A Storied Life

by Leigh Kramer

  I often forgot Gram was in fact my grandmother. She had the curled gray hair, plump physique, and trademark cooking skills associated with grandmothers, but she was so much more. There were few topics we left unturned. Gram set people at ease, while inspiring them to create, to do, to be. She was a dynamo, a wonder woman. And she was my grandmother.

  Maybe the meeting wasn't about me after all. Maybe it was about her.

  My breathing steadied as I considered Gram. She stabbed her hands through the air to punctuate a statement. She smiled and laughed with my uncle, but her jocularity didn't quite ring true.

  I searched her eyes, no easy task from my seat on the back couch. Her eyes looked dull. This was a woman going through the motions, wishing she were anywhere but here. I blinked, sure I was imagining things. I’d never seen this expression on her face before.

  My stomach clenched.

  Gram looked over, as if she sensed my concern. Our eyes met, mine with questions and hers without answers. But she smiled her real smile and I relaxed. It was nothing. It had to be nothing.

  I grasped the mug of coffee proffered by Aunt Elaine. I was the only Frasier who preferred tea, so coffee would have to do. My hands shake after a fully loaded cup of coffee but I wanted warmth and comfort, to hell with the caffeine consequences.

  Gram cleared her throat and called for attention as people scattered to the chairs and sofas ringing the room. Time to find out why we were all here. All eyes turned toward her with anticipation.

  She stared down at her hands, as if in prayer. Sounds of fidgeting filled the room during this moment of silence. Frasiers were people of action, always go-go-going. They multi-tasked as if the bank was only one minute away from failing. It's no wonder I used to believe I was adopted.

  Whispers and nudges filled the air as Gram continued to contemplate the hands folded in her lap. Her timetable did not often match that of others. A woman of action, of course, but those actions tended to go in unexpected directions, like mounting a protest in the local park or impulsively buying a motorcycle to the family's chagrin and my delight.

  The restlessness was contagious. My gaze wandered around the room. Only respect for their mother kept anyone from tapping their watch. Uncle Marcus scrolled through his Blackberry and furtively emailed back responses, even though we could hear the click of buttons.

  Gram came to a decision and lifted her head. Restlessness faded as our attention returned to her.

  “Well,” she said with a slight smile, “there's no good way to say this.”

  Before we could process what she meant—was it the bank?—she let the words fall.

  “I have cancer. There is no cure.”

  Chapter Two

  The grandfather clock filled the Great room with its tick tock. Tick. “I have cancer.” Tock. “There is no cure.”

  The family exploded into a flurry of words and questions. No tears. Just an insistence that Gram had to be wrong. I sat still, numb, my body heavy with disbelief. Those two statements resounded through my mind, back and forth, with the metronome of the clock. I couldn't hear anything else.

  She had to be wrong. This had to be a belated April Fools joke, albeit taking it to a sick level. Pop had died of cancer. Friends had lost parents to cancer. I couldn't remember what kind of cancer any of them had had. I racked my brain in search of someone I'd known who was diagnosed with cancer and lived to tell the tale. Empty.

  “I have cancer.”

  “There is no cure.”

  Matter-of-fact. To the point. My family couldn't tolerate people who spoke around issues and problems. If there was news, good or bad, it was best to say it and worry about the consequences later.

  The chilly spring air filtered into the house. The clock continued its cadence. I jumped in my seat as it sounded the time, the clanging overriding those words still etching themselves in my mind. “I have cancer.” “There is no cure.”

  If there was no cure, how much longer did we have?

  I slipped my arms back into my cardigan, conscious of the fabric against my skin, as if it could shield me from what would come next.

  The conversation drifted in and around me, as my aunts and uncles held court. They demanded to know the details, but I couldn’t pay attention to their tirade of words. I gave myself over to the cold dread snaking its way through my body. I didn't know why I was here. I didn't understand why Gram hadn't announced this to the whole family or why I was the token grandchild.

