by Kate Hewitt
She’s his mother. She’s connected to him by blood and bone and deep, instinctual love. Her three girls are his sisters, not step or half or anything other than total and complete. The six of them could be a family again, the family I know she’s always wanted to have. And they could be comfortable financially, thanks to my life insurance. I’d have to put some checks and balances in place, yes, fine, but they would definitely be better off than they are now. Why isn’t she jumping all over that? Should I have made it more clear, what I was willing to provide? To give not just to Isaac, but to Heather and her family? Isaac’s family. I fall asleep before I can think about it any more, much less come up with any answers.
I wake up the next morning and my vision is so blurry I can barely make out my hand in front of my face. My stomach heaves and my mind spins when I try to rise from the bed. I take a few minutes, keep my breathing even; try not to feel terrified. Every time I think I’ve become used to this slow, or not-so-slow, descent, I realize I haven’t. Not at all. And losing my sight is not something I feel remotely ready for.
My vision clears enough for me to be able to get dressed, but it takes forever just to do the simplest tasks – put on yoga pants, brush my teeth. I look in the mirror and I can make out new hair growing on my scalp, a light brown fuzz, like a baby’s. It amazes me that even as my body shuts down, new life grows. There’s hope in that, somewhere, but all I can think is that my hair follicles have not got the memo about what’s happening.
This new raft of symptoms makes me realize I can’t put off any longer the one thing I’ve truly been dreading to do: telling Isaac.
Late that afternoon, after a nap to restore what little strength I have left, I walk with him out to the beach. It’s a perfect day, blue skies, lemon-yellow sun, endless sand and sea. I want to soak it all up but I’m dreading this too much to do more than notice.
We sit for a while as he makes one of his enormous creations – towers and walls and canals he scoops out with his hands. I could watch him forever. If the rest of my life was just sitting here on the sand with him, I would be happy. An eternity of this.
He looks up at me, a slight frown furrowing his forehead. ‘Mom?’
My son is smart. He knows something is up. Of course he does. He’s known for a while, even if he doesn’t want to guess or to be told the truth, any more than I want to tell it.
‘Isaac,’ I say, my throat already aching, ‘I need to talk to you about something. Something important.’
He puts down his shovel and waits. He knows it’s serious. He knows.
I take a deep breath, blink it all back. ‘Isaac, do you remember when I went to the hospital?’ He nods. ‘I went there to get better, and I thought I would, but the truth is, I didn’t.’ I stare at him, willing him to understand even as I wish he didn’t have to. He’s only seven years old. ‘I didn’t get better, Isaac.’
He blinks at me, his face so serious, so young. ‘So will you have to go back to the hospital again?’
‘Yes, I probably will.’ I know that’s where my last days will probably be. ‘But…’ How can I say this? How can I break his heart and shatter his world? ‘The truth is, Isaac…’ I reach out and slide my hand through his hair, needing to touch him. And it’s a testament to this moment that he doesn’t pull away. He just closes his eyes, accepting my little caress, needing it, just as I do. ‘The truth, Isaac,’ I say quietly, ‘is I’m not going to get better. Ever.’ I let those words sink in for a moment as I stare out at the ocean, trying desperately to hold onto my composure. ‘The truth is, I’m going to die.’
Isaac is silent, his head lowered, his face hidden. I squeeze his shoulder. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’ He nods, and we both stay silent for a few moments, struggling. Struggling on and on, until the end. ‘I’m sorry,’ I finally whisper. ‘I wish… oh, I wish so much I could be healthy and well. That I could be there for you. I want to see you…’ I stop, because I can’t burden him with my own sorrows, all the things I won’t be here to see. Third grade. Losing his front teeth. Graduation, girlfriends, becoming an adult, finding his way. Everything. I’m going to miss absolutely everything.
Sometimes I wonder how much Isaac will even remember me, ten or twenty years from now, when he’s been living somewhere else, loving other people, but I can’t bear to think that way. I can’t stand the thought that one day I will be a faded, fuzzy memory, and nothing more.
