Gone but not Forgotten

The office she sat in was small and simple, made up of four beige walls, one of which held the doctor’s three degrees and certificates he was proud enough of to display. There was an average sized window on the wall adjacent to where she sat with the thin plastic blinds that looked like they should have been replaced 15 years ago. The desk was plain but fit the space well. She occupied one of the twin black pleather chairs which she was surprised to discover were more comfortable than she expected. 

She sat waiting with sweaty palms, anxious to hear the results of her test, wishing she had told her husband last night over dinner when he offered that, yes, he should come with her to this appointment. But she hadn’t. She didn’t want to pull him away from work and make this into something bigger than it was. Him coming along would be admitting that she was expecting to hear bad news. In spite of knowing it wasn’t common practice for a doctor to give face-to-face results to patients if the news was good, she was willing herself to believe that this situation was somehow an exception. 

She was wondering absently-mindedly why the doctor hadn’t ever chosen to upgrade those terribly out-of-date blinds when the door sighed open and he walked in. She stood and shook the hand of the aging, silver-haired man. He was a kind man. He’d been her doctor for many years. He had even delivered her three daughters before moving into a private family practice and was now the doctor who looked after all of them, the whole family. 

“Jaelee, where’s Jack? I expected him to come with you. Is work busy for him?” Dr. Russell asked.

The question made her wonder if she had made a terrible mistake not asking Jack to come or if the kind doctor was just making small talk.

“Yes, work is busy. But when you’re in sales, that’s a good thing.” Jaelee smiled, trying to keep the mood light. Her stomach had dropped at the doctor questioning Jack’s absence, and she didn’t want her fear to show. 

“Well, I had you come in so we could talk about your test results. I want to shoot straight with you. It’s not good.” 

And there it was. This situation wasn’t an exception. How could she have been so foolish as to try to convince herself that somehow her situation would be an exception? She knew better. Yet here she sat, listening to the words, “It’s not good.”  She was aware of Dr. Russell’s voice still talking, explaining the results of the test. She was sure he was telling her she had cancer. The lump from her liver that they’d biopsied wasn’t nothing. She was sure he was explaining how bad it was and what they would need to do next, but all she heard was the distant drone of the kind doctor’s baritone voice. She was focusing on her need to know how much it would cost to get rid of those god-awful old blinds and replace them with a set of standard faux wood blinds. Dr. Russell could do better than what he’d done with this space. 

For the next few weeks, each day felt like an eternity of not knowing. Who would she have to tell today, “I have cancer.”? Would this be the day she would find out if she qualified for the study of specialized chemo treatment? How many times would she cry? How much time would she spend trying not to cry? As much as she tried to use her work at the university and responsibilities at home to keep her busy and distracted, the minutes and hours still dragged by. 

The call came while she was at work. It was a warm, sunny day in early June and the air conditioning in her office was too cold for her liking. If she could only redirect the air blowing from the vent over her desk, she wouldn’t be so uncomfortable. But when she’d asked maintenance to adjust the vent, they told her it couldn’t be done. So, there she sat on a warm summer day in her jacket with a small throw draped over her lap thinking about how silly she must look, but deciding it was better than shivering her way through the day. Most of the time she was careful not to take personal calls at work. She thought it was unprofessional and as the manager of many others, she wanted to be sure to set a good example. This call though, she had to take. She knew it was Dr. Russell, and she was eager to speak with him. 

“Jaelee?” he began. “You’re in. You qualified and you’re in the trial. You’ll need to fly out next week and will be there for at least two weeks, depending on your recovery time.” 

She was relieved to hear that she’d gotten into the trial. Relieved to hear Dr. Russell sharing good news this time and not inviting her to his office for another meeting. All the time she’d spent waiting for this call, she thought her emotions would be one of only two. If the news was good, she would feel relief at knowing there was a plan. The wait to hear what came next would be over and she would simply feel relief. If the news was bad, she’d feel sad. Plain and simple. Prior to cancer, she thought she’d been in touch with her emotions, aware of what she felt and why and the different situations that brought on those emotions. This, though. This was different. There was no longer room for ambiguity. She was either happy or sad, anxious or relieved, looking forward to what the future might hold or dreading it. She had cancer or didn’t. There was one or the other. 

But here she found herself suddenly flooded with anxiety when she thought the only thing she’d feel was relief. She had to be gone for two weeks, maybe longer, and only give one week notice? What would that mean for her husband and his business? What would that mean for her daughters? Would she be fired? She wasn’t certain her employer would be understanding of the need to be gone so long. After such an invasive surgical trial and prolonged recovery, how long would it be before she could return to work? The emotional whiplash of receiving great news from Dr. Russell, followed by the anxiety of all of the answerless questions, had her feeling nauseous. Or was that the cancer? She wasn’t sure. 

She wanted to call and tell Jack right away. She knew he was anxious to get an answer too, but she didn’t want to have the conversation in the office where someone might overhear, so she sent him a carefully worded email. She didn’t want him to worry more than he already was. He loved her fiercely and this was something he couldn’t protect her from. She could tell he was scared and here, in this moment, there was no reason to raise the questions that were making her anxious. She kept it upbeat. 

