Cancer Thursdays

After my mother developed stage three breast cancer, her appointments were mostly on Thursdays. Now that she is in remission, they continue to be on Thursdays. It consumes her day once a week. The Cancer left, at least for a while, but its shadow looms larger on Thursday. She is brave about it, but every time she mentions Thursday, I feel a little dread. A little mix of emotions when we talk. I remember how close she came to dying, despite the chemo and radiation. I remember how weak she became and how confused she was.

Cancer Thursdays are now a looming shadow in my mind. Thursdays are a reminder that she's alive, but not quite the same woman she was. She's no longer quite the woman who raised me, chased me with wooden spoons, fed me, worried over me when I was sick. She's my mom, but she's almost a shade rather than the woman who raised me.

I want to pull away from her to protect myself and my memories of her, but I am committed to stay connected to her. Her suffering, her Cancer Thursdays, are now a part of her and part of my relationship with her.

Over the past two years, her color has returned. The shade has been pushed further away, but it remains around the edges of her head and body like a wispy reminder.

So I wait on edge, waiting every Thursday to learn whether the Cancer has returned. I wait to know if the shade is returning to drain her color and her mind and her energy away. Every Cancer Thursday is a grim reminder. Every time Cancer Thursday is denied, my mom returns just a bit more from the shade.