by Omar Sharif
It wasn’t surprising to see that Mom had a great support system from her entire family and bevy of friends. They were with us every step of the way, making sure Mom had everything she needed. Before the surgeon began treating her breast cancer, the surgeon removed the mass on Mom’s thyroid so it wouldn’t become cancerous. The surgeon couldn’t tell us if a lumpectomy or a modified radical mastectomy was necessary for her breast until they went in. When they did, they cut the tumor out and kept cutting until the margins were clear and they’d gotten all the cells. They were able to perform a lumpectomy and remove the lymph nodes the cancer had spread to, but Mom’s journey was just beginning.
The next step was to start chemotherapy. At first, the doctors weren’t specific about whether three or six treatments were necessary. Had it been solely up to Mom, she wouldn’t have had any. I don’t think she was mentally prepared to lose her thick, beautiful blond hair, because it would be a constant reminder that she was sick. She asked her oncologist, “If you think everything was removed during the surgery, and I’m going to have radiation, why do I even need chemo?”
“No,” I snapped. “I did not take a year off from school so you could not get fully better. We are doing the chemo and radiation and we’re going to kill every last cancer cell.” Chemotherapy wasn’t optional, so she conceded. It was beautiful to see Aunt Anne, Uncle Holden, Uncle Simon, Aunt Natalie, Aunt Evelyn, Lisa, and everyone else, along with her closest friends, gathered together at her first chemotherapy session. They literally took over the treatment room. They sat there eating grape and cherry popsicles with Mom, while she told some of her funniest stories. She tried so hard to be the same, if only to make us feel that she’d be okay, but it was difficult to sustain for long.
It wasn’t until her second treatment that Mom experienced the side effects and became really sick. It was difficult to watch her stumble into the bathroom clenching her stomach and then hunching over the sink to vomit. I couldn’t control this part of the process, and it made me feel helpless. The only thing I could do was stand there, holding her hair back, asking her what she needed—and knowing the answer.
We received another dose of fear the night Mom was sitting on the sofa, lightly rubbing her scalp to relieve the burning sensation. When she slowly pulled her hands away from her head, clumps of hair clung between her fingers. The chemo was killing the cancer cells, but it was also destroying the healthy cells that cause hair growth. Her lips parted slightly and stayed open, as if she wanted to say something but couldn’t. She became catatonic. Her pale cheeks stiffened, and the light in her eyes seemed to dim with each passing second. I scooped the hair out of her hands and threw it in the bathroom garbage can. I wouldn’t be able to stop her long, beautiful hair from falling out, but at least she’d have control over how she lost the rest of it. I went back into the living room and grabbed Mom’s hand, gently pulling her off the sofa. Without saying a word, I led her into the bathroom. I took out my clippers, wrapped a towel around her shoulders, and gently shaved her head.
While looking at my mother’s reflection in the mirror, I couldn’t help but recall the stories of Bubbie having her head shaved at Auschwitz. My mother suddenly looked gaunt, scared, and weak. She was now a prisoner of an illness that was trying to suck the life out of her.
The previous week, I’d taken her to the best stores in Montreal to help her find a selection of realistic-looking wigs. My mom had one condition when she’d agreed to undergo the chemotherapy—that it would be a secret. No one would know or could know that she was sick except a close selection of family and friends. Her cancer became her closet.
I was grateful when Mom finished each chemo treatment because it temporarily ended her nausea and vomiting. But there was more. The next step was giving Mom the prescribed injections for the following fourteen days in a row to boost her white blood cells and immune system so she wouldn’t get sick. In the evening, I’d give Mom injections in a different place around her belly button because she couldn’t bear to do it herself. When I’d gently pinch her skin to poke it with the needle, she’d cringe while looking away, the same way she’d turned away from the mirror when I shaved her hair off. When she was completely finished with chemotherapy, the radiation treatments began, held every weekday for nearly two months, burning her skin. To the eye, the deep redness appeared extremely uncomfortable. I knew she hated going. Her fatigue, stress, and bouts of depression grew worse. She had become fatalistic, and I could see that she’d all but given up hope.
