No. 262 – Premonition

Performer: Joe Satriani

Songwriter: Joe Satriani

Original Release: Black Swans and Wormhole Wizards

Year: 2010

Definitive Version: None.

When Laurie and I saw Mom at Thanksgiving in 2010, Mom was on the mend, and doctors reported that after a tough three-month battle, they finally got all of the cancer in her throat. That optimism was short-lived.

By Christmas, the tumor reformed to the point where she constantly held her hand to her neck, because, she told me later, that was something that she didn’t want John and Leah to have to see. I learned all this in January 2011 when Mom told me that the cancer had returned.

I also learned that Scott was out. We talked, and he said he’d dealt with Mom since August and needed a break. On the one hand, I thought, well, you’re the closest family member. It’s a lot easier for you to make the 90-minute trip up I-71 to Columbus than for me to make the 6-hour trek down. (Jin, being in LA, obviously was out of the picture.)

On the other hand, I’m not going to say no. Mom needs someone to drive her to the hospital for another surgery. Scott can’t or doesn’t want to do it, and he’s been caring for Mom for four months. When I took care of Mom for her lung surgery, it was a one-shot deal. This had been an ordeal that involved multiple surgeries and chemo and appointments. Scott wanted a break. Fair is fair. Who was I to say no?

That said, I wasn’t sure I saw a benefit to all this. When Mom told me that the cancer had returned—and that quickly—I started to think that the game was over, and now it was time to start thinking about the end.

I mean, OK, doctors still thought there was reason to proceed, and Mom wanted to proceed. It’s easy for someone on the outside to ask whether this would change the outcome, but when you’re staring down death, whether something would work is beside the point. It seems the natural thing to do is to try anything to get as much life as you can get. People have beaten cancer long enough to add years of quality life.

Fine. I bought in. I offered my services and kept my negativity to myself. I went to my boss, explained the situation and said I needed to take a couple of days in early February so I could drive my Mom to and from the hospital. We were about to pull the trigger on hiring a new copy editor—a job search I oversaw in addition to my regular duties, but, of course, he granted me the time off.

A few days before I was to leave for home, however, Mom called. The surgery had been canceled, she said, because the cancer had spread to her lymph nodes.

When Mom used the word “metasisized,” I KNEW the game was over. It was the first time it really hit me that my Mom was going to die—and soon. I suppose I had prepared myself for this since August. When you hear the word “cancer” for the first time, inevitably at some point you play out the worst scenario, but you simultaneously put it out of your mind and hope for the best.

After all, I already had heard the word “cancer” associated with Mom—way back in 1999—and she kicked it in the ass. In fact, I still remember the phone conversation we had when she formally was deemed to be cancer-free at the 10-year mark in 2009.

But this time, the cancer was going to win. It was inevitable. Who ever has survived a metatistisized cancer? Exactly. No one.

But Mom’s oncologist had one more thing to try—a superchemo blast. It was a long shot, admittedly, but, again, Mom was willing to try anything to extend her life as long as possible, so she decided to give it a shot.

She still needed me to come to the hospital and take her … to a place to be determined—home or hospice care. I didn’t see how it wouldn’t be hospice; the endgame had begun. My trip would be a two-day windsprint, down in one day, back the next. What was I going to say, no?