Mama was feeling better and better every passing month. Her face became rosy and as fresh as that of a young woman. She became merrier and more attractive. She was truly happy at last, after so many trials and tribulations. The grandchildren – they were the ones who became her joy and concern. It seemed that the little pranksters, already four of them, were busy with one thing – organizing “pogroms,” and they did it quite successfully. Toys were scattered all over the place. Newspaper and magazines were “read” so many times that they turned into shreds that covered the floor. The walls of the rooms looked like an art gallery where works of the craziest incomprehensible artists were displayed… In a word, our house, like the home of any family with many children, didn’t excel in proper order. Did it upset anyone? Mama laughed happily, enjoying the kids’ games and pranks.
There is an old custom in Central Asia… When a sheep falls ill, gravely ill, they put a newborn lamb next to it. The sheep often gets better as it takes care of the lamb. But if this kind of shifting of attention to something positive, if such loving care of a weak creature helps a sheep, then it must be a hundredfold more useful for a mother with a loving heart. When my wife Svetlana and I had discussed whether it was the right time to have a third child, we had decided that the arrival of the baby might be a good stimulus for Mama and give her more energy.
That was what had happened. When baby Esther came into the world, Mama was transformed. Now the most important thing in the morning was not her herbs anymore, it was little Esther in Grandma’s bed. When the little one was brought to her bedroom in the morning, Mama, to save face, scolded us first of all (“The baby is cold again… Her little nose is cold…”). Then she would hug the little warm bundle and begin to mumble and blissfully whisper something. Morning started with joy, and so it was the whole day.
Our friendship with the tabib had continued and grown stronger. Now he visited us more often than we did him in Namangan. After awhile, Mama had tired of all those long trips over so many years. Besides, she didn’t understand why they were necessary. And it wasn’t bad for the tabib to get some fresh air near the ocean and to take a break from his numerous patients twice a year. It was true that hundreds of eager new patients were seeking to consult with him.
"Mukhitdin-aka," Mama complained to the tabib during one of his visits, "I am gaining weight all the time… Look how fat I’ve become."
"You don’t say, Esya-apa!" the doctor answered raising his eyebrows. "But that’s good. The weight is a wonderful index. It gives you more energy. Show me one woman," and here he stumbled, "…who has suffered your illness and looks so well… ptui- ptui – ptui!"
It was nice to hear it, and it was really great to watch Mama, but the tabib and I knew the truth. He had managed to slow down the process, to slow it down considerably. He had managed to give Mama energy to keep on living, to improve her general physical and mental state, but the metastasis continued and was performing its terrible destructive work.
I would take Mama to the hospital for regularly scheduled tests. The doctors only shrugged their shoulders. They could see the healthy-looking woman, but meanwhile, her lungs, ribs, and joints had nodes of metastasis.
Five years had passed since the time we had taken our first trip to Namangan and begun the treatment with the tabib. It was a very long time for an oncology patient who by then had been in “the fourth, or final” stage of the disease. Both those years and Mama’s general health had been won in the battle with the terrible enemy.
Changes began inconspicuously. Sometimes, after Mama got up in the morning, she was pale, and it was clear that she was out of sorts. Other times, she felt sick and would go upstairs to lie down during the day. Sometimes, pain in the back kept her from sleeping. Sometimes, she would be sitting on the couch enjoying the company of little Esya, who was babbling something sitting in her baby carriage, when suddenly she would close her eyes, listening to something inside herself, fighting something off.
The enemy began to attack again, first cautiously, then boldly. It became particularly bold in the fall of 1998. Her pain and weakness increased every passing day. It was more and more difficult for her to move. She had almost lost her appetite. Mama was changing before our very eyes… her rosy complexion was more often grayish… deep wrinkles crossed her face.
She couldn’t sleep or live without painkillers anymore. Doctor Maria Yakobova, a pleasant, knowledgeable person from the old country, visited Mama to give her injections every other day. Maria Borisovna made a correct decision – she eased the pain with injections in the vertebrae affected by that metastasis that pressed on the nerve endings.
They continued telling me over and over at the hospital that x-rays, and tests showed serious deterioration. The doctors worried; they pushed me hard.
"Something should be done, radiation, at least," the oncologist insisted. “Just on this node," he showed me the node on the x-ray. “If we don’t shrink it, she’ll be paralyzed. As to your herbs, they are good for hens.”
I was at a loss. The tabib was doing everything he could. His herbs were powerful, but Mama’s immune system was so weakened and compromised that his herbs couldn’t stimulate it sufficiently. And here they were offering me something that would prevent paralysis. Here we could hope to get actual help. Did I have a right to turn it down? Mama was suffering so much.
But before taking Mama for radiation I had to tell her the truth.
It had been five years since the swirling whirlpool of the unpredictable had begun swallowing me up. I thrashed around, tried to swim out of it but only rarely managed to climb onto a shifting little island for a short respite. I even became accustomed to the situation. One day I would be in New York, the next I flew with Mama to Namangan. One day I would have a chance to inhale the sweet air of hope, but another day a new ordeal would begin, leaving me breathless – a new dim spot on an x-ray… I never knew what the next day would bring. But I knew one thing for sure: I had to conceal, as long as possible, Mama’s diagnosis, the numerous problems, the hopelessness of the situation, to conceal it from my family, from Emma, and most of all from Mama.
I broke my silence when I told Emma everything. I had to do it. It was impossible to conceal the real state of things from her any longer. She would not forgive me. Now I had to talk to Mama, but she did it before I had been able to…
That evening, I came home late, but the light was still on in Mama’s bedroom. I looked in on her. Mama was sitting on her bed. Emma, upset and tense, was across from her.
"Come in and close the door," Mama said. "Now sit down. Tell me, please, how much longer are you going to conceal from me… What is it you're concealing?"
Emma and I looked at each other and shrugged our shoulders. What was she talking about? I wasn’t going to argue with her. I just wanted to understand what Mama actually knew.
"Enough taking me for a little fool. I can see that you are both out of sorts. You, Valera, cannot sit still, and you hide your eyes from me. Emma behaves as if she is dying… My x-ray results are really bad, right?"
She was calm and tender. She didn’t complain. She didn’t blame us. She had no hope of easing her own suffering. She just wanted to make it easier for us.
"This is my body, kids. Have a look. I know perfectly well what I have and where."
And she pointed to her spine, vertebrae, and everything else that caused her suffering.
"This damn infection sits here and here… You, sonny, stop consulting with doctors. Stop torturing yourself and me."
I was about to say something, but she interrupted me. "No, kids, I won’t do chemo. I don’t want to lie in bed black all over from chemo. I want to be as I am… as long as possible. I want to walk, hug my grandchildren, kiss them, tickle them, and give them a pinch on their little behinds. I think I have another year or two. I am not afraid of death. No, I am not."