Page 14 of A Mother’s Last Wish

14

LOUISA

Stan is nestled into the crook of my arm on one side of my body, and Flo is lying pressed up against my other side, her head resting on my rib cage, probably just inches away from the site of the original tumour that is going to take me from them. When that thought entered my head, I almost pushed her away, scared that the evil inside me might somehow reach her, even though I know it’s a completely irrational thought. Cancer isn’t catching, but the evil will still get to her when I break the news to them. I’ve already read three books; usually after one they start wheedling for more and I always give in. I normally draw the line at two, but not today. Tom is sitting in a chair beside the bed and every time I look at him, he gives me an encouraging smile. We’ve discussed the need for us to tell the children and have both agreed that reading the book Kate gave me will be the best way to introduce the subject, but I still feel paralysed. That’s why I’m about to reach for a fourth book, which has nothing to do with cancer, but then Tom intervenes, picking up the book that is lying on the table next to me.

‘Why don’t I read this one next?’ He gives me a level look and I raise my eyebrows in surprise. It’s been so hard for Tom to accept my prognosis, and I didn’t think he’d have the strength to be the one to tell the children, but then I’m not sure I do either.

‘Okay.’ It’s all I can manage, and my stomach is already churning because of what’s about to happen. In the next few moments my children’s lives will be changed forever.

‘What’s can-ker?’ Flo’s reading is coming on leaps and bounds, and her teachers have told us she’s reading at a level way above expectations for her age, but she still sounds out the second C in the word I hate more than any other, as a hard sound. I don’t want her to be able to pronounce the word properly, or to have any idea what it means. I want to protect her innocence for as long as possible. My mind seems to work overtime constantly, and another unwanted thought hits me. I won’t be around to give Flo ‘the talk’ when the time comes. Someone else will have to tell her about periods, how to stay safe and say no, and to be there to listen if she gets her heart broken by unrequited love, the way I so often did as a teenager. But those are heartbreaks for another day. Today Tom and I have to make our children understand the meaning of the word cancer, and how drastically it’s about to change all of our lives.

‘It’s called cancer, and Daddy’s going to read you a story about it, so you’ll know what it means.’ As I speak, Tom slides on to the bed next to Flo, so that she’s suddenly like the sandwich filling between us.

‘Why?’ Flo wrinkles her nose and looks from me to Tom and back again. She really is far too bright for her own good sometimes, and she’s clearly picking up on this story having far more significance than Sir Charlie Stinky Socks did.

‘Because Mummy is poorly and the thing making her poorly is called cancer.’ I can hear the wobble in Tom’s voice and I reach across and squeeze his hand.

‘It is like a cold?’

‘I wish it was.’ The blistering rawness of Tom’s pain is spelled out in those words and I feel it right down to my soul. Almost any other illness would be preferable to this, but it turns out you don’t get to choose the form of torture that’s inflicted on you.

‘Mummy?’ Flo’s lips start to quiver and there’s no doubt now she knows something is wrong, but this isn’t the way it’s supposed to go. So instead of giving in to the tears that are already burning my eyes, I paint on the biggest smile I can manage.

‘It’s okay, darling, everything’s okay and you don’t need to worry about anything, because you’re always going to be looked after and loved to the moon and back again.’

‘Me too! Me too!’ It’s what I say to the children every night and Stan’s demand to be included makes my smile genuine. I let go of Tom’s hand, so that I can hug them both close to me, squeezing so tight that Stan is already trying to wriggle free. I can see Tom furiously wiping his eyes, and I focus on my son in an attempt to stave off my own tears for long enough to get through this.

‘Of course it means you too, baby.’

‘I’m not a baby, I’m a big boy.’ Stan gives me such a serious look that I can’t help laughing. I love these two little people so much it hurts, but if the pain of leaving them is the price I have to pay for the privilege of having shared their lives, even if it wasn’t for nearly long enough, then I’d willingly pay it again and again.

