The worst news. Cancer. Of the lungs. Lung cancer. What? Yes. As soon as you’ve recovered from the hip surgery, you will have another surgery to remove the cancerous part of your left lung. You respond to this news with silence, at first; Victor holds off from discussing it until all three of us are gathered in the kitchen in Montclair. Your first thought is blank. Your second thought: That asshole just ruined my new kitchen. Your third thought: I spent an entire lifetime not smoking. I made not smoking an active thing. That’s not easy to do. Your fourth thought comes out of your mouth: Hold on. Victor. The doctor discussed this with you before he talked to me, Victor? That’s wildly unethical. I can’t even. . I knew as soon as they called that it was bad news, Lois. I persuaded them to tell me the results over the phone. I thought it would be better if I told you. The rest of your thoughts blur together into what is commonly recognized as shock. You don’t cry for another day or two. You can’t understand why everyone else isn’t crying, though; it doesn’t occur to you that they don’t want to upset you any more than you already are. You believe in expressing all feelings at all times, though this has never been a successful practice for you insofar as your feeling-expression resulting in any real change. Victor says that the doctors have given him some percentage chance of full recovery. The number doesn’t fully land, but you’re sure it’s above 50, and that’s enough for now. You can work with that. You’ll think about it later.
In post-op, the doctors report that they had to take two-thirds of your lung but that they’ve gotten everything, that you’ll have a full recovery. Your lungs, from years of singing, are impressive, the doctors say; the amount of lung removed still leaves you with more lung than most people have before the operation, so essentially you’re at everyone else’s square one. Something to be proud of. You made a little guest room for cancer in these lungs, great. The doctors strongly suggest a rigorous course of treatment as a matter of prevention, and Victor is also in favor of this, but as soon as they outline your treatment options, you know you’re not going to have any of them. You have done your research, of course. You are a person who asks questions and demands answers, and when you don’t like the first ones given, you go looking for ones you do. There are no guarantees. You learn the phrase “cut, poison, and burn,” and you’ve already been cut so you’ll skip the rest of that torture, thanks. You’ve brought this on yourself with your broken brain; maybe you can get rid of it if you can learn how to think better. You can say affirmations. You can affirm the hell out of this godforsaken disease. You don’t want to lose your hair; you don’t want to spend any more days in bed than you already do. You have things to do. You’ve got an engagement with the Virginia Symphony next spring. Victor is fully prepared to cancel that on your behalf; you say Oh no you don’t. You don’t want anybody in the business knowing about this. You’ve already been vocalizing, and right now you sound like shit, but your shit is ten times better than whoever they’ll replace you with. Plus if you can sing a concert that will obviously mean you’re fine.
So you practice. You double down on lessons, double up on your lung rehab exercises, learn compensation techniques. It takes a little more out of you than it has in the past, and by the end of this time, before the concert, you’re not at all where you’ve been before. There’s a different tone to your voice, and there’s less power, but there’s no less art. You receive the usual standing ovations and rave reviews in the local papers. Your lack of lung is not noted because they know nothing about it; you might even have gotten a better review had you come out about it, but you take a great deal of pride in the raves you’ve gotten under these circumstances. You sing better than half the dilettantes out there with recording contracts right now, with one less lung. You could sing the shit out of shit with half a lung.
But this performance took almost all the energy you had. You’ll just take a break now. You go in for your follow-up appointments, and the doctors find some more spots, not small ones, on your other lung, the lung you do still need. This time, Victor talks you into the chemo and radiation; you still really don’t want it, but you’re too tired to argue. You could double up on holistic treatments, you think, which you’ve already been doing: Reiki, acupuncture, crystals, affirmations, aromatherapy. But you agree to do it for him. You see his worry now.
These treatments, however, take the last small reserve of energy in your well. When you’re not sitting in the chemo room, you’re in your bedroom with the curtains drawn watching Golden Girls marathons. You feel somewhat better for brief periods between treatments, enough to plant a few fall flowers out front, catch up on some mending projects, start a new afghan for Betsy, to replace an earlier one you made that doesn’t match her sofa very well. Your doctors say you’ve made significant improvement. You do not feel significantly improved. You’re on oxygen most of the time, and that bullshit tank is a pain in your ass to drag around even on better days. Victor and Betsy suggest at least coming down to the living room, looking out at the beautiful backyard to get your spirits up. They don’t get it. You don’t want to see the life you’re not living; you don’t want hope for what you’re not going to have. But you can’t say that to them, even if it somehow wouldn’t make them sad, which you know it would. They’d try to cheer you up, rally you; you don’t want to be rallied. It’s confusing, because you were always such a fighter; maybe you’re finally done fighting. You should keep on going, to feel like this? Weren’t you the one who always told everyone that you were a huge proponent of assisted suicide, that if you had some horrible debilitating illness you wanted one of us to come pull the plug? You never got confirmations from me and Victor about that, and even Audrey, who understands you like no one else and who is a nurse and mother through and through, had said I don’t think so. You’re not going to record; you’ve known this for years. You’ve done some good in the world, not enough to make up for the excess of drama you’ve added, but you’ve done what you felt you could. Maybe you weren’t meant to be an old person. That feels true. You can’t picture yourself as a little old lady with a silver perm and unblended rouge. You still look good now; maybe this is meant to be. What is it they say about leaving a good-looking corpse?
Just before Thanksgiving, you’re feeling better. You’ve felt good enough to walk the dog all the way around the block, dragging that dumb old oxygen tank behind you. You’re looking forward to having me home. You plan dinner; Victor and Betsy will help, it’ll be like always. I fly in from Chicago the Sunday before, but when my cab pulls up in the driveway, you’re feeling a little weak. Victor puts you in the car to take you to the hospital to be on the safe side. Your daughter tells you she loves you, you mouth the words back, can’t get any air behind them, an apologetic look in your eyes. You know. You totally know. She doesn’t know, but you do.
The Year Is 2016
The year is 2016!
— Mom, that’s this year.
— Well, this year is the future from where I’m sitting. I’m not looking to go to outer space.
— Thank god.