By Jeffrey Sharlet January 2004 Years after living through her painful movement towards death, a son revisits his mother’s final journey. Through fragments of memories, doctors’ records, and his mother’s own writing, he tries to arrive at an understanding of what his mother underwent and understood Everybody has a mother, and they all die. Mine did; yours will too. When she does, you’ll be sorely tempted to make sense of what has happened. Ten years ago, a few years after my mother died, I asked my grandmother for my mother’s letters so I could write about her life. A book-loving woman, my grandmother nonetheless frowned. “Oh, I see,” she said. “You want to make a story of it.” But I didn’t. Stories require faith, and I don’t have any. My mother raised me unreligious in as many churches as we had friends. Since my father is Jewish but didn’t know much about it and lived somewhere else besides, my mother adopted Jewish holidays as well. For a year when I was little, she let a Buddhist live in the attic, and near the end of her life, she invited Charismatic Christians in to pray. Surrounded by faiths, I had none at all. When my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer, when she was 44 and I was 13, I sat mute in the churches we attended with increasing frequency. I didn’t know how to pray, not even for my mother’s life. By the time I began to learn, it was too late. All I could think to pray for was an end to the pain, hers and mine. While she was dying—disappearing for long spells to have her skin drawn on like parchment and blasted with radiation, to cling to an IV as if she were drowning, to have the marrow of her bones sucked out and replaced with fresh cells that quickly withered—I’d lie in my bedroom and stare at the ceiling, trying to see God. “Please,” I’d say, “let my mother die.” Useless prayers, they seem to me now; but then, in the 13 years since she died, I still haven’t found any of the faiths she wanted me to have, the belief that calms you like the hand of the lord. The summer after she died, I sorted through her papers: her half-finished stories, her abandoned novels, her never-sent letters, her journals, her poems, her patched-together prayers, thinking I might find the beginning of faith there. Instead I found fragments such as these: Undated, from a letter about her treatment: For about two days I was disoriented. No sense of time, no distinction between reality and fantasy. And I would clutch at the cloth on the bed, thinking it was my skin and wondering why it was so rough. Three months before she died: This body, bound in skin and downy hair, is shuddering, weeping. It breathes and whispers a thank you with each breath. It likes to walk fast and break into a run. It likes to be giddy. It likes the mysterious warm tingle of red wine on a dark winter night, the startle of fragrance when an orange is cut. It likes the smack of cold winter air. It likes to sweat. It likes to float in the water then dive, pretending it is a porpoise. It likes to dance until it is the music.–— My mother drowned lying in her own bed. She was 47, I was 16. Her last breath was of water—fluid had filled her lungs, to which her cancer had spread from her breast and her skin. My last glimpse of her I stole from my granny, who forbid me from looking at her daughter’s corpse, her sweet Nancy now gone. But out of duty and to repent for wishing her dead I snuck to the room she had died in. She lay in her bed, half-covered by blankets. It was quiet, my quiet and hers, so calm I couldn’t bring myself to say goodbye. She wouldn’t have heard. Not because she was dead, but because, Jesus, she died hard: her mouth open and dark, her lips pale and curved in to cover her teeth, her thick cheekbones worn thin like knives about to tear through her skin. Her eyelids had been shut by my granny’s hand but what they hid I couldn’t guess, there was nothing under them, as if her eyes had sunk deep down into her in one last bid to not see death. “When those prayer ladies came to save her before she died,” I thought, “she tricked them. They said ‘pray for your soul’ but she made them pray for her life. They prayed. She died.” Her spine arched up like she’d have jolted out of bed if weren’t for her arms, thick and shapeless, swelled to bursting from radiation. I wanted to slip my own skinny arms beneath her and lift her up high as the morning light. But the longer I looked the darker it got. “That’s not my mother,” I thought, and a second later I knew I’d betrayed her more thinking those words than I had wishing her dead. But all I saw was her mouth, gaping: filled with darkness, an empty universe within a corpse. “That’s my mother,” I said.