Specifically, brain cancer.
And she was a touch dehydrated.
Dr. Jackson told her with great empathy that she probably had six to eight months depending on her overall health, and maybe they could squeeze out another six months with an aggressive treatment plan, but the bottom line was the same—the cancer was in a place that was mostly inoperable, and she was going to die.Bastard.
After the initial shock wore off (to be clear, it never wore off, just knitted itself into every membrane so that her every waking thought wasI have cancer), she realized she had decisions to make.
From what she understood, the standard of care to prolongher life was to go all out with surgery with what parts they could reach, then go in guns blazing on what remained with chemo, and possibly radiation, and then …blah blah blah.Frances had zoned out because she’d been trying to grapple with this terribly upsetting news. She’d told Dr. Jackson she had to absorb it, and talk to her family, and that she’d give his office a call in a couple of days. It had been a week since that day, and not only had she not told Aaron, but she had also not called the oncology office.
In her defense, she’d been too busy thinking.
She kept coming back to the fact that Dr. Jackson hadn’t asked her if she wanted to prolong her life. Was it a given that she did? Did everyone want to prolong their life with a diagnosis like this? Frances wasn’t so sure. She felt pretty darn good now, and the very thought of “aggressively” making herself sick to gain an extra six months didn’t sound like a good deal. She’d watched too many people in her life suffer through cancer treatment to think her treatment would be anything but a shit show.
Nick had died of Lou Gehrig’s disease, and that was the most excruciating thing she’d ever been through. They’d done everything they could to prolong his life, and he’d lived those last months in agonizing pain. She couldn’t imagine going through it all again, only this time, as the one who was sick. She couldn’t imagine her son watching another parent go through it all again. She couldn’t imagine the expense.
Which was why she hadn’t told her son yet. Somehow, she and Nick had managed to create an overachiever, a son who wanted to take care of everything, and if given an inch would take care of all the miles ahead. He’d called after her fall, before she’d seen the oncologist, sounding stern and slightly panicked. “Mom!”
She’d just stepped out of the bath, wrapped in a thick bathrobe, her hair in a thicker towel, annoyed that the damn bandage on the back of her head was going to be an issue with styling. “Oh, honey, I was going to call you after dinner.”
“After? I’ve been worried sick! Marjorie said you had a head injury.”
“I don’t have a head injury,” she said soothingly. (She had a head injury.) “A slight concussion, that’s all.” (With a little cancer thrown in for good measure.)
“A concussion?” Her poor son was practically yelling. “Do you know how dangerous concussions are for the elderly?”
“You don’t have to make it sound like I’ve got one foot in the grave.” (She apparently had one foot in the grave.) “Calm down, Aaron. I’m fine. They sent me home, and they wouldn’t have done that if they thought I was in any danger.”
That appeased him somewhat. “Okay, well, who is looking after you?”
“No one! I don’t need looking after. I’ve had concussions before and it’s not a big deal.”
“You’re not making me feel better,” he said. “Did they ask for follow-up tests? What if it’s a vision thing, or a problem with motor skills? It could even be the early stages of dementia,” Aaron said. “People don’t fall for no reason.”
“Dementia! You stop that right now, Aaron Nicholas Deluca. People fall. I fell because I slipped on some spilled soda and not because of anything else. Do not try to make this worse than it is.”
There was a long pause at the other end. “You’re right,” he conceded. “I’m sorry, Mom. I just need to know you’re okay. I worry with you so far away. Jackie and I’ve been talking, and we both think it would be so much better if you were closer to us and the girls. There are some great senior living options in Omaha.”
Alarm bells had sounded in Frances’s head. He’d made noises before about her being closer, but this was the first time he’d said, “senior living options in Omaha.”
“I’m sure there are,” she said. “But they’re in Omaha.”
“You might really like it here,” Aaron had insisted. “The weather has Houston’s beat.”
Every place in the world had Houston’s weather beat.
“At least think about it—you’d be close to your grandkids.”
That was not the selling point her son thought it was. Frances loved her granddaughters, adored them, and she could see how this idea would make sense to anyone else. She had, after all, complained about being bored and wanting something more in her life. Didn’t that usually mean more time with grandkids? But living in Omaha waiting for her grandkids to visit, especially as they grew older and developed their own lives, and then when they did visit, watching them watch their phones, wasn’t exactly what she had in mind. She had in mind adventure.Life.Not waiting to die with a bunch of demented seniors sitting in front of Fox News, which was exactly what she’d be doing in Omaha.
And then Aaron had asked her what her bank password was. Frances, being a good mother, had rattled it off without a thought. “Kiknga$$52.”
Aaron had sighed heavily. “Seriously?”
“What? I’ve been kicking ass since 1952.”
“That’s your password for Netflix, Mom.”
“And Google. And Amazon. And Neiman Marcus. And—”
