Seven years ago, my mother developed breast cancer and survived.
One and a half years ago, she developed cancer in her remaining breast and survived.
Today, a routine visit to her urologist for her chronic kidney stones has raised the spectre of cancer yet again. Today, it is a vague but sinister “something on the CAT scan” spectre. Tuesday, when she visits her oncologist, it will either gain a name — and power — or it will dissipate.
We joke about keeping her stocked up with illegal recreational drugs for the pain. We joke about her going on a spending spree with their savings account in her last days so that my father is forced to find a sugar mama to keep him.
We joke when times are black. It’s a coping mechanism. You laugh or you slit your wrists in despair.
We joke, but my father has serious health problems of his own and I doubt he’d survive my mother by very long.
It’s too soon.
It’ll always be too soon.