Stage 4

Sis came in from Langley for a visit after I finished my last post. The visit was arranged a few days in advance. Originally, she had wanted to come for breakfast though she couldn't really eat and didn't want to go out. I usually eat breakfasts out on weekend mornings, for the walk and the coffee as much as the food. It has become a ritual with me and I also remembered a friend and I had postponed a breakfast last weekend because bad weather, so I asked her to delay her arrival until 2pm. She had said she wanted to leave before dark so I knew that would limit the visit to 2 hours. I had a few other things I was set on doing that day, such as grocery shopping and getting a haircut.

The visit was much longer than expected -- 5 hours. It was pleasant and as wonderful as it ever has been between us, certainly much better than any visit we've shared in recent years, but she had come in part to tell me that she has stage four ovarian cancer. Stage four is the final stage, the "terminal" stage. The doctors aren't 100% sure but almost. She goes under the knife the day after tomorrow. The cyst isn't really as big as a grapefruit, she told me. It's diameter is only 13 cm. That's over five inches, I translated for her, but she just shrugged.

She was determinedly positive and chattered on like a bird in spring, battering me with one high-speed story after the other. Many of them were about our past, growing up together during our teenage years-- difficult and annoying memories. In between she shots me casually pleading questions such as "Will you promise to take care of Mouse (her cat) when I am gone?" or "Will you please be my executor?" They weren't questions I could say "no" to, but I was instantly transported to the logistical problems of caring for a cat that likes to disconnect computer cables and chew through telephone lines, or wondering how I could liquidate her estate when it takes two hours one way just to use transit to get to her place and I can't even climb the stairs of her multi-level home.

I hadn't even begun to digest the horrid news of her death sentence before these heavy responsibilities were handed to me. I began to feel claustrophobic, like I wanted to get out of my condo or somehow stop her from prattling on without pause. I began to think of my haircut and grocery shopping duties, but I had the sense not to act on these impulses. I knew she had to have reassurances before going under the knife, that she had to reconnect with me solidly because, she told me, I would be the only one in the family that she will tell, at least for now. She isn't even telling one of her best friends or her son (who isn't speaking to her at the moment). She has reasons for each and every secret. In some cases it might be part punishment, but mostly she wants to protect Mom and my brothers from the news. There is no such protection possible and I thought it best that we all should begin to deal with it to lessen the shock when we will likely lose her, but this was not the time to tamper with her delicate and urgent plans.

To say I was drained after she left would be a major understatement. I know I was in shock too, but I am generally good at holding it together. I should be an expert on holding it together by now. I took a walk up the street to do my grocery shopping before going to bed. I couldn't get to sleep for some time.

Monday morning I woke around 5 am with a mildly sore throat. I wasn't nearly as depressed as I had expected to be. In fact, I was in pretty good spirits but as the morning passed my head cold came on like a speeding train. My nose was running like a tap and I went into several sneezing fits. But I needed the distraction more than I needed to rest alone at home so I stayed to the end of the day. Last night I got 9 hours of sleep and all the nasty cold symptoms were in full retreat already.

As her surgery time grows nearer she is on my mind more and more. In spite of the fact we hadn't spoken for almost 5 years, I am suddenly her closest confidante. I think at times she is almost my twin. In the logging camps in the rain forests of Haida Gwaii (the Queen Charlotte Islands) she was often my only playmate for years at a time. But the weight that I am the only family member who knows her true condition isn't resting easily with me.