Isaac is still silent, but I watch as a tear plops onto the sand, making a damp, dark circle. My brave little boy. I pull him into a hug, hold him as tightly as I can, even though everything in me aches and my heart, my heart has already broken in pieces. It broke the first time I saw him, but now it’s shattered completely and there will be no putting it together again. I can live with that. I won’t have to for long.
‘I love you, Isaac,’ I whisper, my voice fierce. I want to imbue him with the words; I want him to always, always remember them, to count on them, as sure as the sun blazing in a cloudless sky. ‘I love you so very much.’
His skinny little arms come around me as he burrows into my chest. ‘I love you, too.’ Then, a ragged whisper. ‘I don’t want you to go.’
Oh Isaac, I think. Oh Isaac, if I could stay, I would. I would do anything, endure anything, to be able to stay. To live. But I just hold him, because that’s all I can do now. He will have questions, I know, questions I will need to answer about who he will live with, who will love him and keep him safe. Because his future is the most important thing now. It’s the only thing left in my control.
We have three more days on the Cape: warm, golden-soaked days, lying on the sand, playing in the waves. I mostly sleep, whether it’s in the cottage or on the beach. The meds I’m on are making me dreamy, distant from myself, which can be pleasant sometimes but also disconcerting. I feel like I’ve already cut loose and am drifting.
Often I find an hour or even two have passed and I have no idea what I’ve been doing. Have I been sleeping? Staring? My mind is a dreamscape of memories – my father, my mother, my childhood, Isaac, all of it jumbled together, passing through my consciousness. I suddenly remember absurdly small things – my mother braiding my hair when she had none of her own, the smell of my father’s sweaters when I sat next to him as a child, watching TV.
Sometimes I have moments of crystalline clarity, playing Connect Four with Isaac, laughing with Heather, sitting on the sand and staring at the ocean, reveling in the simplicity of it. I am here. I am here.
Those moments anchor me in a reality that feels too painful to bear, and yet I don’t want to give them up. I will hold onto them until the last. At least I will try.
By the time we leave the Cape, Heather packing everything up, I know I need to go home. I am far weaker than I was a week ago, and my vision is getting worse, so sometimes I bump into things unless Heather steers me right. My right arm is numb to the elbow. Breathing is hard.
The end is closing in. I can see it in the distance, a finish line I want to ignore, a flag waving, and yet it still feels impossible. It’s been a month since my mastectomy, since my world began to end. Just one month. I thought I’d have more time. I thought the end would come suddenly, three months and then boom, not this gradual wearing away, the crumbling and the shrinking.
In the end, and it really is the end, I have three more good weeks. Right into mid-September, when the days are crisp and golden and the leaves begin to turn, my favorite time of year. How can anyone not like September, when everything feels new? I’m not going back to school; I’m not going back to work, either, but I feel the urge to sharpen pencils, to buy new notebooks and smooth my hands over the clean pages, to make fresh starts and well-intentioned resolutions.
When we got back from the Cape I called Stella and asked her to come over. She came right away, no questions, and while Isaac was out with Heather – I don’t know how I managed without her, now – I asked Stella if she would take care of my son. If she would love him.
H
er eyes went huge and tears spilled down her cheeks. ‘Oh, Grace. I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.’
‘I know.’ I was half-sitting, half-lying on the sofa, a blanket wrapped around me even though it was ninety degrees outside, the middle of August. I’d withered away to skin and bone; even my yoga pants practically slid off me. When I looked in the mirror I genuinely didn’t recognize myself, which was the oddest feeling.
‘I love Isaac so much. You know that. And you know I wanted to offer… before you mentioned Heather…’ She waited uncertainly.
‘I thought Heather was the right person to take care of Isaac, but in the end she didn’t feel she could, or should. She will, though, if she needs to, but… she wanted Isaac to be in a place, a home, where he feels comfortable, with the least amount of disruption. And I think that’s with you.’
‘That’s so…’ Stella shook her head, sniffing, tears spilling over. ‘Wow. I mean, that’s just…’ She dashed at her eyes. ‘Sorry. That’s amazing of her. And of course we’ll take Isaac. We’ll love him as our own. Of course we will.’
