My mom is diagnosed with cancer again. I am not
pregnant. My mom spends a summer at M.D. Anderson. I am not pregnant. My mom walks with a limp. I am not pregnant. I push my mom in a wheelchair
at Ikea. I am not pregnant. The wheelchair was temporary. I am not pregnant. My
mom gets radiation. I am not pregnant. My mom walks normal again. I am not
pregnant. Cancer markers go up. I am not pregnant. I turn twenty-eight. I am
not pregnant. My mom starts chemo. I am not pregnant. My mom has a port
surgically implanted into her chest. I am not pregnant. Cancer markers goes
down. I am not pregnant. My mom turns sixty-five. I am not pregnant. My mom
walks with a limp again. I am not pregnant.
Three and a half years ago my mom was diagnosed with
breast cancer for the third time. The cancer was found in her bones in May of
2011. After the debris of a cancer diagnosis was cleared, the only answer I
found in the “terminal-illness-slow-it-down-never-cure-it” prognosis that my
mom received was that grandchildren were something that should happen sooner
rather than later. Suddenly, the idea of having children was an idea that I
stopped considering and started pursuing.
Three and a half years later I am no closer to
having children than my mom is to being cancer-free. I tell myself that not
being able to get pregnant is not actually that big of a deal. I tell myself
that if my mom weren’t sick or if I could even just get some concrete timeline
of cancer events, I could control my sense of urgency a little better. With
every period and every failed procedure the clock keeps ticking, except I can’t
see the freaking clock. I have no idea how much time is left. I don’t know when
it’s time for the Hail Mary. I haven't drawn the Hail Mary up yet.
And then sometimes I don’t need to see the clock. My
mom is okay, and the cancer markers go down and doctors give good reports. Her
hip doesn’t hurt, and she plays nine holes of golf and eats lunch with her
friends. We go to the mall and walk from one end to the other without stopping.
I show up unannounced and she’s not in bed. Sometimes my mom is the person I
remember from three and a half years ago before I knew I was infertile and
before I knew there was a clock.
Sometimes my mom is my mom and I am her daughter and
there isn't this huge gaping hole where another human that I created is
supposed to be. Sometimes.
