year of recession and she can stop
taking her medication. Suddenly, the rest of her life seems like a long… long
time.
In 1995 Chaz’s mother, Janice, was diagnosed with Chrinic
Mylegenous Leukemia and given less than a year to live. Proving cancer was
messing with the wrong lady, Janis is currently happily taking on the world and
enjoying every moment of every day. To read the short story THE BLAST CELLS
written by Janice about her cancer experience please click the link below.
http://thewhyfoundation.blogspot.com/2012/08/the-blast-cells.html
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