“Hi Honey! I just heard from Dr. Russell. I qualified for the trial! We have to leave next Thursday. Will Sue be able to cover the office for a while? Let’s talk more about it this evening. I just didn’t want to wait to give you the good news. Love you!”

That should do. Just the facts. None of the unanswered questions. He’ll feel good about that for the rest of his workday, and she can bring up the other stuff later.

The trial took place at the National Cancer Institute, a part of the National Institutes of Health, and involved a surgical procedure on patients with liver cancer. The doctor opened her abdomen and ran heated chemo through her liver for several hours. When that was done, she was sewed back up and it was time to start healing. That was twelve weeks ago. Healing had come slowly. More slowly than she had hoped. Her incision was still terribly sensitive. She couldn’t wear any pants or skirts that landed anywhere near her still-healing belly. Because of this, she found dresses to be her new favorite wardrobe item. The looser the better and no belts, please. When she reached six weeks post-surgery, she’d flown back to NIH for scans and tests and all the necessary monitoring that the trial required. 

The news was great! She called each of her daughters to share that the cancer was shrinking! It appeared that the trial had been a success! Her daughters rejoiced with the relief of the news that their mom was going to be okay. The joy in each of their voices was like a long-distance hug that warmed her heart. A mom knows her own love for her children, but her child’s love for her isn’t always so clear. This, their relief, made it clear. 

Again, eight weeks later, she had to return to NIH for more tests and scans. Other than the incision point still being terribly sensitive, she was feeling okay and traveled across the country with the attitude that this was all routine. Just part of what she had to do as someone who agreed to take part in a trial. She didn’t love the back and forth travel, but was happy to do her part. She was ready for the calls to her daughters again, to give the good news and hear the happy relief that she was still moving in the right direction. 

After the scans and tests and conversations with the doctors, however, it was clear the update to her daughters this time would be quite different. So different, in fact, she didn’t think she could be the one to call. Jack took on that task and made the calls, letting each of his children know that Jaelee’s cancer had not only spread, but exploded. Most significantly, it was in her lungs and all over her spine. The doctors leading the study all agreed there was nothing they could do. Her cancer was terminal. She was dying. The cancer was killing her and there wasn’t anything anyone could do about it. They sent her home with sincere apologies, wishing they could do more, but knowing they’d done everything they could. Getting her into this trial was her best chance and it hadn’t worked. They hated it, felt they had failed, but knew there was nothing to be done. So, with sincere and heavy hearts, they sent her off. 

When she got home, her daughters gathered around her in the old farmhouse they all loved so much. The place that held a lifetime of memories for each of them and here she was, their mother who they loved so dearly and who had loved them so exceedingly well. 

She gathered her daughters on the screened porch. It was a sunshiny day, but the porch was in the shade at the moment and the soft breeze kept them from getting too warm. They sat, gathered, her daughters ready to hear all her words. Anything she wanted to tell them, they were eager to hear. They now knew their time with her was short and they didn’t want to miss a moment with her. 

Her eyes misty with tears, she said, “Don’t forget about me.”  Her daughters sat quietly, not sure how to take what she’d just said. How could they possibly ever forget about her? “Don’t hide my pictures away or forget to talk about me to the kids you’ll all have some day.”

“We won’t.” They all promised, their expressions confused.

Jaelee dabbed her eyes, took a deep breath, swallowed and began to explain. “When I was young I found a picture of your grandpa’s first wife in a drawer. She died from cancer, you know.  I had never seen a picture of her before. Even though she was the mom of both of my brothers, I had never seen a picture of her. We never had one out for your uncles to see. It was like she was being purposefully hidden away. Existing in that picture, but not important enough to display. Right then, I immediately felt so bad for her, that she was hidden away. I felt sorry for my brothers, that their mom had been shoved away in a drawer. Everyone’s life should be remembered, even if it’s just for the one generation that comes after them. Just please don’t do that to me. Don’t forget me.” 

Her daughters were quiet for a moment. They hadn’t heard that story before, but it made sense that something like that happening when she was young would create a fear in her. They all promised they wouldn’t let her be forgotten. Her future grandchildren would know about her, what a great mom she was and what a wonderful grandmother she would have been. They would keep pictures of her out in their homes, not tucked away in drawers. They were proud that she was their mom and would talk about her often. 

With that topic concluded, the four of them sat, enjoying the warm air, the breeze, not knowing how many more moments they would have with this woman who brought each of them into the world, who had raised them and loved them and shown them through this journey what real strength and faith looked like. That moment… they each said a silent prayer, a wish, that they’d remember it forever. 

Two weeks later, it was another beautiful, sunny, almost perfect day when Jack and his daughters were gathered closely around Jaelee as she lay in her hospice bed. She’d been unresponsive for a few days now, but just today her breathing had slowed and it was clear she wasn’t going to last much longer. 

One of her daughters leaned to her ear and softly said, “It’s okay Mom. You can go. We’ll be fine and we won’t forget you. Not ever.” 

As if that’s all she needed to hear to know all would be well, she took one last breath.