My mom has been living with cancer for almost 7 years now. It is a very unusual cancer called Carcinoid Syndrome – less than 400 people are diagnosed with it every year. Lots more people walk around with it who don’t even know it. They are treated for Irritable Bowel Syndrome or some other gastric malady – often for years – and the cancer lies undetected for some time.
There is not a standard treatment for it since it is so uncommon. Basically, it is a crapshoot when an oncologist selects a chemotherapy agent to fight the tumors. It isn’t like breast cancer where we know a certain type of tumor at a particular stage is likely to respond to a particular regimen. No one really knows how long carcinoid patients can expect to live, either. My siblings and I all lost the first pool we had going over when our mom would keel over.
So the best gift our mom has given us is one of normalcy. She doesn’t feel sorry for herself. Even when she hurts, she will just say “it pinches a little.” It is accented with a wince or a sharp breath, and then she continues whatever it is she is doing. Mom has gone to work – even through multiple runs of chemo – and won’t let us pick up any of her slack.
Until now. These days she seldom lugs her laundry up and down the stairs herself, and I almost always take her to the market for groceries. I haul them up the stairs and put them away so she can avoid the stooping and bending that goes with putting her food in the cabinets. It seems like such a small thing. Putting away groceries can be such a chore. I often leave the non-perishables in the bag they came in for at least a week. But I have a choice. It isn’t as though the energy allocated to putting away the groceries detracts from my ability to do something else. It is tough to fathom that putting your own food in the fridge all by yourself signifies a good day. But that is how she lives. When she was on one particularly grueling round of chemo, she had to work herself up to open the mayonnaise jar. She simply didn’t have the energy to prepare the simplest meal for herself. But she just started eating pretzels out of the bag and it got her through the crisis.
This attitude has taught us all so much, and in return I wanted to buy her a little gift. She loves mini coopers, and so I was thinking about buying her one. Sure, with a new kid, a new mortgage on the horizon and the life of a freelance, that couple hundred bucks a month could be a college fund or retirement savings. But the little mini could bring her so much joy for whatever time she has left.
My brother met me at a local used car lot with a mini cooper in the first row of available cars. The Middle Eastern man with the handlebar mustache had already quoted me the princely sum of $14,500 before my brother arrived. “Only 84,000 miles,” he smirked. The car was four years old and the seats looked it. Todd took one look at the bumper and could see the bondo. The middle eastern man retreated into the little shed housing the dealership to retrieve the key.
“It’s been hit. Pretty bad, too, I’d say. See the swirl marks?” He ran his hand along the edge of the bumper. “The whole ass end has been worked on. Not too well, either.” The Middle Eastern man returned. Todd asked for a Car Fax report. Suddenly, the dealership was closing. He’d have to come back Monday for more information on the car.
Every day behind the wheel is a good day. If we can get mom behind the wheel of a mini Cooper sooner rather than later, maybe she will have a few more good days. She will want to get as much time in on the open road as she can, or so I would hope, as the twilight gradually gives way to the night of her life. That is the gift I would like to give back. Just one more trip would make it worthwhile.
We may not know what to expect from her cancer, other than how cancer inevitably ends. When that happens, it would be great to know we helped get her there in style. :-).
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