Dead Mom Walking

by Rachel Matlow

  Simply put, Mom was a breath of fresh air. All my friends—and girlfriends—loved her. She always said what was on her mind. No filter, no topic off limits. Mom gave zero fucks about what was appropriate. “Appropriate is a political term used to keep women in their place,” she’d say. Dinner parties were always more fun when Elaine was there. She talked with her hands, spinning stories that had everyone rapt with attention.

  Mom was officially retired, but she still did some supply teaching at the alternative high school she’d worked at for twenty-five years. She’d just gotten back from a week-long silent meditation retreat in Massachusetts after finishing up the school year when we met at the Hyatt. Mom was something of a JuBu (Jewish Buddhist) and was always going on spiritual retreats and all types of adventures. She had plans to hike Machu Picchu and boat down the Amazon with her boyfriend, David, in August. Her life, as always, was tremendously full.

  * * *

  —

  THE WEEK AFTER our rooftop drinks, Mom had an appointment with Dr. Gryfe, reputed to be one of the best colorectal surgeons in the city. Since Josh and I were both working, Teddy agreed to take her to Mount Sinai Hospital and call us afterward. I’d been nervous all week, and at work I was on high alert. I’d just filed my script for the day when Teddy called. It was impossible to get any privacy in our open-plan office, so I took my phone around the corner into a small editing room.

  “The doctor says it’s cancer,” Teddy said. “But the results were not conclusive. He’s not sure what exact stage it is. Your mother needs to get more tests done.”

  What does that even mean? I felt like I was in free fall, plunging straight down on a roller coaster. My stomach floated into my chest. I’d been telling myself not to worry until there was something concrete to worry about. And now there was. Having not even allowed myself to consider anything worse than early-stage cancer, the thought that Mom’s life could be in serious danger shook me to the core. I felt disoriented. I got off the phone, somehow made my way over to my senior producer’s desk, and asked if I could talk to her privately. I trusted Lisa; she was the one I turned to whenever I was having an issue at work. She got up and followed me back into the editing room.

  I took a deep breath and tried to summon the words. “My mom…has…cancer.” I could barely get them out before my body began to tremble uncontrollably and I broke down. I was shocked by my own outpouring of emotion. I never cried—maybe a few rogue droplets once in a while (“jumpers,” I called them), but I hadn’t chest-heave sobbed like this since I was a child. It was embarrassing. Lisa, who was several years older than me and a mother herself, was kind. She told me to go home and take care of myself. I felt like a kid again, having to go home sick from school.

  When Teddy pulled up outside the CBC to get me, he seemed his usual stoic, composed self, but I could tell how anxious he was. With his left hand holding the wheel, he was rapidly flicking his right thumbnail against his finger. I asked him to take me to Mom’s. I was scared and wanted to be with her; she’d be scared too, I knew, and I wanted to be there for her.

  Mom lived in a two-bedroom walk-up in an old ivy-covered building called “The Hemingway.” Ernest had once lived there, a fact that very much appealed to Mom’s romanticism. Her apartment was filled with antiques, offbeat art and pottery, and scores of books. A few small shrines made up of candles and crystals occupied feng shui—approved corners of the space. Really the whole place was a shrine—to Mom’s personality.

  Mom was already in her blue silk pyjamas when I arrived. She poured us a couple glasses of Côtes du Rhône and we headed to the sunroom—her favourite room to hang out in. Three of its walls had large windows through which you could look out onto the distant treetops of the Cedarvale Ravine. I took my usual spot on one of two facing white loveseats while Mom settled into her white armchair.

  “I feel whacked,” she declared. “On the day of my colonoscopy, I remember looking around at the patients in wheelchairs, schlepping their IVs, and thinking, ‘These people have crossed into the Underworld. Thank goodness I’m just here for a routine test.’ ”

  My eyes scanned the room. There was the winged papier-mâché woman that hung from the ceiling, the two abstract ceramic art plates on the wall, the Buddha bell on the windowsill. Everything was in its usual place, yet it all felt strange.

