VIKING
an imprint of Penguin Canada, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited
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First published 2020
Copyright © 2020 by Rachel Matlow
“The Summer Day” from House of Light by Mary Oliver, published by Beacon Press, Boston
Copyright © 1990 by Mary Oliver, used herewith by permission of the Charlotte Sheedy Literary Agency, Inc.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
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LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION
Title: Dead mom walking : a memoir of miracle cures and other disasters / Rachel Matlow.
Names: Matlow, Rachel, author.
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20190132043 | Canadiana (ebook) 20190132051 | ISBN 9780735236301 (softcover) | ISBN 9780735236318 (HTML)
Subjects: LCSH: Matlow, Rachel. | LCSH: Matlow, Rachel—Family. | LCSH: Mitchell, Elaine, 1943-2015—Health. | LCSH: Children of cancer patients—Biography. | LCSH: Cancer—Patients—Biography. | LCSH: Cancer—Alternative treatment. | LCSH: Mothers and daughters. | LCGFT: Autobiographies.
Classification: LCC RC265.6.M37 A3 2020 | DDC 362.19699/40092—dc23
Cover art: Lisa Jager
Cover design: Emma Dolan
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Stage 1
1: Whacked
2: Mommy Queerest
3: Quicksand of Her Fears
4: Be True to Self
5: The Habitat of Pollution
6: Chicken Little
7: A Touch of Cancer
Stage 2
8: Perfect Glowing Health
9: The Sky Hadn’t Fallen
10: Boiled Frogs
Stage 3
11: Whack-A-Mole
12: Intervention with a Side of Lox
13: Only the Good Die Young
Stage 4
14: Phoenix Tears
15: Great is Better than Perfect
16: Dying with Dignity
17: A Good Time, Not a Long Time
18: The Tip of the Emotional Iceberg
19: Tempura-Gate
20: Cold Storage
Post-Mortem
21: The Happy Side of the Pool
22: No Stone Left Unturned
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
For Mom/Elaine
PROLOGUE
I was lying on a buffalo skin rug, high on ayahuasca. My thoughts were going deep: Why can’t she just get the damn surgery? How long will she keep this up for? What exactly did she mean by the “quantum plane”? I waited expectantly for access to a higher realm—and maybe some insight into my mom’s magical thinking. Suddenly my face felt wet. I opened my eyes. The shaman was standing over me, flicking Peruvian flower water on my head, chanting “Sha-na-na-na-na-na-na.”
Doing drugs was not my idea. I prefer to keep my visions 20/20. But what do you say when your sixty-seven-year-old mother asks you to go to the woods with her to take hallucinogens? To be clear, Mom was never the acid-droppin’ hippie type. She was more of a New Age junkie, always on the lookout for a new fix. And now the stakes had never been higher: she’d been diagnosed with cancer and was trying every potion under the sun—except for chemo.
As part of her alternative healing journey, Mom had decided to attend an overnight ayahuasca ceremony in the countryside an hour north of Toronto. The psychoactive plant remedy, used by Indigenous peoples in the Amazon for centuries, had become all the rage among Western spiritual seekers. Made from the vine and leaves of two separate plants and consumed as a molasses-like tea, ayahuasca’s effects are said to be cleansing and transformative. It’s been used to help overcome depression, anxiety, addiction, and many other conditions. “People say it’s like thirty years of psychotherapy in one night,” Mom boasted. That’s supposed to sound appealing?
Unsure of what to expect, Mom had asked me to come along. “It would be nice to have you there for support,” she’d said. “And maybe you’ll have your own spiritual awakening.” Spiritual awakening? My spirit likes to hit the snooze button and hates leaving downtown. But I loved my mom, and if she was going to experiment with drugs I’d rather be there to keep an eye on her. At the very least it would be a mother-daughter trip to remember (if only in flashbacks).
