"Yes darling, it's cancer".
I stare at the floor that I know is there, but can't see. It's 4am, I am on the toilet, sitting in the dark, hiding myself from the words I just heard. I live in New York and I've just been told my Mum has tongue cancer. I crawl back into bed, "my Mum has cancer" whispering, as though someone might speak back through the night and tell me I was wrong.
Three weeks pass and I say my goodbyes to New York as though it's my first born child. I think of all my favourite things we can do together. I visit my favourite coffee shops, restaurants, parks, stores, friends, I dye my hair and I even say goodbye to the clubs, as though I may never taste belvedere again.
I almost couldn't bare to see it... so bare. I had just spent the last 5 days saying goodbye to every person that meant something to me, every place, every memory, I went back to it and parted with it- my Mum has cancer, who knows when I will be back. But did I have to do it with my room too? Enough goodbyes, I need some hellos. Z and I spend the morning searching for matching rings, something we had been meaning to do and panicked when realising today was the last. We hailed the first taxi and sped downtown, sped was our plan, but crawl was our reality being caught in traffic. I needed these rings, because they will make the distance seem less, right? Right.
We heaved each bag down three flights of stairs, seeming more like boulders being carried down cliffs. In my head I keep saying "I change my mind! WAAAIT! I'm not ready!". Each level of the apartment building I get too, I begin the bargaining "we can turn around right now Rachel, you're still here ... But you can't - just keep moving". I stand in front of my door, posing for one last photo. Maybe I could just stay? No you can't, you can't, keep going.
We each take up positions on either side of 9th avenue, purposely standing away from the suitcases to trick the taxi driver. Several taxis pass who refuse to go to La Guardia. I'm going to miss my flight. Finally someone stops, we pile my life into the trunk and under our feet. Goodbye home.
I don't cry much. My sunglasses are on. But I don't cry much. Each suitcase weighs exactly 50 pounds, no more and no less than I'm allowed. I don't look out the window for long, in fear it may trigger some mental break like Kristin Wigg from the movie Bridesmaids. Off I go, back to Australia. Back to reality. Back to cancer.
Within two days I am working, and within two weeks I have a car. Life is sorted. Week three and Mum goes into hospital. She is having half her tongue and both lymph nodes in her neck removed. Life now is different. A month ago I was sipping wine with a NYC skyline. And here I am. But it's ok. The doctor phones to tell me her four hour surgery went well "she's stable". I drive to the hospital, and wait three hours for her to come onto the ward from recovery. What was taking so long? Why isn't she out of recovery? The nurse comes to see me "I'll let you know when she arrives", with her soothing smile. I clear my throat as to not sound like Kristen Wigg having a mental break again "what if somethings happened? Is this normal to take so long?!". Not long after and she's wheeled past me and I'm told to wait 10 minutes. Do you have any idea how long 10 minutes is? It's 600 seconds and I noticed every single one. Up until 6 months ago, no one in my family had been sick and no one had died- things always worked out. But somehow, things hadn't been working out. June 4th my Uncle died, July 27th my Ma died and now in October my Mum is laying in a hospital bed with cancer and they're telling me to wait 10 minutes?! If one more person told me to be positive I was going to kick them in the shin. I was being positive, I AM positive but hey, guess what- this sucks. Like really really super hugely sucks.
I'm not sure if anything can prepare you to see someone you love laying in a hospital bed, oxygen mask covering their mouth, tubes in their nose and drains coming from their neck - unable to speak without wincing in pain. Not traveling, not even living in New York, will prepare you for that. For the next 6 days I watched her learn to speak, learn to smile and learn to eat. Her recovery began with eating apple puree, who knew it would look as though she was swallowing rocks. I looked down at my hands, as if they didn't belong to me. I was shaking and I couldn't stop. At that moment I wanted to both push the doctor out the window and yell "no more apple puree!" and then sprint out of the hospital room, never to return again. But this was all harder for her than it was for me. So I stayed. And each day she became stronger, making friends with other women on the ward and when day 6 arrived, she was able to come home. Three weeks have now passed and the cancer has gone. Thank you world, she made it.
