THE TRICKY THING ABOUT ENDINGS by Leigh Morgan Owen
I had a dog’s sense that day. Maybe from a week camping in the woods, smelling the world, eating wild things, peeing on dirt. Dad was alone in the kitchen. “Who died?” I asked him, still holding my duffle. He answered as though it wasn’t a strange question.
“Your mother has cancer.”
You and your cancer were walking downstairs to greet me. What was left of my heart, coordinated with my mouth to construct an “everything will be okay” smile. I listened to your steps. I considered tempo. Slower than usual? Faster? What would either mean anyway? Would I recognize a scared step? And what would I do if I did? You came into the kitchen. You looked sheepish, caught with something you shouldn’t have. I just looked. We were locked in a moment of nothing to say. So you made tea. Why wouldn’t you make tea? It was only cancer then. Then there was some hope.
I had just turned nineteen and I thought I knew everything. You might think I’d be wiser now. Maybe I’ve looked back, realized how little I knew then. Or that today I’d say something like, “I know even less, now.” But it isn’t true. Now I do know everything. I know that all things end. And everything is just an extension of that.
* * *
Six months. That’s what they gave you. We had waited in the exam room, sitting on metal stools. You were still. I was gripping my stool, rolling around, pacing on wheels. All day strangers had been analyzing pictures of your insides, pointing and nodding at black spots that looked fine to me. Or was it the white spots they were looking at? But then they stopped.
There’s nothing like waiting to hear how long you’re expected to live. “Nerve-wracking,” is what you called it. I called it a different sort of wait than say, waiting in traffic or waiting to find out if you’re blind in one eye. Those only seem important.
The doctor came in, rolled her stool up to us, close. Too close. Still, we rolled forward too, forming a three-person huddle in the center of the room. I wondered: offense or defense? “No point in mutilation tactics,” is what she said. That was meant as a bad thing. Three of us now, locked in a moment of nothing to say. This would start happening a lot. You could have chemo, the doctor tells us, handing me a green pamphlet titled, Advanced Cancer: Living Each Day. A guidebook, of sorts. Destination: death. She says chemo can’t save you, only prolong it. Prolong “it.” She didn’t specify: life or death. On the cover of the pamphlet was a sketch of an old lady. Your hair was long, blond. Not a single grey. And I didn’t even know how young forty-two was then. The doctor advised you to get your affairs in order. There was a “Personal Inventory” form in the pamphlet to help. A to-do list for the road. On the way home, you rode shotgun, guide on your lap. I looked down at it every so often, driving slowly even for the slow lane. When we got home, I saw the tea kettle on the stove and caught the lingering scent of our former life before you went upstairs to clean your closets and I sat and watched.
* * *
Lessons from Advanced Cancer: Living Each Day
“There are no right or wrong ways to face the end of life. We each find our own way to die. We are all born with a will to live. By participating with others you say, ‘I care about myself.’ You should ask yourself, ‘What do I cherish?’ Try to live as normally as possible. As cancer progresses, your appearance may change. This may affect your self-respect. If pain reaches the point where it disturbs you, it needs to be treated. Emotions that many people with advanced disease experience have been examined by trained professionals. You may feel depressed. Discussing practical matters now can eliminate many problems.”
Personal Inventory. Fill in the blanks.
Name. Blank. Date. Blank. Address. Blank. Date of Birth. Blank. Place of Birth. Blank. Social Security Number. Blank. Next of Kin. Blank. Employer. Blank. Company Benefits. Blank. Personal Papers. Blank. Insurance: Life. Blank. Health. Blank. Automobile. Blank. Company. Blank. Bank Account Number. Blank. Other Accounts. Blank. Automobile (Make, Model, Year). Blank. Real Estate Papers. Blank. Personal Items of Value. Blank. Blank. Blank. Counselors Who Can Help With My Affairs. Blank. Attorney. Blank. Banker. Blank. Insurance Agent. Blank. Doctor. Blank. Clergy. Blank. Other. Blank. Funeral Arrangements. Blank. Blank. Blank. Special Requests. Yes. Stop this.
* * *
After your impromptu closet cleaning, you asked me to cut off all your hair so I did. I had never seen your hair shorter than really long. You must have figured that it was hair that looked great on a head, not all over the house falling out haphazardly from chemo. It was a preemptive strike against needless cleaning like telling us to wipe our shoes before coming into the house. Kind of like that, anyway.
It was thick and the scissors kept getting stuck.
“Let me try,” you offered.
