Cancer goes on. So does life. Just ask Mary Ann O'Rourke, author of a beautiful essay about her two sons, a baseball game, a redecorating project, and a little thing called breast cancer. The essay, titled My cancer, and me, go on, will warm your heart.
Think about this:
About boys:
On a misty June morning I tell the boys.
"Guys, I have some bad news," I say, as we walk down Valley Road.
They stop, wait for me to catch up.
"I have breast cancer," I say.
Jack flashes me a steely look. He's the mathematician, the calculating one who likes order. Things aren't adding up.
"It's OK, though." I say. "I have good doctors taking care of me. I'll have to get sick to get better, but I'll be fine after that."
With lowered heads, the boys hold a polite and deferential silence. We continue our walk.
"Jack, you wanna build a fort?" Joe asks.
"No, Joe," Jack replies. "We're playing baseball, remember?"
About baseball:
Sunny and 70 degrees, a gentle breeze is blowing in from Lake Michigan as we settle into our bleacher seats. My husband, Leo, passes down two Cokes, a beer and a Wrigley Field visor to protect me from the sun.
The Cubs lead in the ninth inning when Milwaukee's left fielder cranks one over our heads onto Sheffield Avenue to bring in the winning run for the Brewers. Jack and Joe lean over the railing and watch Sammy Sosa shake his head in disgust.
The beer tastes bitter. I had started chemotherapy a week earlier.
About redecorating:
I'm drawn to a loose seam of wallpaper in the corner of the room. I peel off a long, satisfying swath. I move from panel to panel, stripping all that comes easy. I feel the wall, scrape with my fingernails, yank hard and viscously, over and over.
I'm learning the sad truth about wallpaper. The battle is not so much with the paper, as it is with the glue underneath. Even with DIF, the paste comes off slowly, in tiny wads of goo. I scrape feverishly, angrily at one stubborn patch. As I gouge the wall, the razor pops out of my hand, flips upside down and slices my right wrist.
About breast cancer:
It's been 31⁄2 years since my diagnosis.
On a frigid February morning, with a cup of coffee in one hand, I climb the ladder to Joe's bunk bed.
"C'mon honey," I nudge. "We gotta work on those spelling words."
I place a soft pillow behind my moppy morning hair.
Joe slowly comes to life.
"PROCEED," he mumbles. "P-R-O-C-E-E-D."
As he rattles off words, I sip my coffee and bask in the warmth of his room.
Frost outside the window sparkles in the morning sun. A pirate ship poster wilts from the vapors of Joe's fish tank. My carefully planned navy-amber-white color scheme clashes with his Civil War map and his Kansas City Chiefs pennant.
The gouge in the wall warms my heart, and I reach under the blanket to squeeze Joe's toes.
