A story of fear, laughter and one exquisite invitation

By Mary Kay Roth

When I consider the last four months, mostly I want to remember the laughter – somehow, I believe laughter is the key to this story.

Because this is a tough tale for me to tell, one that started in February with a nervous appointment at my ob-gyn – after which I returned to my car and discovered I had locked myself out. My niece, Holly, was the first to answer my texts for help, so when she pulled up and  opened her car door – she gave me a serious look: “Aunt Mary, you’re at the gynecologist.  Is there something you’re not telling me?” 

Pause. “Are you pregnant?”

So, yes, we hooted and snorted, and set the tone for what I didn’t yet know was coming: one very strange and unexpected roller coaster of a journey.

Because, of course, I wasn’t pregnant.  I had cancer. 

Curiously, people with cancer can relay the exact moment they were told they had the Big C (think 9/11, JFK). For me, several weeks after that doctor appointment, I was driving my grandchildren to dance class and got the phone call: Malignant cells had invaded the endometrial lining of my uterus.

Suddenly the earth actually does tilt. White crackly noise explodes in your ears and your brain goes haywire.  

Somehow you manage to get home, sit in a fog of shock and, ever-so-quietly, come unglued. Did you finish your will?  What about the piles of storage boxes you wanted to clear?  Will you ever skinny dip again?  Will you smell the sweet clover of summer or autumn’s fires? You close your eyes and picture your grandchildren, the loveliest most beautiful creatures on earth, and wonder if you’ll watch them grow up.  Are next year’s Lied tickets any good or will you be … dead? Damn, you should have gone to that James Taylor/Jackson Browne concert. 

And, finally, how in the heck do you tell your kids, your family, friends?   I actually Googled that question, got nothing and – trust me on this – there is no good way to tell anyone you have cancer.  Because no matter how you say it, even the most wonderful of people get that omg look of pure dread.  And your kids, man alive, they are shellshocked, because, for once in their lives, they don’t know what to say to their mother.

Mercifully, softly, darkness finally gives you a hiding place that night. But you can’t really hide. You are one big lump of feeling sorry-for-yourself, grabbing your dog in a 3 a.m. cold sweat, whispering into her soft fur, “Good lord, who will take care of you?”

Twenty-four hours later, life has gone topsy turvy. Suddenly I have an impending date with an oncologist and, eventually, surgery. I walk around the house, aimlessly, with my clothes on, inside-out. I pull up old Perry Mason and Sherlock Holmes episodes, but even my very best heroes can’t save me.  And did you know you can spell out C-A-N-C-E-R-S-U-C-K-S to the exact rhythms of the Mickey Mouse song?

In the coming days and nights, sleep is impossible.  So, forget flowers, friends start leaving lovely porch gifts: wine, tranquilizers, edibles, anything to numb the numbness. I remember I used to smoke weed in my youth – it relaxed me – so I message someone I suspect can help ... and two hours later she is at my door toting a cheese pizza – with extra “toppings.” I finally fall asleep that night.

Eventually, the time for surgery does arrive.  The evening before we light candles, burn the word “cancer,” countless times, and manage to hold a good-bye-to-your-uterus party.  

The evening after surgery, the long wait for test results begins. And everyone who has experienced cancer will agree, this is the worst part. Because, good grief, I am weary of contemplating my navel and my own mortality. And where in the heck does all the cancer go, anyway? Somehow, I picture a poem from One Fish Two Fish where kids are lugging this huge glass of dark liquid up the stairs – with a scary creature named Clark, who I now believe undoubtedly eats all the organs and tumors with cancer.

One early Sunday morning, I hit a wall – a hard wall – crying uncontrollably and wanting to drive away into oblivion. But my devoted and worried friend – who had a double mastectomy – connects with her retired oncologist, who calls me immediately and talks me through one crazy, mind-bending hour.

She leaves me with these parting words: Whether I like it or not, the veil of illusion has come down, a veil that supposedly protected me from death (but never really did).  So now I have a powerful choice: I can live in fear.  Or I can accept a rare invitation to live in an authentic way – an offer that only goes to a select group of people. I now reside on the other side of that veil, and have a unique opportunity to understand – achingly, deeply – that life is a gift.

Almost immediately, the emotional vertigo lifted and I finally began to hear caring voices around me – loved ones I had tried to push away – but who were trying to assure me that I was not alone.

• “I’m here. To walk alongside you.”
• “So much to absorb, isn’t it … and a new role to anticipate, cancer survivor.  You will do this.”
• “We are here for you. Mary’s warriors.” 
• “Oh, MK. if there is one soul, one individual, who I know can kick cancer's ass and keep on ticking, it's you.” 

I can’t claim I was rock-solid when the momentous day arrived for test results.  But I sat in the waiting room, squeezing my friend’s hand, as my lovely daughter whispered in my ear, “Don’t forget, we burned the cancer.”  

Enter my wise oncologist who didn’t mess around for an instant: Clear lymph nodes. No cancer detected anywhere. Cautionary weekly radiation treatments through May. 

Somehow, almost impossibly, the cancer was gone.

And in the weeks that have followed, I find myself constantly overwhelmed and awash in moments I wasn’t sure I would ever have again: Listening to my wind chimes. Smelling the sweet, sweaty arrival of summer – and fireflies.  Perfect cups of coffee and late-night swims. Holding hands. Singing in the car with my grandchildren.  

Late May, I had my last radiation treatment and got to ring a bell.  But the real gift was the people I met in the waiting room – noble folk who shared their stories with generosity and courage.  (Almost 2 million people are expected to be diagnosed with cancer this year in the United States.)

 

On that last day of treatment, a fellow named Rod sat down beside me and shook my hand: 

“What are you in for?” he growled with a chuckle.

“Uterine cancer.  What are you in for?”

“Pancreatic cancer.”

I tap danced around telling him my scant radiation prescription, but discovered he was a farmer getting 40-plus treatments yet felt good about the future.  When they called his name, he headed for the door, then suddenly turned around and said to me: “I have a good feeling about you.  You have such a great spirit.  You’re going to whip this.”

And we laughed.

So I take a moment on this beautiful summer day – to honor Rod and all those cancer survivors who are undergoing so much more than I ever did.  To thank every single health care worker who crossed my path.  To recognize the most loving circle of friends and family, because god only knows how anyone does this alone.

I have this favorite movie scene that comes at the end of “Castaway” after Tom Hanks has been stranded on an island and is eventually rescued. In the final scene he pauses to stand in the crossroads of two country roads, gazing down the endless, open highways. 

Today I head toward summer feeling a profound sense of gratitude, while also wondering what a person does at those crossroads with the most sacred of second chances. People suggest I see a counselor and talk it through. Light a fire and dance in the dark.  Let go and live my life.

I wrote down something from a book recently: “Life can be absolutely appalling, and actually not bad at all – all on the same day.  Love and death bang right up against each other.  Thank god for love.” 

Other than that, I offer no advice – and make no claim to understand the true meaning of life. All I can tell you is this: Last night I sat in my front yard, underneath the moon and the stars, drank a glass of wine and looked up, in wonder.