  I wanted to go about my day and for Mom to call me after work and fill me in on Gram's news. I wanted to burrow into the pillows on the couch, as if it could cocoon me from the drone of voices. More than anything, I wanted Gram to take back those words.

  My stomach turned uneasily with caffeine and shock.

  Gram wrangled her family into submission.

  “I understand y'all are upset.” Her lilting drawl became more pronounced, as if to soothe us. Gram's southern accent came out whenever she was upset. “This isn't up for discussion; I invited you here to fill you in.”

  Uncle Marcus opened his mouth but shut it as Gram pointed her finger at him and continued. “Y'all are upset because it's cancer and because I didn't tell you sooner and because I'm going to die. We are going to speak frankly about this and we're going to deal with it because that's what Frasiers do. Do not for a moment forget that I am your mother. I call the shots here. You will not railroad me into something I do not want.”

  “This is my life we’re talking about. I am still in charge of my story. I love you all, but I think we all recognize that my decisions might not be yours. Or the other way around for that matter. I'm too old and set in my ways to change. And that, my dears, is why you love me.”

  She took a breath to calm herself and then chuckled, defusing some of the tension in the room. “Moving on, then. We have a little time before Tom Abernathy gets here. I'll bring you up to speed on all that I know so far.”

  Tom Abernathy, the family lawyer. I really shouldn't be here for this meeting. Gram didn't seem crazy, and she'd been adamant that I was invited. She took risks, yes, but she didn't normally make mistakes. Still, if anything could throw that woman off her game, it would be cancer.

  I picked my coffee back up for another taste. Bitter, lukewarm. I wrinkled my nose and forced myself to swallow before turning my attention back to Gram.

  Ovarian cancer. Stage IV. The previous restlessness turned into embarrassment as we all considered Gram's lady parts. I didn't realize a woman needed to worry about ovarian cancer after a certain age. Women don't get PAP smears indefinitely. I would guess most women would be happy to eternally cross that off their list of annual exams.

  I'd never considered how the PAP smear could save my life. That's the whole purpose, of course, but no one my age worried about the results of the exam. Would it have made any difference for Gram?

  It turned out she had not felt well for a while. Not wanting to worry her children, Gram kept the family in the dark and ignored her symptoms for as long as she could.

  I'd noticed she wasn't eating as much as usual during our last few brunches but figured it was a part of getting older. It seemed like all elderly folks developed an aversion for eating at some point in their aging process. It turned out, that wasn’t true.

  The pain finally came to an unbearable point and she'd taken herself to the emergency department two weeks ago. Her best friend met her there and she swore Prudence to secrecy.

  Blood work led to scans, which led to a pelvic exam.

  Gram trusted the local hospital would pat her on the back, send her home with a pain prescription, and tell her not to worry. Instead, the word cancer dangled in front of her and she was referred to Rush Hospital in Chicago.

  “I told them I was fine with going there but I had a Sox game that night. A little bit of pain wasn't going to keep me from my boys,” Gram said with a girlish wink. Indeed, few things could separate Gram from her love of Chicago White Sox baseball, especially at the beginnin
g of the season. The doctors may have been exasperated but it made perfect sense to me. Baseball couldn't cure physical ailments but it was a great distraction for life's other disappointments.

  Throughout the years, Gram took all of her grandchildren to a Sox game to celebrate the highs or cope with the lows. Counting pitches, yelling at umpires, cheering for players—it never failed to take my mind off of the day's troubles.

  So, yes, in spite of her pain, Gram knew enough to know she needed baseball. Given the glacier pace of most medical settings, she wouldn't let a few tests interfere with her season tickets.

  Even now as Gram filled us in, baseball comforted me. Which game might Gram have attended that night? Did she worry about having cancer as she cheered for her favorite players? I couldn't remember the most recent series. The Sox hadn't played all that well so far this season. I hoped they had at least won, that night of all nights.