‘Right then, shall we read this story?’ Swallowing hard, I ease the book out of Tom’s hands, knowing that he won’t be able to get through it, because he’s still wiping the tears from his eyes and turning away in a desperate attempt not to let the children see just how upset he’s become. Opening the book, I begin to read, offering up a silent prayer at the same time. I still don’t really believe in all of that, but seeing as Kate gave me the book, if there is a merciful God up there somewhere, listening to what I have to say, I hope she’ll have put a good word in for me. I’m not even asking for miracles that I know won’t be bestowed, I’m just asking for the strength to get through reading this story, and that what it reveals to my children won’t ruin their lives in the way I’m terrified it might. Either way, as I start to read, there’s no turning back.

‘So the doctors can’t make you better?’ Flo’s eyes are wide. It’s the fourth question she’s asked since I started reading and I can almost see her brain ticking over as she tries to process the implications of what she’s just said. Stan, on the other hand, seems completely unfazed, but his understanding at only just four is a world away from his sister’s.

‘No darling, but they’re giving me some medicine that will hopefully stop the cancer getting any worse for a long time.’ I’m using the words from one of the responses on The Grapevine forum and they seem to be reassuring Flo.

‘I think we should make a list.’ Tom finally seems to have regained control of his emotions, and he sits up as he makes the suggestion, grabbing the notebook he always keeps on his bedside table, in case he comes up with an idea for a story, or an investigation in the middle of the night and doesn’t want to risk having forgotten it by the following morning.

‘A Christmas list?’ Stan understands the concept of that, and he grins at the idea.

‘Kind of, but not quite. It’s more of an all-year-round list, but of things we really want to do, rather than presents we want to get.’ Tom does his best to make it sound exciting, but Stan’s face falls at the idea of presents being removed from the equation. So Tom is forced to try and rescue things. ‘It could be anything… like maybe a trip to Disney.’

‘Yes, yes, yes!’ Flo leaps up from the bed and throws her arm around his neck. ‘And I want to see some baby seals, and a penguin.’ Before Sir Charlie Stinky Socks , we were reading a book about the Antarctic, which is why those things are at the forefront of her mind.

‘I want to go to the toy shop!’ Stan chimes in and I have to laugh again. My children are truly brilliant, and within less than a minute he’s worked out a loophole in the rules of the not-a-Christmas-list list.

‘Okay, Stanny.’ Tom ruffles his hair. ‘And what about Mummy, what do you want to put on the list?’

‘Just to spend as much time as possible with you guys.’ It’s a cliché, but it doesn’t make the words any less true. I suspect they’re probably the truest thing I’ve ever said, because it’s the only way I want to spend my time now.

Thinking about the future has been unbearable ever since my diagnosis, but nothing has been more difficult than trying to imagine Stan and Flo’s future without me. I just have to hope that all the things I’ve read about the ability of children to live in the moment, when someone they love is dying, turn out to be true. And, if they do, that my babies can teach me how to make the most of the days we have left too, because I don’t want to miss a single one of them.

Holly texted half an hour ago to let me know that she’d got to our parents’ flat and that they’d be leaving there in about twenty minutes. I waited until I got her text to start dinner, because we both know from experience that plans made with Mum and Dad don’t always come to fruition. There was every chance she’d get to the flat and discover that they weren’t there, because a better offer had come up, or because they’d gone on a bender and forgotten about the arrangement altogether. I’d half-hoped that would be the case on this occasion, because then I wouldn’t have to tell them about the cancer.

Tom, Holly and I discussed the possibility of keeping the news from them altogether, until after it was over. It isn’t like they just drop in for visits, or even check how we’re doing all that often. Occasionally I get a text, but it’s more likely to be asking to borrow money than enquiring about my wellbeing. In the end we decided they needed to know, despite their lack of interest in what’s going on in the lives of their children and grandchildren. They’d be hurt if we didn’t tell them and they found out from someone else, and deep down I think it would crush them if they didn’t get the chance to say goodbye. No matter how poor their parenting has been, I don’t deliberately want to hurt them.