I did everything possible to help Mom feel better and handle the breast cancer with a more positive outlook because I didn’t want her to suffer in silence. All my efforts aside, I was incapable of removing or lessening her depression and fear of the unknown. In some ways, it triggered my anxiety. I understood there weren’t any guarantees and that we had a five-year waiting period to see if the cancer would return. If it didn’t, then Mom could begin to have her life back.
Taking care of Mom wasn’t a problem; it was a choice. Dealing with everything without the ability to release the stress and worry it caused me—that was the problem. I worked hard to appear strong and confident, but I really wasn’t. I put on a mask and just did my best to make it look that way—for her. Until the doctor said she was healthy again, the prospect of losing Mom was looming like distant thunder, murky shadows, and dark storm clouds.
I wasn’t eating much; I’d lost weight, and I felt unhealthy both mentally and physically. My fight was not surrendering to the stress of everything past and present. Running and occasionally going out with friends from college brought temporary relief. Once I’d given Mom her injection, if she didn’t need anything, I’d change clothes and go for a five- or six-mile run to try to clear my head. I didn’t want to think about anything—not Mom, not death, not being alone, not cancer, not anything—I just ran. On one of those runs, I found myself on Anne’s street. When I reached her house, I saw that Uncle Holden’s car was parked out front. Simon and Evelyn’s vehicles were in the driveway. All Mom’s siblings were there, but Mom hadn’t mentioned anything about them getting together. I jogged up to the front door and rang the doorbell. When Anne answered, I went inside to find them gathered in the living room, deep in conversation. Without interrupting, I took a seat, clasped my hands together and listened. They were discussing how best to take care of Mom and me should the worst-case scenario materialize. My eyes shifted downward to keep everyone from seeing the glassy layer of tears. Before I had processed the conversation, they transitioned to talking about the way they’d break the news to Bubbie, who had lost so many already. When Grandfather Zadie passed, it was the first time since the Holocaust that Bubbie had relived that deep suffering. They worried that Bubbie’s fragile heart couldn’t handle another loss.
My aunts and uncles sounded as if they had succumbed to the same fatalistic view as Mom. Perhaps I was naive, and they were pragmatic with their approach, but I wasn’t prepared to yield to their thinking. I got up and went down the hall to the bathroom. As soon as I closed the door, the tears poured out. I turned on the faucet, cupped my hands together, and placed them under the cold water, over and over again, until the tears were washed from my eyes. When they stopped, I dropped to the floor and hunched over the toilet just in time. My fear and pain spewed out instead as vomit. Coughing and crying simultaneously, I stayed locked in that position until I’d purged everything. There was nothing left but dry heaves. After using toilet paper to wipe the residue from my mouth, I slowly pulled myself to my feet. Feeling completely hollow, I turned around to find Anne behind me. She pulled me close and held me until I stopped trembling. Moments later, Anne told me to wash the perspiration from my face, pull it together, and return home. She didn’t want Mom to know that I was scared or what they were discussing. Even in that situation, I had to disguise my fear and act as if everything was going to be fine, the same way my aunts and uncles were doing. The difference was that I was going home to face Mom, and she was afraid.
