After finishing my coffee, I excused myself to use the ladies room. A long line of women and children greeted me at the door. They quickly rushed me in because they were only conversing there. Once inside, I found an empty stall, and that's when the conversation began. A voice on the other side of the stall made a comment. I answered back. As someone who loves parties, I mentioned they seemed to be having fun. "Do you know why we're all here?" asked an unseen woman. "My son died September 30th."
My heart sunk as I heard those words. In a million years, I never would have thought that the people enjoying their gathering in the private dining room were in mourning. "I'm so sorry," I quickly said. "That's so hard."
"My son was an artist," the proud mother told me. "But he never really made any money at it." I assured her I know all about that, since I'm an artist, too. We emerged from our respective stalls and continued our conversation as we stood at the sinks. Her son had lung cancer. So did my mother. "Small cell," she confided to me. I knew what she was talking about. "That's tough. My mom had non-small cell," I replied.
I looked down at this tiny sprite of a lady -- she barely came up to my shoulders, but in her I saw a tower of strength. She had endured the pain, the grief, by reaching out. And in that moment, we were connected as part of the extended cancer family. She needed to tell me about her son, and I wanted to listen.
Stephen's struggle was over in less than a year. There wasn't much that doctors could do for him. She wished it had been an easier journey. I understood exactly what she was saying. We never seem to have enough of the right medicine for someone whose cancer has advanced beyond repair. There is no magic left to conjure up. How hard it must have been for this mother to watch her son fade away -- this child she gave birth to, nurtured, and even relied upon. Stephen was only 53.
Was there comfort in the sharing? I'd like to think so. As I learned the details of what made Stephen who he was as a man, I found we had much in common. And as I learned the details of what he endured, I connected the dots to my mother's cancer care. One of the first things she wanted to know about my mother's lung cancer was this. "Did she smoke?" I gave the answer that I came to appreciate more and more over time, with every asking by doctors, nurses, and others who "needed to know". Yes, but lung cancer runs in my mother's family, I told her. Not everyone who got it was a smoker. "Yes!" she cried.
In that one emotion-filled word, I understood her sense of relief. Not every smoker gets lung cancer. And not every lung cancer patient ever smoked. We are sometimes too quick to assume that patients cause their own cancers and judge them as they slide towards death. Clearly there had been much passing of the "guilty" verdict in her son's case. He must have brought it all upon himself. What other explanation is there?
I was saddened by this thought. No mother should have to feel she must defend her dying son when there is already no hope for a cure. This is here. This is now. Leave the past behind. Let go of the need to be a medical historian. Cancer is what it is, and at the end of life, do we really need reminding of cause-and-effect, or do we need to embrace life, even in its last few breaths?
That's why I wanted to hear more of Stephen's life, of the positive things he did, of what he liked to do, of the people who cared about him. His mother began to list all of the unexpected visitors at his funeral. She was stunned that the secretary of the oncology department came, but I thought that spoke volumes about her son as a man. "He clearly touched a lot of people," I told her. She nodded. As I stood there, taking in all the details, I thought about so many things. Stephen must have had a lot of his mother in him. Her generous and kind spirit guided him, encouraged him, wanted the best for him.
I thought about the months to come, as the holidays approach, when we most miss those who have left us. It's so critical to remember the positive, to embrace the good times of the past, and to forgive the human frailties that make us stumble and fall. None of us is ever perfect. We can only do the best we can with what we've got. We can only get up each morning and start fresh.
As we left the ladies room, we paused a moment, and I felt her hand slip around my waist in a hug. She could go back to the party again, be with family, and know that Stephen was still with her in spirit. A perfect stranger understood what mattered most to her about her son. She slipped his mass card into my hand, that one final gesture of sharing. I took it and tucked it into my purse. I didn't want to lose it. I am already connected to Stephen because he was a talented artist, loved the frog statues on the bridge that spans the Willimantic River in "Thread City", and had lung cancer. But now I am also connected to his mother, the woman who misses him dearly and just wants the world to focus on what was good and decent about her son.
I share this story on her behalf. The next time you meet someone from the extended cancer family, don't turn away. Cancer has brought us together to remind us we are all here too briefly. Though the light may seem to dim now and again, and the memories begin to hide away in the darker recesses of our minds as we try to cope with our loss, it only takes a moment to bring it all back. Who was that glorious shining soul who was so well loved by family and friends, that source of joyful laughter and random acts of kindness? He was here and he left his footprints behind as he left this world. He will not be forgotten.
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