We arranged a dinner, without telling them why, just that it was a long overdue catch up. Even that has taken some lengthy negotiation, and Mum told me how difficult it is for them to get to the village since Dad lost his licence again, after a second charge of drink driving. It was only when Holly offered to pick them up that we finally settled on a date. They only live about ten minutes from here, and they could easily get a taxi, but any obstacle can seem insurmountable to my mother, and I suspect it’s her inability to cope with everyday stresses that feeds her addiction. I have no idea whether news as big as the sort I’m about to deliver will overwhelm her in the same way small problems can, or whether she’ll surprise us all and be the epitome of calm in a crisis. Either way, we’re about to find out.

There’s pasta sauce bubbling on the side and the smell of garlic lingering in the air is almost making me feel hungry. Except I’m never hungry these days and, even if I suddenly was to rediscover my appetite, the nerves fluttering in my stomach about what’s to come would soon take the edge off that. I’m still wondering if I should let them eat first and enjoy one final meal before they discover their daughter is dying, or do I get it over and done with and blurt it out the moment they walk through the door?

It might seem like a ridiculous idea to come straight out with it, maybe even cruel, but I don’t think there’s any way I can keep up the act that everything is okay for an hour or so after they arrive, even if they don’t ask about the bandana I’m wearing. Mum won’t be able to resist commenting, because she’ll probably be delighted I’m embracing a more bohemian style, as she’ll no doubt put it. That’s how she describes the life she and Dad lead now too, which in their case equates to not having a job, or making any attempt to find one. They haven’t worked since they gave up running the pub. Before he lost his licence, they were fully intending to buy an old ambulance and do it up to live in, travelling around and being ‘free’, as Mum describes it. Maybe she’d hoped that unburdening themselves from all responsibility would finally allow them to stop self-medicating with alcohol, but their addiction had scuppered yet another dream and now they’re stuck in the flat, in a grotty part of the town they live in, above a kebab shop.

Tom has taken Flo and Stan to the cinema, because I don’t want them to be here when I give my parents the news. It’s always a tense time when the children have contact with my parents; I never know if Mum is going to be in one of her maudlin moods, where she’ll start crying about how she wishes things could be different and how she’d love to spend more time with them. Those are the occasions when she promises to change and do whatever it takes to become the kind of grandparent my children deserve, but the commitment to change never lasts and I stopped hoping a long time ago that it would.

I can’t trust my parents to contain their reactions either, or to think about what they’re saying in front of the children. We can’t take the risk and all the careful talking we’ve done to the children about the cancer will be for nothing, if they have to witness full blown hysterics from my mum. Something I think is highly likely. But when my parents arrive and discover the children aren’t here, they’ll immediately demand to know why, and Mum will become upset anyway, thinking that I’m keeping the children from her. Which is why I need to tell them what’s wrong straight away.

The sound of Holly’s car pulling on to the gravel of the driveway makes me shoot up from my seat, the nerves in my stomach fluttering up to my chest and prickling my scalp where my hair used to be. Now there are intermittent patches, which I’d need to knit together like the strands of shredded wheat in order to try and hide the baldness. Instead, I have about twenty different turban-style hats, headscarves and bandanas that I’m wearing on rotation. I’ve had my wig fitting now, and I’m due to collect it this week. It’s really good quality, but somehow it still doesn’t feel like me. My eyebrows have been micro-bladed, and I’ve got only got eyelashes because a lovely nineteen-year-old girl who lives in the village comes round and glues them on for me. I wanted to get all of those things in place before I looked so different to the children that they found it scary.

‘Lou, it’s us,’ Holly calls out. She always lets herself into the house and I know there are probably some people who think that’s weird, but our house has always been as open to Holly as if she lives here too. Luckily Tom has never had an issue with it, and these days I think he’s just happy to know that she can pop in and check on me, if I don’t answer the phone or respond to their messages.