  Gram shared the details of her diagnosis in her own way and at her own pace. Uncle Marcus tapped his feet, ready for her to move on; he was almost too practical for me to believe he was Gram's son, much less her firstborn. Whenever I looked at him, I wondered if Pop had been as intense and type A.

  While the family waited for Gram to share about the doctors at Rush, she instead talked about the game. The White Sox had lost the game but not until the 10th inning. This late inning loss was noted with pride. Gram, caught up in the grandeur of the game, wanted to elaborate, but she sensed attention waning and picked up at the oncologist's office the next day.

  The oncologist ordered another pelvic exam, an ultrasound, and a specialized blood test. Two weeks ago, Gram learned the local hospital was not wrong—ovarian cancer was highly likely.

  She continued to protect her family and scheduled a laparotomy for the biopsy. Prudence took her the day of the procedure and brought her back home. We were none the wiser, caught up in work schedules and dinner parties.

  I was both impressed and irritated she had kept this to herself. All through our last brunch, I'd chattered away about insignificant topics, and she never let on about her concerns. She never let me question why I was the center of that morning's universe.

  Two days ago the oncologist called with the results. Yesterday Gram met with him to discuss options.

  I expected Gram to say that there were no treatment options. After all, if there was no cure, there couldn't be options.

  “Dr. Barnes filled me in on chemotherapy and what that might do.” Gram halted for a moment. The furrow in her brow increased, as if she debated sharing this next piece of information.

  “The truth is, I could get chemo, but there are no guarantees it would help. It might buy me a few more months.” Murmuring filled the room, aunts and uncles dictating Gram's next steps. They forgot she still had a voice.

  “Now, y'all, stop.” Gram snapped in irritation. “I raised you better than to speak while I'm speaking.” The room quieted again.

  Normally lively and cheerful, this Gram reminded us she was a force to be reckoned with.

  “I am choosing to tell you what Dr. Barnes told me. I have made my decision; I don't want to go through chemo when it's not likely to help me. Those side effects could keep me from enjoying whatever time I have left. Do you think I want to miss out on Jonah's basketball games or holding Charity in my arms? If they're only prolonging the inevitable, then I might as well do it on my own terms.”

  Aunt Elaine broke in, speaking through her tears. “Mom, why would he bring up chemotherapy if it wouldn't help you? The side effects might not be that bad.”

  I reached across the space between us to grab Elaine's hand. Maybe Gram invited me to comfort everyone.

  Gram looked at her only daughter with compassion.

  “Oh, sweetheart. I didn't make this decision lightly. I've had two weeks to think this over. Two weeks to contemplate the pros and cons before I even knew what stage the cancer was. By the time Dr. Barnes sat me down to discuss options, I was well-versed in the treatment of ovarian cancer.”

  Gram paused again. A sheen covered her eyes.

  “If there was a way to beat this, really beat it, I would do it. No questions asked. But—and this is the hardest part—there is no cure. It's already spread to my lungs.”

  “I remember what Pop went through. Dr. Barnes says chemotherapy has improved since those days and I'm sure it has. Then I see Pop losing his hair, throwing up over and over again, slowly dwindling away until he became a shell of the man I married.”

  The timbre of the room softened and changed, each one lost in their recollection of Edgar Frasier's last months. Pop died when I was a few years old. I barely recalled a frail man in bed, forever contrasting his strong presence in pictures.

  “I refuse to put you children through that again.”

  Elaine's hand warmed in mine. My side started to ache as I leaned across the couch toward her. Comforting her was worth a moment of discomfort. She patted my hand and released it to mop her face.

  Sniffs and sighs abounded as a box of tissues made the rounds. With the exception of Marcus, even my uncles didn't hold back. Dry-eyed still, I felt out of place. Was it my nature to be contrary to my family, even in emotional displays? I cried when it was inconvenient for them, I made decisions they didn't agree with. I'd always been tempted to laugh while being reprimanded.