‘It’s a big decision,’ I felt compelled to warn, even though I know Stella means every word she says. ‘Don’t jump into it just because you want to be the nice guy here.’ I tried to smile. ‘Think about it. A lot. For you, as well as for Isaac.’
She nodded, looking serious. ‘Of course we will.’
‘But,’ I said, trying to joke, ‘don’t think about it too long.’
Stella burst into tears then, and I tried to comfort her, but I couldn’t get up from the sofa. ‘Sorry,’ she said, as she wiped tears and snot from her face. ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry.’
‘It’s okay, Stella.’ I smiled, or tried to. I had to think of other people now; I was already slipping away. I was nearly gone.
The next day Stella called me to say she’d talked to Eric and he felt the same way she did. They would be happy and honored to be guardians for my son. The day after, in what felt like a Herculean effort for me, the three of us went to my lawyer and hammered out the details of Isaac’s trust fund, how he would be taken care of financially, forever.
I nearly fell asleep in the middle of the meeting, but we got there in the end. Signed and sealed. I could rest easy now. I could die.
A couple of days later I went to Dr. Stein and asked what I’m sure every terminal patient asks for at some point or another – more time.
‘I’m not asking for a miracle,’ I told her, trying to smile. ‘I just want a little more time. Weeks, even. Anything to spin it out a bit longer, because every day I’m feeling worse. Weaker.’
Dr. Stein looked shaken. She’s taken my case hard, I think, maybe because our sons are the same age. ‘I wish I had that power, Grace, I really do…’
‘There must be some experimental drug,’ I persisted. A few months ago I thought I didn’t want to go down that route of desperate hope. Now I know I do. Anything, anything, to let me have a little longer with Isaac. ‘You mentioned Kadcyla…’
‘Yes.’ Dr. Stein took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. ‘If your cancer hadn’t been so aggressive and spread so quickly, I might have prescribed it. But at this stage, Grace…’ She looked at me sadly. ‘I can manage your pain, and make you as comfortable as possible. Quality of life is an important part of palliative care.’
I looked away, hating her words, knowing they were true. I felt a sudden spurt of rage, surprising me. I’d taken this all on the chin, more or less, but right then I wanted to hurt things. I wanted to scream and rage and shake Dr. Stein’s shoulders, asking her why I should have this happen to me. Haven’t I lost enough in life?
‘I’m sorry, Grace.’
I swallowed it all down, knowing I didn’t have the luxury of indulging in that kind of anger. I certainly didn’t have the energy. ‘Thanks,’ I murmured, and then I waited, feeling numb inside, while she wrote a bunch of prescriptions to help with the ever-increasing pain.
Three weeks is not very long. Three weeks slips away like a moment, a second, when it’s all you have. Heather came a lot, and so did Stella and Eric, with Will and Jamie. I told Isaac he would live with Stella and Eric when I was gone, and he bit his lip and nodded, trying hard not to cry. I wished he would cry, because then I could comfort him. Instead it will be Stella’s arms around him, Stella’s shoulders that will feel the weight of his cheek, the dampness of his tears.
One day in mid-September, about a week after Isaac started school, when I am feeling so weak that I end up needing to use the wheelchair Dr. Stein had ordered for me to go outside, Heather, Stella, Isaac, and I all head to the Central Park reservoir. It’s a gorgeous day, the sky hard and bright and blue, the leaves only just starting to turn, glimpses of crimson and yellow amidst the green. Isaac skips ahead with Stella, light-hearted for once, while Heather pushes me and I try to soak it all in, right into my skin, because everything about that moment is perfect.
The air smells clean. The trees are in technicolor. I hear Isaac laugh. We walk all the way around the reservoir, the water sparkling under the sunlight as if it is strewn with diamonds. I doze off and on as Heather pushes me, the wheelchair jolting over the rougher parts of the path, but it doesn’t bother me. Nothing does, that day. I think some part of me knows it is my last, the last day when I can feel like I am still living, and not just dying.
We don’t talk, even when I’m awake, because there is no need for words or sentiment, not when there is sunlight and breeze and the sound of Isaac’s laughter. Those are all the things I need.
