Superhero

It was April 24, 2024, when my mother arrived at her doctor's office and heard that her mortal enemy and most significant fear was back, and she was going to have to face it all again.

The shock carried her home, and she drove her car on automatic pilot. She exited the porch, entered the house, and collapsed onto the couch.

She called my older sister, whom she lived with during the week.

She said, "I have some bad news. I have lung cancer."

"You have what? What do you mean?" My sister said that numbness took over her extremities.

The two ladies sat silently, stunned, on the living room couches. My sister fidgeted with her knitting needles. My mother stared blindly into space.

"Did they say what stage?"

"No, they didn't. But they referred me to a specialist. The office will be calling me for an appointment."

"Okay. Do you know what the specialist's name is?"

"No. Sorry. I forget what the secretary told me."

"Did she give you anything to refer to later?"

"No. Nothing."

That was it. There were no more words spoken. The two remained stunned and in fear.

I wasn't told until two weeks later. My mother and sister drove up to my house. I knew something wasn't right as soon as they came to my front door.

"Hi, come on in. What's going on?" I said.

"We need to talk. Where are the kids?" My sister said it with a worried look on her face.

"They're in their rooms. Why?"

"I have cancer. Lung cancer. It's stage one."

"What? You cannot be serious," I said. How could this happen again? She'd already had cancer twice before. Melanoma in 1967 and breast cancer in 1984. This news was a cruel joke at 86 years old. What the hell?

"Yes. I know. I feel the same way. I walked around the house saying, 'What?' for days," she said.

"Three-time cancer survivor, mom. That's who you're going to be. I just know it," I said.

"Well, we'll see."

"How big is it?" I said.

"It's 1.2 centimetres."

"Oh. My god. That's nothing. And it's stage one, too? You're golden. We don't have to worry one bit," I said. I knew my poker face was on, but I didn't know if my voice sounded convincing enough. I wasn't going to allow my mom to be down or depressed. I had my work cut out for me. As far as I can tell by looking at those two,

My mother went for a nap and left my sister and me alone.

"You really think so? Do you think we have nothing to worry about? Why?"

"It's stage one. Nobody who's ever had a stage one cancer diagnosis has ever died that I have read about or heard about. It means the cancer hasn't metastasized anywhere else in the body. That's the kind of cancer we want if we had our choice."

"I don't believe that. I think it's bad news."

"Nah, it's not. You'll see."

"Why do you know that?"

"I don't, but science is on our side," I said.

"Really? You really think so."

"For sure. It's logical."

"She's worried, can't you tell?"

"Oh, yeah, of course I can. But that's expected. She wants that cancer out now. I would, too. But that's not how our system works here."

"I know. It's the waiting that's killing us."

"Well, I'll pay for us to go to Detroit and get it done at Henry Ford or Beaumont. And we can probably get it done later this week. I don't mind."

"That's a good idea."

"There are three of us. We can split the cost even."

"Yeah, I'd do that."

When our mother returned to the room, she looked like she hadn't rested. Her face was pale, and her eyes were dull. She didn't want to eat, so I made her a sandwich and told her she had to eat it.

"I'm not in the mood," she said.

"Mom, you are going to have major surgery, and you have to bulk up," I said.

"Oh, okay, then." She picked up the sandwich and ate it. I put out two pickles and two cookies, which she also ate.

"May I get you anything else, Mom?"

"No. Thank you."

"How about a tea?" My sister jumped in.

"Yes, I'd like a tea. That sounds nice."

I boiled the kettle and poured a pot for the three of us. I put out more cookies and served them with the tea. My mother and sister ate all the cookies and drank two cups of tea each. I was glad they were eating and drinking something. The poor things were stunned into a fearful state.

"Mom, cancer is our enemy. You need to bulk up and annihilate that b*tch. Do you understand me? We are in this together," I said. "If you get weak,. I'll carry you. If you get tired, I'll hold you. But if you aren't hungry, I'll force-feed you if I have to," I stated. "This operation will take at least five hours, and I can't have you not make it through an operation because you are too weak. Do you understand me?"

"Yeah. I do."

"Good then. We have an understanding. Now, what is cancer?"

"The enemy."

"I can't hear you."

"The enemy."

"Jacqueline, I can't hear you when mom answers. Now, what is cancer, ladies?"

"The enemy."

"And what are we going to do to this enemy?"

"Annhiliate it."

"That's right. Team Mom is ready to face their fear and enemy---that nasty old cancer inside your lung. I will whip you both into shape for this operation. Got it."

On the day of the operation, my aunt and my sister ousted me so they could go to the hospital. They sat there all day while my mom faced her enemy for five hours and obliterated her fear. She made the operation look like a cakewalk and came out of recovery in the ICU like a champion.

The staff in the ICU nicknamed her Strong Little Lady because she was up and walking the same day, so they removed her IV. The day after, they removed her oxygen. When I got in to see her, she sighed a breath of relief.

"How did you know?" she said.

"Mom, you are one of the strongest ladies I know. You've never let me down in my entire life. I was sure you weren't about to start now."

"But that's not true, is it?"

"Mom, you are my superhero. You met your fear head-on and conquered your enemy. Well done. I hope I can be like you at your age. That is my goal."