We arrived at a log house, where the shaman greeted us with the kind of deep, meaningful hugs that last way too long. He was a very friendly white guy in his mid-fifties who introduced himself by his Peruvian medicine-man name (I imagine his real name was something like Jerry Goldstein). Mom and I said hello to the few other participants, who were already huddled around in the living room. We found some floor space on the rug and rolled out our sleeping bags so that our feet faced the fireplace-turned-altar, adorned with feathers, crystals, and antlers.
Then, to my horror, the shaman proceeded to hand out large empty yogurt containers because, as he explained, it’s common to “purge” when you take the “medicine.” Apparently I was the only one not aware of this fun fact. But it was too late—the psychedelic slumber party had begun. The shaman blessed the ayahuasca and, one by one, we were invited to sit at the altar and do a shot. When it was my turn I gulped back the bitter brew and headed back to my cocoon, where I chased it down with some orange Vitaminwater. With notes of rancid coffee, rusted metal, and jungle rot, it wasn’t a mystery why they called ayahuasca “the vine of death.”
Now, going into this, I’d thought the shaman would just be on hand, like if I had any questions or wasn’t feeling well. But no, this ceremony was intimate and interactive. As we started our trips he began making his rounds, each time with a different act. First, he waved a fan made of feathers in my face. Next, he shook dried leaves around my body. Then he blew tobacco smoke into my sleeping bag. Um, thanks?
By the time I was being baptized with flower water, I figured things couldn’t get any worse. Then my stomach began to rumble. I absolutely hate throwing up, so I was determined to keep the poison down, even as my tummy churned like a washing machine. However, I discovered that if there’s one thing I hate more than throwing up, it’s hearing a room full of people—including my own mother—violently puking their guts out into yogurt containers. It was a sober vision of pure hell.
By about 4:00 a.m., the hope of sleep putting me out of my misery was all but lost. “It’s music time!” someone announced. I braced myself as a long-haired hippie dude picked up a guitar and began to serenade us. “Free, free, like a dolphin in the sea,” he sang repeatedly. He obviously hadn’t seen The Cove.
If ayahuasca was bringing any clarity to my life, it was that saving Mom would have to wait for another day (and that I should never leave home without earplugs). I glanced over at her. She was adorable, all strung out, swaddled in her sleeping bag. Is this how she used to look at me when I was a baby?
I was feeling restless. I wondered if it would be rude if I excused myself to go watch TV
in the bedroom. Maybe I could play Scrabble on my phone? There was really no way out. So I went back to the altar and downed another shot.
STAGE 1
1
WHACKED
“I think I have cancer.”
Mom blurted out the words over elderflower martinis. No need to freak out. She’d always been an anxious person with a storyteller’s penchant for exaggeration.
It was a sunny June day in 2010, and we’d met up after work at our favourite patio: the rooftop of the Park Hyatt. The Roof Lounge always felt like a mini getaway—a vertical vacation from life on the ground. You could get a stunning view of the city and snack on complimentary spiced olives and smoked almonds (the martinis cost $18).
“I had a colonoscopy and they found a polyp that they think is cancerous. I’ll have to get some more tests done and see a colorectal surgeon next week,” Mom said all in one breath, the verbal equivalent of ripping off a Band-Aid.
My stomach dropped. Oh shit. She wasn’t exaggerating. I could tell she was scared. Her large hazel eyes were betraying her nonchalant delivery. I tried to keep my game face on—I didn’t want to amplify her fears, or my own. I’d always told myself not to worry until there was something to worry about.
“It’s going to be all right,” I reassured her. “We’ll handle it. Even if it is cancer, you’ll get through it. Cancer is no match for you!”
“Thanks, sweetie.” Mom smiled and took a sip of her martini. “How was your day?”
* * *
—
IT WAS TRUE. Mom was the most vivacious person I knew. She had radiant energy, an infectious smile, and an explosive laugh. It was so loud and distinct that my brother and I could always tell where she was in a crowded room.