Heather watches Stella and Isaac together, and I see her smile. It feels like a blessing. It all feels good and right in a way I don’t think any of us ever expected.
That night, I have a seizure. I don’t know that’s what I’m having, not at the time. It’s Isaac who finds me, who stares at me in terror as I jerk and twitch, who has the presence of mind to call 911.
I don’t remember the rest – the blur of paramedics, sirens, a hospital room. My first thought when I come to is for my son. I try to jerk upright, but my body feels as if it is tied to hundred-pound weights. Moving is near impossible.
‘Isaac,’ I gasp out, and then, like a miracle, Heather is there. She looks tired and pale and strained, but she smiles and touches my hand. I grab onto her, or try to. I feel so powerless, like I’m drowning in a bed. ‘Isaac,’ I say again.
‘He’s at Stella’s, Grace. He’s fine.’
‘How…’
‘The paramedics called Stella, and Stella called me. The numbers were written by your bed.’
I’d forgotten I’d done that, just in case. I’d thought I was being so thorough, but I had no idea. No idea whatsoever what it would feel like when the time came, when everything felt as if it was screaming to a halt and careening off a cliff at the same time.
I close my eyes, my grip relaxing on Heather’s. ‘What happened?’ I ask after a few moments. My voice is thin, like a thread.
‘You had a seizure. The tumor is putting pressure on your brain, which is what caused it.’
‘You’ve seen Dr. Stein?’
‘Yes, she came by.’ Heather sits in the chair next to my bed, her hand still touching mine. ‘Would you like to see Isaac?’
The way she says it, her voice so soft and sad, floods me with fear. I turn to look at her. ‘Is this it?’ I ask in disbelief. Despite everything, I can’t believe I’m here. Already. ‘Is this the end?’
Heather’s eyes fill with tears. ‘Oh Grace, I don’t know. But Dr. Stein seemed… serious. She’s coming back soon.’
‘Okay.’ My mind is spinning. I look out the window, and all I can see is sky, a whitish-gray. A cloudy day in September, and it might be my last day on earth. Does it happen that fast? I remember that last endless week with my father, the long, agonizing days as we both waited for him to die. Is that all that’s left for me, the waiting?
‘I want to see Isaac,’ I tell Heather. ‘Before…’ She nods. She understands.
Dr. S
tein comes by a little while later, I don’t know how long. Minutes and hours pass with equal speed for me now, everything dazed and distant. Dr. Stein sits by my bed, where Heather sat, and smiles at me, her face full of sympathy and sadness.
‘How are you feeling, Grace?’
‘Is this it?’ I just want to know. ‘Am I going to leave the hospital? Ever?’
‘That’s up to you.’
That doesn’t sound good. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘We’ve done some tests, Grace, and the cancer is continuing to spread. Your organs can’t take much more stress, I’m afraid.’
This shouldn’t be a surprise, and yet it is. Every bit of bad news shocks me all over again. ‘So…?’
‘So we can arrange for you to go home, and be as comfortable as possible. Or you can stay here, if you’d feel safer with the hospital staff nearby.’
Safer? What is safe about death? It’s the most dangerous, frightening thing ever, and yet it’s coming for me. I shake my head, at a loss, trying not to cry, because the truth is I’m scared. I’m scared to die, and die alone; I’m scared about what it will feel like, and I’m also scared for Isaac, for the pain I know he’ll feel, the pain I can’t spare him from. ‘I want to see my son.’
‘I know, and I believe Heather is going to get him for you.’
This can’t be it, I keep thinking. I don’t want this to be it. It feels so sudden, so pedestrian. A hospital bed, anonymous nurses, that awful beeping of machines. What if I die alone? I am suddenly seized by a choking terror. I don’t want my last moments on earth to be alone. I’ve been lonely for so long, but God knows, I need someone now.
I try to focus on Dr. Stein even though I am screaming, shrieking inside, everything resisting. ‘I’ll stay here,’ I say. If I went back home I’d need someone, most likely Heather, to stay with me twenty-four hours a day, and I can’t ask that of her, not after everything she’s already done. I also don’t want Isaac to see me at the end. He’s too young to bear the weight of that memory.