  “Whenever I was going through a hard time in my life,” Mom continued, “I would try to gain perspective by reminding myself, ‘At least it isn’t cancer.’ ” She was making a half-hearted attempt at a joke, but her throat had tightened and I could see the tears welling up in her eyes. Her worst fear had come true.

  I tried to reassure her that everything would be okay. “We’ll get more information, and once we know what we’re dealing with, we’ll make a game plan.”

  Mom nodded, but I could tell she wasn’t convinced.

  * * *

  —

  A FEW DAYS later I went with Mom and Teddy back to Dr. Gryfe’s office. As a journalist, I wanted the facts. I brought a pen and a pad of paper to take detailed notes. We sat in a semicircle with Mom in the middle.

  Dr. Gryfe was in his mid to late forties but had a very “President of the Math Club” look. He’d probably Doogie Howser’d his way through medical school and never had a puff of a cigarette. Even more comforting—his last name evoked fond memories of the small, unconventionally light poppyseed bagels I grew up eating from Gryfe’s Bakery, a Toronto institution. I presumed he was related to the famous bagel makers. We were in good hands.

  Dr. Gryfe took his time, carefully explaining Mom’s situation to us. Based on her MRI, he believed she most likely had Stage 1 rectal cancer, meaning that it was contained. However, there was a suspicious-looking lymph node that could indicate a later stage. It could very well be incidental, but he wanted her to get a biopsy. He explained how he planned to surgically remove her polyp and the surrounding part of her rectum by going in through her abdomen. She would have a temporary colostomy bag for three to four months to allow everything to heal properly before being resectioned. He also recommended radiation, and possibly chemotherapy, but said it probably wouldn’t be necessary if her cancer was indeed contained.

  Dr. Gryfe slid his dark-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose and reassured us: “There’s a seventy to ninety percent chance of survival if it’s Stage 1. If it’s Stage 3, there’s still a fifty percent cure rate.”

  I felt incredibly relieved. We were so lucky—it looked like it was only Stage 1 and highly treatable.

  “What are my other options?” Mom asked. My head swivelled to search her face. I wasn’t sure what she was asking. “Is there anything else you can offer me that’s less invasive?” she clarified.

  Dr. Gryfe said he could do a more minor operation that would involve going through the rectum to remove just the polyp. “But I wouldn’t be able to remove the surrounding margins. There would be a higher chance of recurrence,” he warned.

  Mom sat back in her chair and let out an audible sigh. “Okay, thank you. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

  Dr. Gryfe stared at her. “I recommend you get surgery as soon as possible.”

  “But…I’ve already bought a ticket to Lima!” Mom protested. “Machu Picchu is on my bucket list.”

  Teddy and I looked at each other, aghast. How about putting NOT DIE on your list of things to do before you die?

  * * *

  —

  TEDDY AND I were nervous about Mom stalling, but we understood that she was in shock and needed time to digest the information. Hopefully a few more weeks wouldn’t make too much of a difference and the trip would help her absorb the impact of the news on her own terms. Mom never responded well to being told what to do. She needed to feel she was the author of her own decisions. It was best to let her get there herself.

  In the days that followed, Mom and I went over her surgery options—the
pros, the cons, her fears. She seemed more agreeable to getting the smaller operation, even though she was being told it was the poorer choice. The more extensive surgery clearly made the most sense for getting all the cancer out, but the colostomy bag was a sticking point.

  “I don’t want to wear a fecal sac and diapers for the rest of my life,” she said.

  I tried to reassure her with the doctor’s information: “The colostomy bag is only temporary. Your bowel might not ever be the same, but you won’t be left in diapers.”

  I was trying to stay positive without denying the reality of her situation. It was going to be a rough few months, but I was convinced she’d get through it. Her strength and resilience were on her side.

  Mom wasn’t nearly as hopeful. “I’m terrified,” she confessed. “I wake up every hour at night, sweating and shaking.”

