My Son, His Mon and Celine
Titanic was a huge movie. In April of 1998 it was proclaimed The 1997 Best Picture of the Year. Celine Dion’s rendition of its beautiful theme song, My Heart Will Go On, was everywhere. Listening to the radio during those years, we couldn’t go more than a few minutes without hearing it again. In time, though, other singers and fresher songs took over the airwaves. It wasn’t too long before My Heart Will Go On became one of the new oldies, a recent hit, played less and less.
Driving to baseball practice one afternoon in the summer of 2006, my son, the youngest of our three kids, and I had the radio on, as usual. Although it would have been my choice to stick with either old oldies or country, we compromised and hit a station which played a good mix of pop and rock. It was a warm, sun-filled Northwest afternoon, the kind that people in other parts of the country rarely experience and find it hard to believe we have. “From what we hear, it always rains up there,” they say. ”People don’t tan, they rust.” Our response, “You got that right. Now — stay away.”
Celine began to sing. “I hate this song,” my son said. He spoke with an intensity I was not familiar with. 14 year olds are known to be hormonally unpredictable, but this was not the sentiment of a teen. Rather, his statement came from somewhere deep and intense, from the heart of an old man.
“You hate this song? This one? What’s up with this song?” I asked. “I thought everybody liked it.”
“I hate it, Dad. Can we turn it, please? It reminds me of Mom.” So we changed the station..
To many, that might seem like a strange thing to say. Our family was intact. It was close knit and loving. On the surface, to say that he hated a song because it reminded him of his mother sounded odd. To say it with such fervor, such vehemence called for an explanation. “What?” I asked. “Mom? I don’t get it.”
“They always played this when Mom was sick.” That said it all.
My boy does not generate memories of the time when he was four years old. He loves to recall good times back in the olden days. He often talks about “when I was three”. He’ll talk about being three and Molly in Montessori school, and Miss Helene, his teacher. Dominic, whose dad was a cop in the city. (How cool is that!) He’ll tell tales of kindergarten. He’ll tell us about his T-ball team and the coach whose name only he can remember – when he was five. He’ll remind his older brother and sister how they used to toss him around with their friends when he was really little. He has stories upon stories of many childhood things – but none are from when he was four.
When he was four, his mom got sick. Cancer. Not just cancer, but a very rare and aggressive form of cancer which her doctors were unprepared to handle. Synovial sarcoma. Stage IV. In her pleural lining; against her spine. Mean, ugly, big and growing. Her doctors were less than hopeful. It was not until much later that we learned that the doctors had only given her a 15 to 25% chance of survival. With a family, three kids, and a future, that was unacceptable, and Mom took it upon herself to handle it.
She gathered family and friends together for support. She called it her Healing Board. She found a doctor who was an expert in such rare cancers. She and her doctor laid out a course of action and treatments which would last for almost two years. Together, as a family, we moved forward toward her cure.
The Healing Board grew in number. Everybody, it seemed, wanted to be a part of the amazing life adventure. Members took on roles and tasks. Carol and Ruth planned a meal calendar and had others sign up to bring dinners. Carleen was the fashion coordinator, making sure that Mom had stylin’ hats and scarves for her head, which was sure to bald during chemo. Elaine organized transportation for the older kids and all their activities. Carmen planned Shea’s day care and rides to pre-school. And so it went. Barbara scheduled girls’ nights in the hospital so Mom was never alone during her long weeks of chemo-drip. On and on, week after week, month after month.
The other kids each handled the situation their own way. Our older son was in denial. “Mom’s fine,” he’d say. “Mom’s fine.” It took a 17 year-old girlfriend to give him a verbal wake-up slap in the face before he faced the truth. “Your mom might die,” she said plainly. “She really might die!”
“Could she, Dad?” he asked. “Yes,” I said, again speaking plainly. “But she won’t. She needs you, though. You.” At 18, one does not expect to shave a mother’s thick black hair. But, as that hair was beginning to come out with each touch of a brush – or a hand – that’s exactly what he did.
Our daughter, like her mom, faced it all head on. At 14, she took it upon herself to talk to her principal and her teachers. “My mom’s got really bad cancer. We’re dealing with it, but if I lose it in school some day, that’s why.” She also told her mom that she was going to be fine and that mom would use her experience to help others survive life’s ordeals.
Our youngest was just four. Our bonus. He heard some of the conversations. He knew Mom was sick. He saw all the people coming and going. He experienced the hubbub. He rolled with the punches. Mom, he knew, had to go to see the doctor a lot. Then she spent time in the hospital. The first time she had to go to the hospital, it was only for a short time, but she got really sick when she came home, so she had to go back. For a few days. What the little guy did not know was that the doctors had administered her first dose of chemo incorrectly and it had almost killed her. What he also didn’t know was that she’d found a new doctor who would not make the same mistake again!