No matter what, Mom stood out from the pack. She had frizzy shoulder-length brown hair (with a few blond and silver strands) and a style all her own: a mix of Parisian silk scarves, colourful bohemian knits, asymmetrical designer jackets, and vintage Issey Miyake and Missoni. Her extensive jewellery collection was more like wearable art: handcrafted Mexican silver rings with moonstones and fire opals, dangly earrings that resembled Alexander Calder mobiles, an oversized modernist clear Lucite cuff, a red-caped Superwoman broach made of Fimo. Mom was a true original (although when pressed to play the game “Who would play you in the movie of your life?” she’d debate the merits of her top picks: Diane Keaton, Susan Sarandon, and Catherine Deneuve).
Mom was sixty-six, but in recent years she’d come to describe herself as “ageless.” She believed she was in the prime of her life. After decades of working on personal growth, Mom felt she’d finally come into her own as a confident, self-realized woman. As a teacher and mentor, she’d always inspired others—students and fellow women—with her heartfelt wisdom, ardent feminism, and independent spirit. Her latest cause was helping other women resist negative messages about aging. She was about to self-publish a book called Silver Fox: A Dating Guide for Women Over 50.
Propelled by an unabashed joie de vivre, Mom sought out little things that brought her great pleasure—French perfume, bunches of dried lavender, hand-milled soaps, fresh flowers, Belgian chocolate. Her fridge never had much food in it, but it was always lined with small jars of fancy mustards and preserves. “You don’t need to be rich to be good at artful living,” she’d say. Mom didn’t believe in saving things for a special occasion; every day was a celebration. She used hand-painted Italian pottery and Georg Jensen cutlery as her everyday tableware. She’d pop a bottle of champagne for no reason on a random weeknight and we’d stay up late laughing and talking about our lives.
Mom mapped out the city by French patisseries. In general, she had a horrible sense of direction, but she had a GPS-like knowledge of her buttery safe houses. If she was on Queen West, she’d get fluffy croissants from Clafouti; if she was on St. Clair West, she’d pick up a fresh baguette from Pain Perdu; and if she was in the east end, she’d be compelled to stop at Daniel et Daniel for a large tarte citron. Mom had a taste for the finer things. She always knew where to get The Best everything.
When the “Who would play you?” question was turned on me, I’d shrug. Michael Cera? I was thirty, but people regularly mistook me for a twenty-two-year-old boy. I didn’t mind. The truth was I actually felt more like a sixty-five-year-old Jewish zaide. I wore men’s floral button-up short-sleeve shirts, loved Cobb salad and seltzer, and spent my weekends playing chess. I may have been assigned female at birth, but on the inside I felt like Larry David.
It made sense to me. I took after my father, and people actually thought he was Larry David (there was no doubt about who’d play him in a movie). Beyond the physical resemblance, Teddy was also a lovable kookster who was always fighting the good fight—constantly writing letters to various organizations, explaining how they could do better. Teddy was passionate about justice. When he wasn’t righting the wrongs of the phone company, he was a Superior Court judge, still working part-time on the bench at age seventy.
Growing up, I used to think the family genes had been split in half. My older brother, Josh, had inherited Mom’s looks (he resembled a young Al Pacino) and her romantic view of life, whereas I looked more like Teddy—albeit with more hair—and had gotten his super logical mind. In my mid-twenties I even enrolled in law school (my supposed destiny), but I couldn’t pull the trigger on going. As I got older, I gravitated more toward the artsy, alternative crowd—people like Mom. I may have inherited Teddy’s mathematical wiring, but I developed more of Mom’s interests in storytelling, aesthetics, and raw Brie de Meaux. I was a producer for the CBC’s flagship arts and culture radio show. Meanwhile, Josh had cultivated more of Teddy’s interests—in politics, advocacy, and sliced Havarti. He was running for Toronto City Council, and his wife, Melissa, was an animal rights campaigner.