  But here now, while Gram sat in her chair bestowing our family with its death knell, I remained numb. My counselor would ask why I refused to cry in front of my family. Why did I continue to hold back? Why this need to punish them for something that was never their fault?

  More importantly, why could my mind not focus on the woman before me? I loved Gram most of all and soon I would lose my only advocate in the family.

  The great room felt more intimate now. Hushed and holy. Our family would not be the same after this morning. We would either unite or fall apart without Gram to lead us.

  I considered the milestones Gram would miss and the many roles she played in our family. A new peacekeeper would need to rise to the occasion. Another to be the face of the Frasiers in her stead. We'd need someone to remind us what mattered and what distinguished a good life, but I knew no one else could take her place in this regard.

  There would be no substitute for her and without her, there would be no need for me to stick around. They wouldn’t care anyway. Gram had been the glue. A resolve settled within.

  I grasped onto this sole silver lining. She'd be disappointed if she knew where my thoughts headed, as she discussed her decision not to pursue treatment.

  Her choice. I didn't remember much of Pop's decline but all of the grandchildren felt the ripple effect of his death. There was no fault in choosing another way when the outcome remained the same.

  Would I choose the same?

  I entertained the idea of sitting in Gram's chair, family members spilled around me as I told them about my own cancer diagnosis. Of course, Mom and Aunt Elaine would be horrified by the news.

  Uncle Marcus and Aunt Pam would go through the motions of concern but before long his fingers would itch for his Blackberry, while she'd inspect her most recent manicure. Marcus believed his primary role in our family included telling everyone what to do and how to respond. However, he rarely issued mandates to me anymore.

  The Who's Who of Doctors would be trolled out by Uncle Jeff and Aunt Tammy. Jeff and Tammy liked knowing Important People and letting everyone else know it. Surprisingly, they bit their tongues for Gram.

  My eyes grew heavy from my imagination's toll. Who envisioned their family's response to a fictitious cancer diagnosis while their grandmother spoke about the real deal?

  Emptiness filled me. The air static with, “I have cancer. There is no cure.” An echo that didn't reach its natural conclusion. Each time the words pulsed and took more than I had to give.

  I couldn't face losing her. My mind relentlessly skipped topics, trying to find something, anything, to take me away from what was being discussed in this room.

/>   Gram took in the verbal assault. Her shoulders and her facial expression relaxed. She knew how they would respond and yet she gave them the opportunity to do it differently.

  An emotion rose up like bile. Anger, familiar and preferable to numbness. It disgusted me no one accepted her choice. I supposed it was the Frasier way. Dictate now, apologize, maybe, later.

  All these years I continued coming to family functions for Gram. Events drained me. The pressure to conform and pretend all was well. Even now, their minds must buzz with how Gram's diagnosis and decision would be spun, not just in family lore, but around town.

  Yes, it would be very easy to walk away from them.

  I would see Gram through this time. I would say my goodbyes and then I would explore life without the Frasier mantle to protect and uphold.

  Free at last.

  Gram's voice broke my reverie. Plans for family-leaving put to the side, I refocused on the conversation before me.

  “Y'all are welcome to speak with Dr. Barnes if you need more information or to satisfy yourself about my decision. What's done is done.”

  Gram looked around the room, making eye contact with each of the adults before her. The matriarch ever in control and commanding the room.

  She didn't even look sick. Thin, but not sick.

  Her eyes rested on me, not as long as the others but long enough to imbue some message. My telepathy didn't work this early in the morning; I couldn't understand what she wanted to convey.

  Apparently satisfied, Gram continued.

  “Now the real conversation begins.” A twinkle appeared in her eye. “Dr. Barnes informed me there are options for dying.”

  Oh, dear Lord. Gram wanted to kill herself? Or she wanted us to believe she did. My eyes darted around the room, capturing the shock, anger, and confusion on my family's faces.

  Before the grousing could renew, Gram broke in.

  “It's not what you think. If I'd chosen to pursue treatment, I could enter a program called palliative care. Since I'm not, I'll be starting hospice.”