/> Since I wasn’t in school, there wasn’t much to do. I was tired of being anxious, so I continued running, started working out at the gym again, and worked nights as a go-go dancer. Regardless of what I was doing, Mom remained my priority. Since I needed to better understand her illness, I volunteered three days a week with an organization called Hope & Cope that helped cancer patients. They provided enhanced knowledge of what my mother was going through, as well as the insight I needed to help care for her. At Hope & Cope, my job was to inform women about the services available at the hospital, and in return, they helped me learn what the illness had taken from them. For nine months, I worked with women who were courageously fighting breast cancer. More often than not, I was the first person they saw after their diagnosis. Many of them confessed that they rarely cried in front of their doctor. But when they were sitting with me, learning how to apply eyeliner to make it seem like they hadn’t lost all their eyelashes or eyebrows, reality hit and they lost their stoicism. I told them where they could buy or acquire wigs and other things they hadn’t needed to know about until then. Some of these women won their battles, while others passed away—but they were all fighters. In some capacity, each of those brave women helped me become a better caregiver for my mother. When Mom finally completed all her treatments, I told her she was a survivor—just like Bubbie. The problem was that I was barely surviving. I didn’t know what was to come, but I just couldn’t handle any more internal pain or conflict. I was frozen in hell.
5
Che! (Oy Vey)
In Montreal I was wary everywhere I went. Being home caused my longstanding stress to return, especially after having freedom, friends, and room to breathe at Queen’s University. I was suffocating on the toxicity of hatred, choking on prejudice, and distressed by the possibility that death was waiting. I felt broken.
A few months had passed, and I’d spent the majority of that time with Mom or at the hospital. That year marked the first Christmas I hadn’t gone to Egypt to be with Dad or to France to spend time with Grandfather. During the winter months, darkness descends early in Montreal, and the snow blankets Quebec’s landscape with endless layers. I wanted the ruthless, penetrating cold to cut through me and freeze the sadness, fear, and isolation growing inside. I couldn’t tell anyone what I needed and what I was feeling. I had stayed home to take care of my mother, not to have people feel sorry for me or to make things more stressful. My time at home wasn’t about me, so I continued to do my best by trying to avoid the triggers that made me feel worse.
Graduating from Queen’s helped me advance to another level in my life, and it was somewhat liberating—I wasn’t the same. My feet moved steadily toward the boundary between shadow and light, even in Montreal. The students from university who lived in Montreal only knew me as Junior. They didn’t know the bullied and picked-on kid from elementary and high school, which made it more enjoyable to go out. Interacting with people outside our home and the hospital made me feel that I was still myself and that I was beginning to belong.
I had always enjoyed dancing, but now I used it as therapy, too. Working as a go-go dancer or party animator made people more familiar with me around town, and I made friends because of it. Following a party or event with my fellow dancers Gill, Alyssa, and Lisa, we’d meet other friends at the popular Wunderbar in the W Montreal hotel on weekends. I’d slide in the back seat of my car, quickly change out of the red jumpsuit I danced in, and head into the hotel lounge to enjoy the evening with them. The music had a way of making me feel more alive than when I woke up in the morning; the energy became something I craved.
One Saturday, I spotted a petite brunette from high school sitting at the bar, twirling her drink with a cocktail straw while bobbing her head to a house mix that reminded me of my summer in Mykonos. When our eyes met, she flagged me over. Trying to minimize the shock on my face, I headed in her direction. Julia was a couple of years older than me, but she was one of the few people who had been kind to me in high school. She was sitting next to Gabriel, her hairstylist. His profession was to keep women looking fabulous. The rumor was that Gabriel was in such high demand that his well-known and affluent clients kept him on speed dial. Julia didn’t waste time introducing me to her friend, although I already knew who he was, and I’d heard he’d be at the W that night. He was one of the reasons the W was a hot spot.
Gabriel was part Latin with thick black hair, perfect scruff, and beautiful white teeth that looked like Chiclets—like a modern-day Che Guevara. His tight black V-neck T-shirt revealed some cool tattoos on his arms, along with an impressive white-gold Cartier watch and dozens of braided, beaded, and brilliant bracelets. He was a classic bad boy, but fashionable, whereas my style was definitely casual; I wore sweatpants and a hoodie almost everywhere I went and not much else.