Mom and I also had a similar sense of humour: the darker, the better. In 2006 we got tickets to the opening night of the Jewish Film Festival. It wasn’t normally our scene, but we were excited about seeing the more interesting choice of film that year, Sarah Silverman: Jesus Is Magic. Just minutes into her set, Sarah joked, “I was raped by a doctor…which is so bittersweet for a Jewish girl.” Mom and I laughed louder than anyone else, and as Sarah took on more taboo topics—the Holocaust, 9/11, slavery—we kept busting up. The fact that we were surrounded by a crowd of uptight stiffs who couldn’t bring themselves to crack a smile only made us laugh harder. We kept giggling and rolling our eyes at each other as people around us started to walk out. By the time Sarah cut to a video of her best Jewish-girl-does-porn impression—“Fuck my tuchus! Fuck my tuchus!”—there was a mass exodus of disgruntled Jews shaking their heads in disgust. Mom and I were killing ourselves.
After the film we spilled out onto Bloor Street, high and giddy from laughing so hard. Our smiles hurting, we walked down the street replaying our favourite jokes. “Oh God, please let them find semen in my dead grandmother’s vagina!” I began. “SIXTY million Jews? Now THAT would be unforgivable!” Mom joked back. It was our bonding at its finest.
Within our family, Mom and I spent the most time with each other. We talked on the phone regularly, often went to restaurants and movies together, and even took trips together. She could drive me nuts, but there was pretty much no one in my life I’d rather spend time with. We weren’t exactly the Gilmore Girls—it would have made me cringe to call her my “best friend”—but we were really good friends.
If anything, Mom and I might’ve been more like Eddy and Saffy from Ab Fab—I was the down-to-earth realist and she the fun-loving dreamer (who always kept a cold bottle of bubbly on hand). I may have been the straight man to her eccentricity, but I hardly kept my composure; Mom could crack me up like no one else. She was quick-witted in her own right, but she was also unintentionally hilarious. And she knew it. When I’d catch her in the act of talking to a plant or twirling around in the living room, she’d look at me and laugh. “Well, you
can put THAT in your act!” she’d say. In her mind, I was a stand-up comedian and she was my muse. She wasn’t that far off. I often entertained my friends with tales of her latest New Age antics. Making fun of Mom was one of my greatest joys in life.
It was hard to define our dynamic. We were technically mother and daughter, but we were more like mother and son or, at times, daughter and father (she being the unruly teenage girl). Whatever we were, we complemented each other. Mom once told me, “When I was younger, I dated men like my father. Now that I’m older I date men like my daughter.”
Mom and Teddy had been divorced for nearly two decades, but in recent years they’d become best friends. They lived only a ten-minute walk from each other and would often talk on the phone and go on long bike rides. They giggled like teenagers, and people often assumed they were still a couple. They’d both had relationships since splitting up, but neither had remarried. Mom told me how Teddy had once unknowingly responded to a singles ad she’d placed in The Globe and Mail. She never replied to his message—or even told him about receiving it—but he’d told her that he thought they had “a lot in common.” Mom laughed as she recalled the story. “If only he knew that included two children and a settlement agreement!”
We were a close modern family. We celebrated one another’s birthdays and regularly gathered for meals. Mom was the family band leader, always steering the conversation. “Have you heard about furries?” she once asked us all at dinner. “They’re people who like to dress up in animal costumes, and sometimes they have sex!” Teddy and I exchanged looks of amusement. “They even have conventions.” Mom was curious about everyone and everything, and got a kick out of the more unusual aspects of humanity. “A man in a tiger suit might be attracted to a skunk,” she went on to explain, “or a raccoon might want to get into a porcupine’s pants.” Josh smiled at Melissa as if to say “Welcome to the family.” My sister-in-law was from a conservative small-town Catholic family, where I’m sure anthropomorphic love wasn’t typical dinner conversation.
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