On February 24th 2010 I walked along the beach at Golden Gardens at dusk. The tide was low. The lowest I had ever seen it in my many visits there. The waves rolled the pebbles along as they advanced and retreated. Occasionally they rolled over my shoes soaking them with briny water. The sun set over the Olympics painting the sky a mandarin hue. The jagged peaks silhouetted the fading glow. I looked out over the gray water. The threshold between the water and the beach seemed uncertain. This gave me the stirring unease that with one step I could become submerged.
About thirty minutes prior I had had a brief conversation with my mother. I had called her to find out what the results of the MRI scans had been. Over the past couple of months she had complained about persistent pain in her hips. When she answered the phone her tone was weak and muted contrasting her usual ebullience. I asked what the results of the scan were and she told me that they had found cancer in her stomach. I tried as best I could to keep my composure and be as strong and supportive as possible.
In 1996 she had had breast cancer which was treated with no subsequent reappearance until now. It was a tough time, and I can recall the fear and uncertainty we had then. This was one of the most difficult telephone conversations I had ever had, and for those of you who at a loss for words in such situations you can understand my trepidation. I told her I loved her and that I would be home to visit her soon. This conversation was one of the briefest we had ever had but also the most meaningful. For the first time we said our goodbyes without an upbeat tone.
The beach is where I often go to regroup. The saltwater air expands my asthmatic lungs and clears my attention-deficit mind. Although this is a family beach I always go spontaneously and alone. I often feel somewhat out of place as I am not throwing a Frisbee, pushing a baby stroller or being tugged along by a bounding retriever. I usually have a cup of café Americano to try to blend in as best as possible. I get lots of Seattle smiles. On this particular evening it was mostly deserted since it was late. The wind was quite strong as I recall. A few yachts and sailboats returned to the marina.
As I walked along the beach it was impressed upon me very vividly the impermanence in life, the constant introduction of new people and departure of those I have known since childhood. I remember several years back getting a phone call from momma telling me, ‘we lost Farrell Ray’ who was one of my father’s closest friends. She had probably known him for around fifty years. Farrell Ray had been a stalwart in the community. She sent me the newspaper clipping of the obituary. She was also oft reminded of this impermanence, as she sees those in her generation die one by one. This impermanence is something many of us try desperately and fail utterly to avoid facing.
People come and go in our lives. Some we miss sorely whereas others we are quite glad to be shod of. Our parents, on the other hand, act as a locus and tether in our lives. They are the first people we know when we came into this world. They guide our early development and shape who we become. They anchor our lives which are often tossed to and fro. Their presence or absence often determines the course we take in life. No matter how old we are, the threat that a parent can be taken away from us sets us adrift in the dusk.
The driving wind convinced me my reflection could just as easily be continued indoors. I would call my brother Philip. He took her to get the results of the MRI. He would fill me in on the situation.
And he did. He told me that the doctor had informed them that there were tumors in her femur and pelvis, rather than in her stomach. This was not quite a relief, but did give me pause as to the possible prognosis. Metastatic cancer in the bones might more readily respond to treatment than cancer that had spread in the organs and soft tissue. This situation was still dreadful, but slightly less dreadful than the specter of stomach cancer.
March 15th? Yes, March 15th. This was the date of the appointment with the oncologist. This he tells me on February 24th, mind you. Nineteen days seemed like an eternity to wait to get an official diagnosis of cancer. I knew that there would have to be a biopsy scheduled as well to ascertain what we were dealing with.
