Telling Mum

Without a doubt, what I feared most, more than the surgery - much, much more than the chemotherapy, was telling my mum. I was petrified of watching her react and perhaps tumble before me. She has always suffered from what seems to me, an exaggerated and unnatural concern for everything. The smallest matter always leads to untold trauma. And, unfortunately for me, her children have always been her prime reason for worry. Her heart is astonishing; full to the brim with goodness and strong with unbridled generosity, yet fragile as a house of cards.

The word cancer does not sit well with my family. Ok, no surprises there. Like a lot of families, cancer has been an unkind and unwelcome visitor; only 2 years ago, taking the life of my beloved first cousin - a young mum with a true zest for life and sunshine in her step.

So to actually have to verbalise the true "C word" again - but this time, in relation to me and my health, seemed an insurmountable hurdle and something which I believed could do actual physical harm to my parents, particularly mum.

Flippant as it may sound, I felt the doctors had everything else under control, and that the marvels of modern medicine would work in my favour restoring my health anew. But the act of telling my mother, that was a far greater predicament.

I decided the first step was to tell my brother. He would at least provide me with the support I needed when it came to conveying this horrible information to my parents. Together we worked a plan, the best possible way to deliver the worst possible news.

On Friday, 6th of May, I went to my parent’s home for dinner. Trembling on the inside, I tried to keep myself composed. I looked into the face of my mother, her expression blithe, knowing I was moments away from destroying her calm.

She suspected nothing, how could she. I visit my parents like clockwork, once a week for dinner. It’s a casual scene, the four of us sitting around the large occasional table in front of the television in a comfortable room with bay windows. My parents ‘live’ in this room; it almost seems a waste of this beautifully expansive, century old apartment. But this is what we do. This is where we meet. This is where we share our news, and this is where we eat.

I decided we should have our dinner first. Let everybody enjoy their food before taking their appetites away. Not that that's much of a concern anymore for my parents who for a few years now, have taken to eating like sparrows.

The room is softly lit by four small lamps and through the white wooden shutters, just a glimpse of a large palm tree can be seen outside. The room is always warm but this night, I struggled to get comfortable. My brother, Peter was looking anxious and his deliberate raising of eyebrows was beginning to bother me. Finally with the plates cleared, mum, dad and Peter settled in their chairs, I knew it was time to speak. The television volume is always up high, mainly for my dad, so it was an ominous sign when I grabbed the remote and lowered the volume.

“I’ve got some news...”.

My mother’s face lost all colour and I knew I had just stepped off the ledge. The next three hours were exhausting. There were tears, there were a thousand questions, there was disbelief, and there was, for me, relief. I had told my parents the prognosis was good. Excellent, in fact. The doctors had told me that they’d caught my cancer early, a routine bowel cancer operation, some chemotherapy and I would be totally back to new. When the tears had dried, the shock had subsided, I said my goodnights and headed home. Unbelievably, I felt totally refreshed; a burden of unmeasurable magnitude had been lifted and I was smiling as I drove the 5 minutes back to my apartment.

Two weeks had passed and here I was, having just shared the news with my parents, staring out my window and craving a cigarette so badly, I almost lit one. But then something odd happened.

I fell to pieces.