–— I believe in my mother’s body—her corpse—more surely than I believe in God. It’s not exactly original to build a theology on a dead body. The Christianity my mother fled from and was drawn to is at its heart morbid: alive, and transfixed by death. The Christian saviour redeems his followers with the flow of his own blood. Catholics celebrate their redemption by eating his ‘flesh’. Less inclined to beat around the bush, a small tribe in central Africa used to eat the dead bodies of their beloved. Otherwise, they thought, the corpses would cause them to mourn forever. We buried my mother in a somewhat soulless cemetery, each grave capped by a stone of uniform shape and size. A modest rectangle set flat in the ground. I stare at it, looking not for her body but for the world it once contained. But that’s the tricky thing about the stones we set over graves—only once a millennium do they get rolled away. For the rest of us, they’re walls between now and then. Now: undeniable belief. Death will happen. Then: incomprehensible love. How could it end?For answers, you have to look somewhere in between. Years after my mother died, I decided to read her medical records. There I thought I’d find the most precise evocation of her fate: the facts of her death independent of stories and dreams. So I asked my sister, Jocelyn, to obtain them for me. Doing so wasn’t easy. At first my mother’s doctor’s office fell back on confidentiality. That such facts were secret meant this was forbidden knowledge that none but a doctor could understand. I grew more determined to have the records. They would reveal not only results but also calculations: dosages of medicines multiplied by counts of red blood cells; the tumours that killed her known not only by names but by measurements; the width and depth of her disease a record of its age, discerned by peeling back layers of exponential growth to its origin. One mutant cell gives birth to two daughters, the two are mother to four, the four become forgotten ancestors of billions, a world born within my mother’s breast. The records held the doctors’ estimations of the future. We wouldn’t understand such stories, the doctors warned, and would unjustly turn against those who told them. We would sue. And we would lose, because before the law the doctors would read aloud the records in voices of reason while we’d sputter with rage. We would desperately counter that on December 8, 1986, Dr G. wrote: “Lungs are clear and the heart has a regular rhythm without murmur.” How is it that the woman in possession of such virtues would drown in the fluid of those once-clear lungs, while her heart, calmed by morphine, did not even murmur in its own defence? When I finally received the documents—a thick stack of doctors’, nurses’ and radiologists’ reports—I cried at the modesty of the pages. In their letters to one another about possible treatments, her caretakers write cautiously and without clear vision, hopeful but uncertain. They turned out not to be priests meditating on life and death but technicians with a homely concern for a nice woman with whom their trades had brought them into acquaintance. “A pleasant lady,” observed Dr G., her primary physician, on her first meeting with my mother, “she is very intelligent and also very scared.” My mother’s doctors prescribed several cycles of a chemotherapy regimen. Sometimes the drugs made her nauseous; sometimes just thinking about them made her want to vomit. Then she woke up one morning and found her thick red hair coming out in bunches. If this upset her, she didn’t let it show. Instead, she bought herself silk scarves, gold, green, red, purple and turquoise. She also bought a wig of tight red curls. She seemed to wear the red curls as naturally as the long wavy hair she’d had most of her life. “I,” she said, “am Curly.” “I’m not calling you ‘Curly’,” I said. “That’s alright,” she decided. “Because I just am.”–— From notes kept by her doctor: Feb. 17, 1988: “Today the patient has a subcutaneous nodule at the angle of her left jaw.”May 9, 1988: “The right breast is entirely replaced by tumour. She continues to have multiple erythema, one in a necklace distribution.”November 8, 1988: “Necrotic.”November 21, 1988: “She is severely short of breath with any exertion, including just speaking.”–— From a letter to one of her doctors: I tend to pray in the style that I imagine others have prayed. For some reason I don’t find it necessary to be exclusive. I concentrate on Buddhist meditation and Christian prayer. And sometimes a phrase comes to me that seems addressed to the Great Spirit. This mornin
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