“I’ll do it,” I said, because it was all I could do and because I couldn’t watch you do it. But the scene was mostly business since I didn’t think anything ended and you knew everything did. I saved some clippings in a paper bag until a few years ago. I never intended on saving them, but once I had them, I felt strange throwing them out. After some time, I felt strange not to.
That’s the tricky thing about endings. Even if you know that all things end, it doesn’t mean you know when something has. It’s not until you stop thinking the echoes are the voices. Sometimes you just look back and think, “Oh. That ended.”
Now I only have a little, a lock in a locket.
* * *
We didn’t know the whole story then. We didn’t know “it” would last eight years. I’ve heard people say, begin with the end in mind. But that’s how you began each day for eight years and I don’t think it was such a great thing.
These days, I begin most of my days with your end in mind too. Now I know your whole story. Someone else will know mine. I wonder what you would think about me writing a memoir. I can’t decide if you would be proud or angry. It matters, so I decide you would be proud. It never goes away – the urge to show, to ask, to tell you something. One day I was on the treadmill, a TV bolted in front of me. The news was on, no sound. Men in suits were standing around a large conference table, staring down at something I couldn’t make out. One of the men pulled out a ruler, placed it next to the thing and everyone nodded, smiled. I thought it might be a baby animal. It wasn’t. It was a mammoth Funyun: an onion-flavored ring grown out of control. This is what you’re missing. I would have called you – urgent voice – told you to turn on the news. “Something important is happening,” I would have said. I read somewhere that the owner tried to auction the onion ring to raise money for her school band. No takers. I wouldn’t have been able to sell it. I would have kept it as long as possible, shellacking it, if I had to. But then, I get attached to things. Someone told me that Frito-Lay wanted to study it to see how mutations happen but wouldn’t pay the five dollars for it. Then a friend of hers broke it.
* * *
We became regulars at the clinic in one day. I remember walking past men ripping up brand new carpeting. I asked someone why. A woman told me that several patients had walked in, seen the carpet, vomited. The rug was the same pink as one of the cancer drugs.
I wondered if you could recognize the sound of a scared step. I slowed my pace, raised my voice.
According to the schedule I was given – the one that had the rest of your life planned with fill in the blanks – there wasn’t a blank for what I should say to you. It was easiest to say, “What time is the appointment?” “Do you want me to carry that for you?” You always told me, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.”
Is, “Are you afraid to die?” in the nice category? What about, “Do you feel your life was fulfilled?” or “If not, is there anything we can do between now and Monday that will make you feel that it was?” I knew that “How did this happen? Weren’t you being tested? Your mother died of this at forty-two. What were you thinking?” were definitely not nice.
Instead, I punctuated everything with “I love you.”
“Do you think you’re going to be sick? I love you.”
“Can I make you tea? I love you.”
“What did Dr. Shapiro say about the sore? I love you.”
And ten days before, you had been telling me to pick up all my shit from the kitchen table. I wanted to tell you, I picked it all up, Mom.
* * *
“You’re getting ninety percent of what a person can tolerate in a lifetime,” Doctor Shapiro told you. Trial drugs for a Stage IV illness. Stage IV, the final act. The doctor seemed excited to me. I would get used to that. I’d also get used to the pink forms: if you died or were poisoned beyond reason, there is nothing anyone could do about it. You will have nausea, vomiting, mouth ulcers, loss of taste. Your skin might change color. Your urine might too. Oh, and your fingernails. There’s likely to be damage to your heart and liver. No more menstruation. And remember, you can’t go in the sun. But you’ll be too tired anyway, or want to be inside because of the diarrhea. But think of all the people you’ll be helping, all the things they’ll be learning from your body’s mutation. Sign and date here.
I wondered if they were saving that ten percent for later, a curtain call? Were they being cautious? I decided. They were saving it. You were grateful to be helping some other woman who would be going towards “it” in the future. “Go ahead, use me,” you told them.
You called it your cocktail. Everyone did. The bar was the infusion room. You were infused on a pink lounge chair. I watched. The recipe was nine parts lethal, one part merely toxic. Too much would kill you and the right amount, the cancer. I reminded you that everything was a poison in the wrong measure: water, vitamins, oxygen. Later, I would add ‘people’ to the list. I told you I didn’t know everything then.
Each infusion, I wondered if the nurse had measured correctly. Was she distracted? Had she fought with her boyfriend the night before? Her kids? Her mother? Just one mistake. And I had thought ‘trust’ was letting a stranger drive me around in a taxicab.