  In August, Mom packed her bags for Peru. When it came to fight or flight, she always chose the latter, preferably with a window seat, to somewhere with good food and hiking.

  * * *

  —

  WHILE MOM WAS away I got a permanent staff position at the CBC. I’d worked hard to prove myself over two years of short-term contracts on a show called Q, and now I had job security. I was thrilled. I’d taken a gamble by giving up law school to pursue a career in arts journalism, and it had worked out. I’d scored my dream job. Every day I got to engage with provocative ideas and fascinating people. I was getting paid to watch TV and movies! I got free books, concert tickets, invites to comedy shows, and film festival passes! And I could read whatever I wanted at my desk—Jezebel, Autostraddle, Bitch—nothing was NSFW.

  Q was a daily arts magazine radio show that had launched in 2007. Airing across Canada and syndicated in the U.S., it ranked as one of the CBC’s highest-rated programs. And although it was an entertainment show on the surface, replete with celebrity interviews and performances by some of the biggest names in music, it was really a show that interrogated the deeper meaning of culture, from literature and dance to punk rock and film to sports and international affairs. Bold-faced names shared billing with discussions of socially and politically relevant topics, and both guests and listeners routinely gushed over how deep the conversations cut.

  I loved the work. My job was mainly to come up with story ideas, book guests, and research and write interview scripts. I could follow my curiosity wherever it took me. I hadn’t come from a journalism background. Having written my master’s thesis in media studies on Gwen Stefani and her Harajuku Girls, I enjoyed finding the nuance and complexity in pop culture. Most importantly, I had a platform to tell stories that really mattered to me: queer stories, trans stories, stories about people of colour. The show reached hundreds of thousands of listeners daily. My not-so-hidden agenda was to put as many marginalized voices on air as I could.

  I also loved my fellow producers. They were some of the funniest, smartest, most special individuals I’d ever met. Within the general corporate atmosphere of the CBC building, we were a ragtag group of intellectual misfits. We’d nerd out together about the latest TV shows, movies, and celebrity gossip. I considered my colleagues to be good friends. Most of them, anyway.

  Jian was the host of Q. He first found fame in the 90s as the leader of a satirical folk band and had since reinvented himself as a rock star radio host. Being cool mattered to him. He was middle-aged, but he sported a uniform of distressed jeans, dark V-necks, and a black leather jacket. He had a sort of wannabe John Stamos look: deliberately tousled dark hair, seductive eyes, perfectly maintained stubble, and a big cheeky grin.

  As the child of Iranian immigrant parents, Jian had grown up first in the U.K. and then in the mainly white suburbs of Toronto. He’d described himself as an awkward Persian kid who’d been called names like “Blackie” as a child in England and “theatre geek” as a David Bowie–idolizing teenager. In university he became an activist for lefty social and political causes and was elected president of the student government. Jian liked being seen as a poster boy for sensitivity. He often brought up how he’d minored in women’s studies and that Pride Day was one of his “favourite days of the year.” Jian appeared to embody all that was good about Canada—progressive, multicultural, enlightened. He was the CBC’s golden boy. But as successful as he’d become, he never shed his outsider mentality. Jian was still that kid who didn’t fit in. He desperately wanted to be liked.

  And in the beginning, I did like him. He was charming and funny, and I admired his ambition to make the show exciting and relevant to a new generation of public radio listeners. He encouraged my queer and quirky feminist story pitches and always pulled off my scripts beautifully. He spoke to trans guests—many of whom were understandably guarded when talking to the media—with tremendous sensitivity and respect, often relating to his own experience of discrimination growing up as a person of colour. I felt like we were both outsiders on the inside trying to make a difference. There was a kinship. Right away we started calling each other “Brother” or “Bro.” He even nicknamed me “Rachel ‘Lil Bro’ Matlow” when he read the show’s credits on Fridays.

