Thank you for signing me up, Mommy

Perspective

Cathy has cancer. She's about 32 and has a 6 yo son Matthew at home, and a husband who adores her. I spent a portion of my husband's office party last night talking with her.

Cathy works for my husband at his office. She's been there a long time, and she's the go-to gal for everything in the office. I don't know exactly what her job is, except maybe doing the books. But she knows everything about the place. I can tell that Charles confides in her about important business things--the numbers. She keeps his confidence locked up like Ft. Knox.

She keeps no secrets about cancer. She was wearing a stunning auburn wig last night. I didn't recognize her at first. She was tall, and thinner than she should be, and wearing a long suede skirt and twinset. I sat down next to her and told her how great she looked in that red wig. She joked about how now everyone's seen all her hair colors. Larry said he thought she looked good as a blond, but he's changed his mind now that he's seen red. Her skin is just the right color for it.

While everyone else was sampling the hor'dourves, I asked Cathy how she was doing. She told me all about what's happening with her chemo, that she's done with this last round for at least 2 months, and how she can't remember how long it takes for her hair to grow back. She told me about how she's losing her hearing a little, but it might come back, and that the growth they removed from her neck during this last round was malignant. I don't know what kind of cancer Cathy started out with 4 years ago. It doesn't matter, though. She has it and it has spread and she's going to die before her boy grows up.

Somehow the conversation moved to attitude. Cathy has a great attitude and she'll tell anyone that they can ask her anything about her cancer and she'll tell them. But she's not pushy about it. She told me all this because I asked. I felt utterly comfortable asking about her hair and other not too personal things. She started talking about perspective and we talked a little about Nick, another of Charles' employees who is now serving in Iraq. She asked about Jake and how he was doing.

I gave her all the updates, that I'd spoken to him right before I came in the restaurant, etc. In fact I still had a few tears welling up when I'd walked in, so I had to duck into the restroom to compose myself. I always shed a tear or two when I hang up the phone with Jake.

Sitting there with Cathy was comforting for me. Not that I was thankful it was not me in her shoes. Not in that way at all. But her example of being in control of how to think about her cancer helped me. I can't compare having cancer to my son going to Iraq. I told her that. But we connected on the fact that the two things are always always in the forefront of our minds. Her cancer for her, and my son in harm's way for me. A layer of ozone through which every thought is filtered. She talked to me about the odds of something happening to Jake and how dangerous it was to drive on the interstate. I asked her how she handles the cancer being the one thing overshadows everything. She said it just does. It is. There's nothing to do about it.

And what about the unspoken? There's always that. Always, I know that the other person is thinking, "what if he doesn't make it back?" What if you don't make it back? She nodded and we shared a silence that to me meant we understood each other. She said she does think about that and she knows people are thinking it. But it just is.

I find that there's no real reason to tell others that my son is going to Iraq. I want people to know. It seems like something I have to put on every morning, like a blue shirt. Like they won't know me or see me or have any way to relate to me without them knowing that. At a meeting at work, where I formally met everyone for the first time, the one thing I could think to say about myself was that my son was going go Iraq in January. And to justify that, I quickly added, "So if I freak out next month, you'll know why."

Wouldn't it seem odd that if Jake...oh geez, I can't even type it..the idea seems so bare and naked and direct...if Jake weren't to make it back, wouldn't it seem odd to the people I've met at work and other places if I suddenly disappeared and THEN they find out my son was in Iraq? Wouldn't they wonder why I didn't tell them?

I don't know how to take off that particular blue shirt.

Charles told me later that Kurt, who is Cathy's husband, says that Cathy is really strong at work. That she puts on a good face and a good attitude. But when she comes home she's exhausted and lies on the couch and is afraid. She has plenty to be afraid of. Who can endure the pain of knowing you'll leave your child motherless?

It hardly seems fair or right or honest that I should be worried about losing my son, when I think of Cathy. But it just is. She doesn't mind.

I hope I get to talk with Cathy some more. I wish some miracle will happen and she will be cured, and all our troops will come home before Jake can get there. But right now I have to go put on the blue shirt.

posted by Karen Ann @ 4:13 AM