Your first time getting chemo, I was wedged between you and a girl about my age. I wondered if she had been given the guidebook too. I smiled at her, wishing I hadn’t washed my hair. She smiled back, told me she had a brain tumor and a year to live. I think I said, “Oh.” I asked her if she needed anything and then felt cruel. But she asked me to get her a Vogue and to give platelets. I did both.
* * *
Take temp. 100° Give you meds. Wait. Vomit? No. Log. Sleep 3 hours. Wake up. Take temp. 100° Give you meds. Wait. Vomit? Yes. Suppository. Log. Sleep 3 hours. Wake up. Take temp. 100° Give you meds. Wait. Vomit? No. Log. Sleep 3 hours. Wake up. Take temp. 103° Get Dad. Pack bags. Drive to hospital. Wait. Fill out form. Then more forms. Come home. Log. Try to sleep. Pretend to sleep. Get up. Get bucket for car. Drive to hospital. Pick you up. Drive home. Give you meds. Wait. Vomit? No. Take temp. 100° Log.
Repeat intermittently for eight years.
Guidebook Lesson: Try to live as normally as possible.
There’s nothing like a beautiful day when someone you love is dying. It’s like eating candy with a cold. You’re certain you like the stuff. You’ve tasted it before. You see it, your tongue tickles. You put it in your mouth, it feels creamy. Chew it – Nothing. Swallow it – Tasteless. Those days, I would get in my car and drive, windows down, leaving behind the pills, gauze, ooze, reek, pain. Driving in my car, seeing the world, feeling the world’s breeze – I wanted to – I tried to – I could – almost – enjoy it. I wished it was guilt that held me back. But I had just lost my taste for a beautiful day. Now I know that’s a sign of something ending.
* * *
We moved you to the first floor, a move down, the living room. You wanted the bed in the center. The position seemed odd to me. People could walk around all sides of the bed, viewing from every angle. Like you were an exhibit at The Museum of Mom. I kept offering to move the bed next to a wall. I would have wanted the wall, a solid place to turn. But what comfort would a wall be to you? Enclosure was the last thing you wanted.
It was a practical matter. It was about table space, having everything in arm’s reach. On one side, you had pill bottles, gauze pads and kidney-shaped hospital dishes filled with pennies and jewelry that no longer fit. On the other side, lay your wig and some bandanas. And that blue plastic bucket was there too. It was no longer a living room.
It was a room with a view, through pages of books. I had brought you these books from your wish lists of mysteries and travel. I sat on the edge of the bed and listened to you recount the stories to me. I heard them differently than you did. All the travels were still a possibility for me.
Now I have the same view. Your books, in my apartment. I found a tasseled bookmark in one. It says, “The best way to travel is by means of imagination.” It marked your travels with Gypsies on their journey from India to Eastern Europe. From the living room, you hitchhiked into the wild of Alaska, spent a quaint year in Provence, and journeyed to the frontiers of anarchy after time in Dublin.
Without you to explain, what do I make of the passages highlighted in Chopin’s The Awakening?
The children appeared before her like antagonists who had overcome her; who had overpowered and sought to drag her into the soul’s slavery for the rest of her days
And
“you are burnt beyond recognition,” he added looking at his wife as one looks at a valuable piece of personal property which has suffered some damage
* * *
“I guess you only make drop-offs,” you joked to the van driver. Driving someone to a hospice is pretty awkward without humor. You were always trying to help.
Like the day you died. You lifted your head off the pillow, and opened your mouth to say something to me. Nothing came out. You kept trying.
say it – say it – say it – say it – say it – say it – say it – say it one more time
“I know. I love you and you love me Mom. Put your head down.”
You smiled, put your head down. Stopped helping.
Someone drove you to the cemetery. No humor. You were just there one day. So we were too. Me, Dad and Will. And it was an ugly day so I didn’t have to worry.
* * *
Heaven, hell, back to the earth, a better place, with her now, with him now, with God, a ghost, a soul, a spirit, a banshee, rebirth, reincarnation, resurrection now, resurrection later, nothingness, this world, the next, at peace, at rest, gone. The end.
It’s not where you’re going that’s important. It’s where you’re not.
Sometimes I drive with my eyes closed. And I accelerate. I thought everyone did that. I asked my friend, Stephanie, and she told me that the only time she closes her eyes while driving is to blink. So I asked Will if he did. He said, “Not in a while.”
“The Tricky Thing About Endings” is Leigh Morgan Owen’s first publication in a national literary magazine.