So here I am, back in Australia - back home. It's as though nothing but at the same time, everything has changed. Thats me and thats everything else. But mainly thats death. The death of my Uncle and my Ma, who both passed while I was away, have left my world here forever different. But death, I have learned, is inevitable. It will continue to rear its head so I must learn to adjust. And a life without them in it, will also have to be. As Lena Dunham has said of death:
No matter what I do, or what I say or pretend to feel - something is still pulling inside. I always said New York had become home, but those words would never ring more true than when I landed back here in Australia and felt that, oh. I'm blessed to live in Sydney, the Northern beaches, arguably some of the most beautiful beaches in Australia and/or the world. I have wonderful friends and wonderful family. However, I have half a heart still alive and well, beating over the ocean, deep in the streets of New York City.
So to those that wonder, should I go? Should I travel? Should I leave? I say DO IT! Pack up, get on that plane and go. Push that doctor out the window (no don't really) but go! Sprint! 18 months in America has been the most life changing experience. There is nothing that compares and perhaps nothing that will. And while it didn't prepare me for cancer, it prepared me for much more. I learned life and death happen wherever you are and to cherish every second. I fell in love with places and people I didn't even know existed. I have dreams of another time, another place. I can relive those memories and I speak to some of my friends over there, every single day, time difference or not - they're part of my life now. Those moments I created are forever mine. That city stimulated my brain like a hay barn on fire. I don't know what will come next, but I know i'll be back in that city before long, for however long it may be. I will forever be blessed with two places I call home. Two big cities full of people I love.
I'm not sure if anything can prepare you to see someone you love laying in a hospital bed, oxygen mask covering their mouth, tubes in their nose and drains coming from their neck - unable to speak without wincing in pain. Not traveling, not even living in New York, will prepare you for that. For the next 6 days I watched her learn to speak, learn to smile and learn to eat. Her recovery began with eating apple puree, who knew it would look as though she was swallowing rocks. I looked down at my hands, as if they didn't belong to me. I was shaking and I couldn't stop. At that moment I wanted to both push the doctor out the window and yell "no more apple puree!" and then sprint out of the hospital room, never to return again. But this was all harder for her than it was for me. So I stayed. And each day she became stronger, making friends with other women on the ward and when day 6 arrived, she was able to come home. Three weeks have now passed and the cancer has gone. Thank you world, she made it.
So here I am, back in Australia - back home. It's as though nothing but at the same time, everything has changed. Thats me and thats everything else. But mainly thats death. The death of my Uncle and my Ma, who both passed while I was away, have left my world here forever different. But death, I have learned, is inevitable. It will continue to rear its head so I must learn to adjust. And a life without them in it, will also have to be. As Lena Dunham has said of death:
“But occasionally the feeling stays with me, and it reminds me of being a child — feeling full of fear but lacking the language to calm yourself down. I guess, when it comes to death, none of us really have the words".
"I believe I'm meant to see the world and travel, to be in places that sometimes make me sad and lonely. To be out of my comfort zone completely. I believe I'm meant to be surrounded by shitty people at times so I can wake up everyday and appreciate the significant ones. As trivial as I may be in this enormous universe, this keeps me humble, and for that I am thankful ".
So to those that wonder, should I go? Should I travel? Should I leave? I say DO IT! Pack up, get on that plane and go. Push that doctor out the window (no don't really) but go! Sprint! 18 months in America has been the most life changing experience. There is nothing that compares and perhaps nothing that will. And while it didn't prepare me for cancer, it prepared me for much more. I learned life and death happen wherever you are and to cherish every second. I fell in love with places and people I didn't even know existed. I have dreams of another time, another place. I can relive those memories and I speak to some of my friends over there, every single day, time difference or not - they're part of my life now. Those moments I created are forever mine. That city stimulated my brain like a hay barn on fire. I don't know what will come next, but I know i'll be back in that city before long, for however long it may be. I will forever be blessed with two places I call home. Two big cities full of people I love.
“At the bottom of her heart, however, she was waiting for something to happen. Like shipwrecked sailors, she turned despairing eyes upon the solitude of her life, seeking afar off some white sail in the mists of the horizon. She did not know what this chance would be, what wind would bring it her, towards what shore it would drive her, if it would be a shallop or a three-decker, laden with anguish or full of bliss to the portholes. But each morning, as she awoke, she hoped it would come that day... ”.
R xx
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