Telling my mom is harder than having cancer

For those of you who've had the privilege to experience my mom "live" this portion of the saga will not at all surprise you. Many of you only know her through my stories--and I must confess that though they are all absolutely real, I do, on occasion avail myself of hyperbole for effect. Having said that, I'd like to emphasize that what follows is as true an account as I can muster, that it is in no way exaggerated, and that no small animals (though many Kleenex) were harmed.

So you think that hearing the news that you have cancer is hard, right? But when you have the peculiar mix of over-protective-non-cooking-yet-exceedingly-maternal-Jewish-Italian mother I do, telling *her* becomes the actual challenge. The moment the words "cancer" came out of Dr. Schneider's mouth, my first thought was: "How do I tell mom without given her a heart attack?" Oh surely Paola is exaggerating. Normally I'd mean that metaphorically; in this case, I meant it quite literally. Let's examine the precedent.

My mom's version of handling an emergency--particularly anything involving her children and bleeding--ranges from screaming, crying, fainting to completely freaking out. I first learned this at the age of 12 when upon slashing my knee open in the shower I called for mom to come to my rescue. When she entered the bathroom and saw the blood geyser emanating from my leg and running down the drain she stopped breathing, brought her hands to her face, and sat on the toilet weeping.

At that point I realized not only that I was on my own with the bleeding and the piece of ceramic stuck in the wound, but that I also had to get my mother's breathing under control. So, I fished in the fleshy opening for the ceramic wedge while instructing mom to put her head between her knees. I then proceeded to wash the wound clean as I counted off her breathing intervals to avoid hyperventilation. I held the wound shut, reached for a towel, dried off and went to find a paper bag for her. Note to self: Mom--excellent business woman, lousy EMT.

Sadly, there's been no observable improvement over time. A mere three years ago, when my little brother Stefan got his head slashed open in a friendly game of street baseball, mom's reaction, once again, was to hyperventilate and totally FREAK OUT. This time two ambulances were called: one for Stefan, one for mom. He got stitches, she got Valium. I knew there was no getting around it, mom just can't handle any kind of harm to her children, no matter how slight. I was afraid my cancer announcement might actually kill her.

So, like a general going into battle I gathered intelligence and planned the attack. Step one, tell dad. As expected, his reaction was rational, collected, thoughtful and strategic: "Let's not tell your mom." Excellent choice dad, but she may wonder a) why I can't come home for Christmas b) may not buy the, "hey, it's the latest rage in California to shave your entire body, eyebrows and eye lashes included" excuse and c) may seriously consider physically harming you--or worse yet, instituting permanent silent treatment for both of us. "Good point. Can we wait until you know more?" Sure. How much more. "How about A LOT more."

A LOT more came the following week after my meeting with the surgeon, the oncologist, two MRI's and a second biopsy. Dad didn't agree. So I reminded him of point (c) above. It was 10:30 pm in Miami. He proposed we tell her the next morning. I convinced him this would unnecessarily prolong the number of hours he'd have to hear her cry. Once again, dad saw the wisdom in my strategy. If we tell her now, she'll have to go bed at some point, most likely within 2 hours. Tomorrow, she could potentially cry all day. I pumped him up like a boxer heading into the final round of a championship match: You can do this. Take the phone, go into the bedroom, get the kids to leave and call me back. "Ok."

30 minutes later I was beginning to lose my patience. How long does it take to send two teenagers with their own TVs, playstations, computers, PSPs, magazines, books, and phones to their own bedrooms? It's not like they'll be bored...Seriously! *Ring* Mom's caller ID flashed on my cell phone. I had been dreading this moment for two weeks, but I was ready:
"Halo"
Screaming
"Halo?"
Screaming followed by wailing.
Shit! He told her.
"Mom? Listen to me, breathe. Please breathe.
Whimper, scream, Kleenex, garbled, completely unintelligible Spanish
"Mom, please breathe. I can't understand what you are saying."
More garbled speech interrupted by wailing
"Mom, you have to come down. Please"
This went on (albeit completely in Spanish) for about 45 minutes. After she was able to regain her breath she was very angry I hadn't told her immediately upon leaning the diagnosis and barked angrily at dad and I:
"What are you hiding from me! Tell me! How bad is it. Tell me the truth"
So I did, and she sobbed, and listened, and I consoled her for another hour.
Then, something remarkable happened--complete silence.
"Mom, are you there? Are you ok? DAD! DAD!"
"I'm here" her voice heavy with sorrow, gravely from crying. She had finally stopped crying, but I could tell she was heartbroken--the future she'd envision for me vanished. The grandchildren she'd always wanted evaporated. All she could see was the painful road ahead. She knew our lives would never be the same and she mourned.