‘Oh hello, how was the drive?’ I hug my parents in turn as they come into the sitting room, but Mum is already craning her neck to try and look past me. She and Dad both speak at the same time.

‘Where are the children?’

‘I never I thought I’d see you in a bandana, Lou. Finally loosening up, I see.’

‘Can we sit down?’ I gesture towards the sofa, but Mum gives me the same kind of look that Flo did when we broke the news to the children, and she knows something bad is coming.

‘What’s wrong?’ She narrows her eyes, but the words I want to say seem to have slipped away, and all I can do is shake my head. She turns to my father instead. ‘I told you, Stuart. I said there was a reason the girls were so insistent we came.’

‘If this is about the drink.’ My father’s tone is tight. ‘We’ve told you a hundred times, it’s not a problem as far as we’re concerned.’

I can smell alcohol on his breath even now and I want to shake him and tell him that it is a problem, whatever they might claim, one that Holly and I have had to suffer the fallout from our whole lives. But I still can’t seem to make the words in my head come out of my mouth and it’s left to Holly to respond.

‘Lou has cancer, and it’s incurable.’

‘No!’ My mother’s response is an echo of Tom’s reaction on the day I was first diagnosed and I know, despite everything, that her distress is genuine. She wanted to be a good mum, and she tried to get sober more times than I can count, but her addiction was always just that bit stronger than her love for us. Now it’s too late; there’ll never be the chance for her to try and make up for all the times she wasn’t there when I needed her to be, and it’s almost as if I can see the recognition of that in her tortured expression. There’s nothing I can say to take the edge off this. At least when Tom reacted with the same utter denial that this was happening, when I was first diagnosed, we still had hope to cling to. I can’t even offer her that. I’m going to have to tell her that there’s very little the doctors can do. The treatment they can offer is already ravaging my body, and that’s not something I can hide any more either. One thing I haven’t shared with anyone, even the people I love the most, is my fear that the brutal chemotherapy I’m putting myself through isn’t working. There’s no way of knowing until I have another scan, yet somehow I can feel it. I’m desperately hoping it’s just my mind playing tricks on me but I can’t seem to shake the feeling that the cancer is spreading with every passing day.

‘But you can’t have cancer. You do everything right: you don’t smoke, you eat healthily, you…’ My father’s sentence drifts away and his mouth falls open. All I can do is shrug in response. It feels strange to be sharing such devastating news with them, when I gave up looking to them for any kind of support decades ago. I had no idea how my parents were going to react, but it’s obvious how shocked and upset they are. Mum is trying and failing to sniff back tears, and there’s a muscle going in Dad’s cheek, the way it always used to when he and Mum had one of their terrible rows. He’s mad as hell.

‘This isn’t fair.’ Mum is shaking her head, as if her continued refusal of what’s been said can make it all go away; I only wish it were true. Then she turns to look at Dad again. ‘This should be one of us, Stuart, not Lou. Both of the girls have had cancer, but we’re the ones who’ve treated our bodies like shit for decades. It should be one of us!’

I can tell she’s getting angry now too, even before she hammers her fists against Dad’s chest, and for once he doesn’t argue back.

‘You’re right, it should, but it isn’t and there’s nothing we can do to change that.’ He holds Mum tight against him, and looks towards me. ‘What we need to know is what we can do, and I promise we won’t let you down this time. We’ll try a different doctor, there must be something they can do and whatever it is, we’ll help you find it.’

‘Thank you.’ I finally manage to speak, but my words are barely more than a whisper. Right now, in this moment, I know Dad means what he’s saying with all of his heart, but I already know they won’t be able to keep the promise he’s just made. They’ll turn to the same source of comfort they’ve always sought refuge in, choosing oblivion over the pain my news is causing them. Even if, against all odds, they manage to break the habit of both their lifetimes and stay off the drink, they’ll still break the promise, because there’s no doctor who can change my prognosis, and no miracle cure just waiting to be found. All I can do is hope that I’m wrong about the chemo, because if it isn’t working, I’m already living on borrowed time.