~ visit to Mom's grave on Mother's Day ~

They paid about $1000 for an MRI so they could find out, sooner, what is happening inside Mom's body. Then they went to the kidney specialist. That was on May 17th, a Monday. Out here in Saskatchewan, my sister and I waited to hear the results of the test. The call came in the middle of the afternoon, from Dad. He launched straight into it when I picked up the phone.

"It's terminal. There's nothing they can do for her."

"What?" I said, hoping I'd misheard.

Dad choked the words out again.

"You have got to be joking," I said. "Jesus."

"I know," he sighed. He spoke fast, and was trying not to cry.

"What do you need me to do?" I asked.

"Can you and your sister go tell Grandma?" he suggested. "She shouldn't be alone when she hears this news. Mom will phone her later."

"Sure, I'll do that."

"Okay. Can you handle it?"

"Yes. Can you, Dad?"

"I guess I'll have to."

We hung up the phone, and I began to wail from some place deep inside. I fell to my knees on the carpet and wept, then went to the kitchen and laid my head on the table and wept, then went outside and doubled over onto the grass in front of the step, crying. Eleven-year-old Everett followed me, eyes wide, hand held out to touch my arm.

"What's wrong, Mom?"

I told him. Then I phoned my sister Karen, whom Dad had just called.

"Do you need me to come over?" I asked.

"I don't think so," she said. "I have two pastors sitting at my kitchen table. I'm all right."

"Okay. I'm going for a walk then and I'll talk to you later."

Everett did not want to come, so I headed for the field, crying all the while. Scott's dad drove past me in his truck, and I averted my eyes so he would not see. The sun shone and the wind blew and I walked along the fenceline, crying. Six horses came over to see me, and I greeted them and kept walking. It was the saddest walk I've ever taken, and lasted about an hour. When I came in, Everett said "I've decided life sucks."

I took the phone outside to the swing and dialed my sister Joan's home in Kelowna, where Dad had called from. Mom answered. I said "Is there anyone around there calm enough to tell me exactly what the doctor said?"

"That would be me," she said, and went on to repeat the doctor's words about how one kidney is about five times the size of the other and the cancer has spread to her lymph nodes and liver and they cannot operate or do chemo or radiation because it might make the cancer move faster rather than help anything.

"I don't want you hoping for a miracle," she told me bluntly. "I'm going to die, and you might as well face it. It's going to happen to you some day too, you know! So I just want to make the best of the time I have left, and be happy. I feel fine right now."

After I'd cried some more and thought it safe to drive, I went to Grandma's and told her I had bad news and she should sit down. I blubbered as I forced the words out. She clasped her tiny hands together and said "Oh no. I never thought I'd be hearing news like this today. Not your mother! She was always such a happy person, and healthy. It should be me; I'm old."

She did not shed a tear. Instead, she said, "Well, we have to accept what life gives us. That's all. I can't believe it."

Within a couple hours of Dad's phone call, itchy red spots were forming on my right forearm. By nightfall, both arms were covered.