I never thought I’d be able to date a guy like Gabriel, but he was one to hope for, and I did. That night, with blaring music, smiles, and cocktails, Julia filled me with something I didn’t have when it came to guys—confidence. After years of bullying, I still hadn’t developed high self-esteem, especially when it came to men. I listened to her vouch for my character with a glowing report, surprised that anyone in high school had noticed me to that extent. As soon as Julia told Gabriel I was a nice guy, I was certain I didn’t have a chance with him. I thought Gabriel must like other bad boys. His vibe was mischievous, and his intoxicating eyes had something more intense behind them. I didn’t believe that it was anything more than an introduction, but it was nice. Before leaving them, I inadvertently suggested Gabriel and I catch a movie some time. He paused, letting his eyes glide down my body, lingering just below my waist long enough to tease me before he smiled slyly and replied, “That sounds fun.” We exchanged numbers, and I made my way to the dance floor to escape everything else and hope for something new.
A few days later, I was leaving the hospital when Gabriel called me.
“Is that offer still good?” he questioned.
“What?”
“The movie. Or were you just—”
“No. I mean, yeah,” I said, sounding surprised.
“When are we going?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Tonight?”
“Yeah, that works. I have something to do, but we can go out after.”
“Should I pick you up?”
“No. Text me your address and I’ll swing by and get you.”
That something was dinner with Mom and her nightly injection, and I wasn’t going to miss it.
Mom and I had a nice dinner, but the conversation was light that evening. She hadn’t returned to her usual self, but I knew she appreciated our time together. I missed her radiant smile and lively, jovial demeanor. When we got home, I made sure she had everything she needed before letting her know I was going to a movie with a friend.
I drove to Gabriel’s place and picked him up because I wanted to take him to the Guzzo cinema in Saint-Laurent for privacy. I was still cautious about who I was seen with, and the Guzzo was outside of where I lived and normally hung out.
Gabriel seemed excited and more talkative than when we met. He filled me in on what was happening around town and gave me updates on a few of his local celebrity clients. He was up on everything because of the conversations that took place in his busy salon. When I glanced over at him, he had an inquisitive look on his face as he watched me maneuver the stick shift. I took Gabriel’s left hand, bearing the signature watch clasped around his wrist, and placed it on top of mine. Gently intertwining our fingertips, I continued working the stick. Gabriel seemed to enjoy the ride. When we arrived at the theater, I bought the tickets, and we went inside. Even with the theater less than half full, we strategically isolated ourselves. He followed me up the stairs to the last row just as the movie was beginning. Ninety minutes later the credits began rolling. I was so distracted by how good it felt sitting next to Gabriel that I couldn’t recall anything about the movie.
Although I’d gone on
a date with Gabriel, it didn’t change anything. I wasn’t the smooth playboy my grandfather was. Other than Donnie, who’d threatened to kill me, and the guys in Mykonos who were just having summer flings, I didn’t have second dates, so Gabriel caught me off guard when he called and asked me to have dinner with him a week later. Responding coolly to his invite, I accepted. When I hung up the phone, my head was swirling with excitement, but I wasn’t sure what Gabriel saw in me. I wasn’t out, popular, or in the best physical shape. I still had good muscle definition, but since I’d been taking care of Mom rather than myself, I’d skipped parts of my usual self-care regimen.
I went into the living room to check on Mom. The glare from the television was all that illuminated the room. She was sitting on the sofa, staring blankly at it. I grabbed one of the fleece blankets out of the hall closet and draped it softly across her. As soon as I sat next to her, her head fell on my shoulder and she held my hand until she drifted off to sleep. My love for my mother was so great—and hers for me—that I was unable to release my fear of losing her. Although she didn’t know everything about me, she loved me. I was depleted, scared, and hurting.
I was glad I’d met Gabriel because I needed someone to be there for me the way I was for Mom. Gabriel fit into my world so easily that I grasped onto him like a lifeline. He was the distraction I needed—available, kind, and fun—and he didn’t pull a gun on me.
