Who Volunteered Me?
Volunteering is optional for the eldest daughter
My mother was an emotional storm front. My whole life, I watched her bring the weather with her into any situation. Her storm rolled into my home when I was thirty-six, and my son, Logan, was three. Financial issues and my father’s death forced her to move in with us. We weren’t getting a temporary roommate. We were getting a lifelong roommate.
When my mother’s storm front rolled in, there was a power shift that came with it. She was not a functional adult roommate you found to share the household's financial costs. Karen felt like an additional child that I never gave birth to. Bills, doctor's appointments, meals, even her emotional wellness felt like they were my responsibility.
At first, it felt like it was manageable, between my husband and I, we seemed to have it under control.
It felt like a rainy day, but we had an umbrella.
Then the umbrella broke into shreds.
The moment it started was when my mother started to complain about pain in her back. She took Advil. She iced it. We used every muscle rub known to humankind.
The pain was allergic to treatment.
I would come home from my middle school English teacher job to hear screams that could rival Linda Blair from The Exorcist coming from her room.
My mom finally went to the doctor for the back pain that refused to let us pretend anymore.
“I saw the doctor today,” she said. “He thinks I have cancer in my back.”
“He thinks you have WHAT?” I echoed.
“Didn’t you hear me the first time?” She snipped.
“Oh, I heard. Why are you so casual about it? You are acting like he let you know you have hemorrhoids.”
Sarcasm arrived.
“This isn't a joke, Audra!”
Red cheeked and tear-stained, she threw me out of her room.
The night passed very slowly. I remember my mom staying in her room, muffled sounds of emotion leaking through the walls.
In the days that followed, the phone calls began. Suddenly, I was speaking with neurosurgeons’ offices, making appointments for things I didn’t yet understand.
“Ma, why didn’t you answer the phone calls from the doctors?”
“I can’t. I can’t handle it.” She shook her head like a child.
“You deal with it. You like to be the boss.” She turned back to the television.
“I wish someone else was dealing with this crap,” I mumbled.
“What did you say?” she shouted through the door.
“You would look great in a cap,” I shouted with sarcasm.
Later that night, my husband and I whispered in the dark, worrying, guessing, circling the same fears without naming them.
“Do you think she’s going to die?” I whispered to Doug.
The darkness covered us, and although I couldn't see Doug’s face, I could feel him thinking.
“I don’t know what to think honestly. I don’t know anyone who has cancer.” Doug softly replied.
“Why is this happening now? Why is it always you and me stuck with her issues?” I grabbed his hand.
“Maybe your cousins will help you. What about her friends?”
I popped on the light and looked at Doug.
“You know no one will help us.”
Doug kissed me on the forehead and adjusted the blanket.
“You need the rest. Try to sleep.”
The next day I reached out to friends and family to share the news.
My phone would not stop vibrating. Every text carried another person’s grief. By mid -afternoon, I had answered the same questions so many times that my head was spinning. Feeling annoyed, I walked into my mother’s room.
“People want to talk to you.” I tried hard not to let my impatience show.
“I don’t care, just leave me alone.” She cried from under her pillow.
I called my brother.
“Can you come up here? She's miserable, and I need help. I have an event for Logan, and I don't know what to do about her.”
“I can’t; maybe this weekend.” He replied.
“I need help NOW!” I screamed.
“I'll see you this weekend.” The phone clicked.
Logan was playing on the floor with Legos. He looked up at me with his big brown eyes and smiled.
“Mama, I love you.”
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I grabbed him and gave him a hug. I felt the tears well up in my eyes.
“How the heck am I going to do all this?” I thought to myself.
The night before the doctor’s appointment. My husband, Doug, told me he couldn’t come because of something at work. He had no choice.
“I am so sorry; if I am not there, it’s a big deal. My boss was freaked out when I told him. Do you think you’ll be okay?”
“I'll call someone to come with me.”
I dialed my brother again.
“Hey, can you come with me to the appointment with Mom tomorrow? I can’t do this alone, and Doug has an important meeting.”
“I can’t. I have to coach at this school.” He spoke.
“You know this is your mom too?” I felt the shift in my tone change.
“You live with her. I can’t be at everything.” His voice was tight.
“Are you going to be at anything?” I could barely get a lid on my temper.
This time, I was the one to hang up.
“Any luck with your brother?” Doug asked.
“He told me he has to work.”
“Anyone else?” He waited.
I called.
I texted.
No one answered.
“I cannot do this.” I thought to myself.
I set three alarms for myself that night. My clothes were picked out, and I had already prepacked lunch for Logan.
“If I am going alone to this nightmare. I might as well be prepared.”
Tossing and turning that night, my mind began to make lists of things I needed to bring to the appointment.
“I need a notebook!”
I looked at my clock.
3:30 am
“This SUCCCCCCKS!” I whispered-yelled
The sun came up the next day. As I sat with my coffee, I realized, “I am really doing this alone.”
My mother and I drove to the surgeon in silence. Every time I reached for the radio, she squawked, “Turn that off.”
I remember walking into the surgeon’s office and feeling like everyone was looking at us strangely. It was as if there was a secret we had missed. A rehearsal we hadn’t attended, for a show we were suddenly expected to perform in.
I started to panic when the surgeon pulled out the tissues. As a teacher, I only ever brought out tissues during parent conferences, right before things got heavy.
Dr. DaSilva was calm and soothing, his Venezuelan accent gentle and steady.
When the computer screen lit up and her spine appeared, the room shifted. He traced a dark circle around a shadow in her thorax. The glow of the screen washed over us.
That’s when my heart dropped.
The talking finally stopped.
The surgeon took a long pause and then asked, “Any questions, ladies?”
My brain shut down. I stared at the image; I managed to stutter, “So… you’re saying it’s cancer?”
My mom stared at the screen.
I stared at her.
“OH MY GOD!” she sobbed.
She headed out of the room with a nurse to do some blood work.
I was left alone sitting there. Unable to move.
“I didn’t tell your mother this, but she has Stage IV lung cancer that has spread to her back.”
“Why wouldn't you tell her?” I was furious.
“She doesn’t need to know that right now. Let her absorb the fact that she has cancer.”
“It’s okay for me to know?!!!” I felt like I was collapsing under the weight of it all.
“You are her eldest daughter. It’s your job to know.” He tried to smile to make me feel better.
“I didn’t volunteer for this.”
There was no room for my tears that day.
Just eldest daughter duty.