  The first December after I began working at Q, Jian invited me to a holiday party at his house. “You’re the only one I’m inviting from the team,” he said with twinkling eyes. “More than anyone here, I consider you a friend, not just a colleague.” I was flattered.

  One day soon after that, my fellow producer Tori swivelled around in her chair toward me, looked me straight in the eyes, and said, “Remember, he’s not your friend.” She wore a dead serious expression. I was taken aback.

  It didn’t take long before the bromance was over and I began seeing the disconnect between the person Jian projected out into the world and who he was in the office. He could be charming one moment and hostile the next. It frustrated me, but I figured this was just what working in the radio big leagues was like. I’d faced three hiring boards before I got made staff, and each time I was asked about my strategy for managing hosts with “big egos.” I was led to believe that navigating Jian’s unpredictable moods and behaviour was just part of the gig.

  A few weeks after learning of Mom’s diagnosis, I was walking out of the office one day when Jian caught up with me. “Bro, I’m sorry to hear about your mom,” he said, with gentle eyes. He shared how a close family member of his had gone through cancer. “She’s just fine now,” he told me. “It’s not easy, but people survive it.” I was touched. Jian could be really sweet sometimes. Such moments were few and far between, but they kept me going.

  * * *

  —

  WHEN MOM RETURNED from drinking pisco sours in Peru, she began consuming dozens of books by so-called experts critiquing mainstream cancer treatments. I glanced at some of the new titles piling up on her night table: Radical Remission, Rethinking Cancer, Questioning Chemotherapy, There’s No Place Like Hope: A Guide to Beating Cancer in Mind-Sized Bites, The One Minute (or So) Healer, Detoxify or Die, Be Your Own Doctor, Outsmart Your Cancer, What If You Could Skip the Cancer?, and last but not least, Knockout by Suzanne Somers.

  Mom read one memoir after another by cancer survivors who claimed to have cured themselves with vegetable juices, vitamin injections, raw garlic, and the like. It looked as if she were cramming for her comps. She was taking studious notes on various non-invasive methods that supposedly cure cancer: Gerson therapy (coffee enemas and more than a gallon of juices a day), the Gonzalez method (vitamin and enzyme supplements), the Burzynski protocol (something called “antineoplastons”), macrobiotics (a balance of yin and yang foods), the Essiac herbal formula (a specially blended tea), Panchakarma cleansing (Ayurvedic detoxification), the Breuss juice regimen (a forty-two-day juice fast), sodium bicarbonate (baking soda), ozone therapy (oxygen), and the only-asparagus diet (only asparagus?) to name a few.

  I was unsettled. I’d been waiting three weeks for her to fly home and land in surgery. But Mom insisted that she needed more ti
me to explore her options. “I’m not just going to give in to warlike treatment!” she told me.

  I was anxious about her putting off surgery, but honestly, I didn’t give her new research project much thought. Mom had always been into alternative stuff—she’d been a self-described “self-help junkie” for twenty years. It was a given that she’d seek out her own remedies. Just, like, in addition to surgery.

  2

  MOMMY QUEEREST

  “Don’t bother me, I’m meditating!”

  Growing up, I knew that if Mom was lying upside down, I was not to disturb her. She would strap her feet under a belt at the top of a black vinyl reclining board and lie back at a forty-five-degree slant. This was her version of meditating.

  Mom first dipped her toes into spiritual waters in the early 80s, after I was born. While working on her master’s of education, she signed up for a Transcendental Meditation class. Teddy remembers her leaving the house one day with fruit and flowers (offerings for some deity) and coming home with a secret mantra. “Ooomy, goomy, goomy,” Teddy would tease. Mom said she became interested in meditation because her fight-or-flight signals were constantly spiking. “I was always on the defensive. I needed to slow down,” she told me. But she was soon turned off by TM’s hierarchical structure, so she moved on to Zen meditation—and then found it too restrictive. “They made me sit cross-legged on the floor!” she complained. Mom eventually settled on Vipassanā, which is all about seeing things as they really are: “I took to it like an anxious duck to clear water.”