Life went on. As a family, we tried to maintain a sense of normalcy, especially for Shea, as he was so young. The pace and intensity, the focus and the events, though, were unlike what any of us had known as normal. Mom would go to the hospital for chemo every three weeks. She’d spend a full week receiving a slow drip. Then she’d come home and spend several days in bed. In the meantime, my son went to Montessori pre-school; somebody always got him there. He went to play at someone’s home most days after school. At some houses were friends; at others were “new friends.” In the evenings, the family was home for dinner, but sometimes, too, other people were there, as well. The food was always abundant, hot and delicious – and delivered fresh daily. What the boy didn’t know was that so much food was being brought in that there was no way the family could eat – or store – it all. Before long, the delivery dates were adjusted to avoid waste. What he did know was that some days at dinner he’d have a craft project to show, some days he’d tell us about a movie he’d seen, and some days…well, some days just happened. On many days, Celine Dion would sing in the background.
This went on for months. People would come by almost daily. The Healing Board would meet in the living room before each new week-long chemo session. They’d come, laugh, talk, eat and pray. Lots of people. Shea played along, seeming to take it in stride.
Finally it stopped. The weeks of chemo, anyway. After chemo came surgery and the removal of the tumor, vertebrae, pieces of lung…. The surgery was going to be big. In preparation, Shea visited the surgeon’s office with Mom and Dad. As the surgeon explained the impending procedure, he pointed to bones and other areas on a life-size skeleton in his office. Point here. Open here. Remove this. Replace that. The surgeon spoke; the skeleton fascinated Shea. It was a real, bone-by-bone human skeleton, the kind they have in books. This one, though, he could touch. Fun. A little scary, but fun.
The surgery date was set. Mom was going to go back to the hospital again. It had been a while and her hair was even starting to grow back. She wasn’t as sick as she had been, especially when she’d gone for chemo. Life was sort of getting back to the way it used to be. Mom packed her bag for the hospital. Dad carried it into the car. Our son was going to stay home with his older sister when Dad took Mom in. It was time for Mom to leave. She walked down the hall for one more hug and kiss.
That’s when he lost it.
For months, this young man had gone with the flow. He’d rolled with the punches. He’d played along. At that moment in the hallway, though, with visions of skeletons, talk of surgery, and Mom asking for one last kiss, he completely and utterly broke down. With wails of anguish, tears of despair, sobs and moans, he held Mom as tight as his 4 year-old arms would allow and begged her not to go. His heart was breaking; he was inconsolable. Mom got down on the floor and cradled him, rocked him as she had done when he was an infant. “You’re in my heart,” she assured him. “You’ll stay in my heart forever.” And then, “I’ll be home soon. I love you too much to stay away for long.” He calmed a bit, enough for Big Sister to take him and allow Mom to leave.
Mom’s surgery was the following morning. 14 hours. The surgery, itself, is a story of skill, faith, close calls and triumph. That evening, Mom was in post-op recovery.
Nina, a close friend and Board member, had brought the kids to the hospital. We did not know if we would be able to see Mom so soon after the procedure, but it wasn’t long before we were given permission to do so. We’d been warned, however, that she’d been through a long, difficult operation, that her appearance might be disturbing, and that she might not be fully awake. We should not worry if she didn’t respond to our presence. We were prepped and we prepped. I picked my youngest up and carried him as we entered the post-op recovery room. Mom was behind a curtain. The nurse pulled it back to create more room for all of us.
Mom was lying on a bed, flat on her back. Her neck was in a brace. There were dozens – literally dozens – of tubes of various sizes and colors dripping and draining several areas of her body. She was covered in a small light sheet; most of her body was exposed. Part of an enormous surgery wound was visible on her side. To the most experienced medical person, the sight of such a patient might be unnerving. Mom looked toward us and smiled.
My son began giggling. He was looking, pointing, and counting. His giggles turned to full blown laughter. As I held him, he clapped. “Look!” We did. It wasn’t a sight to bring such glee to a four year-old. “Look!” he repeated. “Two hands. Two arms. Two feet. Fingers and toes. Ears. She’s all here! She’s still all Mom!” It was then that we understood. This young boy’s fear had been that the surgeon would cut his mother up and take away the pieces. Although that’s exactly what happened, they weren’t pieces he’d ever see. As far as he was concerned, Mom was all there, intact. Mom would be coming home. I held him close so that he could give her a kiss. His heart was full.
Treatments were not over yet. There was recovery from the surgery, followed by months life in a neck brace. Then there would still be weeks and weeks of radiation, specialized radiation which would be administered in Boston, across the continent. By that time, though, the four year-old had turned five and started kindergarten. He remembers that.
As time went by, Celine Dion’s song from Titanic was played less frequently. In time, too, Mom made a full and miraculous recovery; she is cancer free. The Healing Board disbanded. The kids thrived. Life went on. There are still moments from that time which we revisit when we are all together. The older kids are adults now. They remember a lot and have their own stories to tell.
That four year-old, too, has grown and matured into a fine and handsome young man. He always has lots of stories to tell. When he was three. The soccer State Cup. Mr. Jones in 4th grade. Girlfriends. His baseball MVP….
To this day, however, he never generates a memory of being four.
And he never listens to Celine sing My Heart Will Go On.