Former President John F. Kennedy once opined that, “the courage of life is often a less dramatic spectacle than the courage of a final moment; but it is no less a magnificent mixture of triumph and tragedy.”
After my mother’s initial diagnosis of cervical cancer, everyone in the family was understandably distraught. No one wants to hear that their mother has contracted cancer. My brother had been planning to be married just before we initially learned of my mother’s condition.
He naturally suggested that the ceremony be put on hold until she was well enough to attend. This suggestion had little impact, as my mother was going to have none of it. She didn’t care about the timing of her treatments--her son's wedding was going ahead as planned--and that was the end of the discussion.
Midway through her first series of radiation therapies, she boarded a plane and left St. John’s, Newfoundland, destined for Toronto so that she could attend the wedding. I remember being taken aback at the sight of her when she arrived. She was clearly unwell and had not really been in any shape to travel. During the course of the treatment she had lost a lot of weight and her skin was pale. She looked tired, her voice was muffled and very low. It was only at this particular moment that the magnitude of the situation struck me. It was then that Mom's ordeal became real for me. My mother had cancer.
Despite her physical appearance, she was perfectly giddy. Like a young child experiencing the world for the very first time, she embraced us all with the same generosity of spirit that we had come to know, love and depend upon. Nothing was going to stop her from being at her son’s wedding, and nothing, especially cancer, was going to get in the way of this happy celebration. The trip, she felt, was not at all about her, it was my brother’s special day and she was there to add as much joy as possible.
True to her fiery personality, she involved herself in as many of the preparations as her body would allow her to. I was lucky enough to get some alone time with her while shopping for last-minute wedding gifts. It was an absolute honour and a delight to capitalize on the precious time she had with us over that three days. The doctors had only permitted her a short stint so as not to interrupt her chemotherapy too dangerously. I loved shopping with her because she still had the insight to impart a mother's set of financial advisories upon me. She dutifully fussed and insisted when she felt I did not need to buy a particular black shirt, (because I already had one just like it) or that I really did not require more socks and underwear.
During the course of our private shopping excursion she also had the chance to relay to me a little bit of the experience that she had been going through. She was specifically impressed with the many of her fellow cancer patients. She told me about them losing their hair and having to dip their fingers in pools of ice water after intense treatment so that they would not lose their fingernails, and of many other physical ailments. She told me how grateful she was to have been stricken with a treatable form of cancer and she felt blessed just to be able to laugh and joke with the other patients as a form of mutual support and commiseration. She continued with this routine when she returned to Newfoundland for a number of weeks. She was then sent home to recover before her last planned round.
The road to recovery for Mom was a long one. She still feels some of the side effects today. However, she is now cancer-free and thriving almost three years later. Hers is a story of the courage to overcome the odds. It is a story of hope. She, (along with so many others) proclaims to us that cancer can be defeated. And this strengthens a faith that we are all taking important steps in the right direction.
Writing these blogs has been an emotional roller coaster for me, I must admit. Writing the one about my dear friend Jodie, in particular, brought fresh tears to my eyes. These blogs have been filled with my many emotions ranging from sadness to joy, from despair to hope, from fear to faith and from discouraging paralysis to enduring hope. This personal activity has truly reaffirmed my belief that the battle against cancer is far from a futile one. By virtue of the many who have passed on to something better and sadly departed from this world, the torch of strength and endurance has been kept alive. We are privileged and honoured to carry on in their memories and we are duty-bound never to forsake our obligations in this quest for a cure. As noted above, Kennedy hinted at the fact that what we do in our every day lives requires courage. I challenge my readers to have the courage to stay involved in the fight for a cure. Your courage will make a difference to the lives of many. May all of you be blessed in your journey.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Thursday, January 20, 2011
“Do you remember when we used to sing?”
Grade 10 physics was a very difficult course. The teacher was amazing, the class was fun, but the material was painful. Hours of study were required to grasp the mathematical equations and theories behind such things as the speed of planetary masses and their volumes. These hours of study seemed to fly by a lot faster when I spent them with Jodie. She was the smartest girl in our class and one of the prettiest, as well. We would attempt to figure out what this physics business was all about while jamming to the latest tunes and inhaling all the sugar we could get our hands on in order to keep our brains active.
The evening before our physics midterm exam we were again together at Jodie's house being our usual boisterous, silly (and studious) selves. About twenty minutes into our intensive session, she decided we needed a break. I was in full agreement. The music on her favourite radio station was blasting in the background. We had always required something to hum along with in order to keep the energy level high. Jodie was not fond of the particular selection that was playing during our “break” and decided that we needed to call the radio station and request something different--something we could really belt out. The song she decided on was by Van Morrison called, “Brown Eyed Girl.” I am sure it was no coincidence that her eyes are brown as well.
“Do you remember when we used to sing, Sha la la la la la la la la la la te da!” rang from the top of our lungs when the disk jockey finally played our request. After the song was over, he wished us luck on our midterm over the air. We instantly felt popular and cool -- whenever I hear that song now I still think of Jodie.
Jodie is an amazing individual. She was a member of Canada’s World Junior trade mission to Malaysia in 1998. She was our class valedictorian and she gave a truly amazing speech on the power of dreams. She was awarded the Governor General’s Award for academic excellence upon graduation along with numerous other scholarships. She studied at Memorial University of Newfoundland and the University of Edmonton, earning undergraduate degrees.
After university, she met a dashing young fellow and the two fell madly in love. The quotation under Jodie's picture in the yearbook had read, “I want nothing for myself, only a tall, dark, handsome son-in-law for my parents.” And she got that in spades! Jodie was wed in a beautiful ceremony held in our home town. Not long after, Jodie discovered that a little one was on the way. Nine months later, or thereabouts, a gorgeous baby girl was born and was named Emma. She was immediately the love of Jodie’s life--her absolute pride and joy.
I do not remember when I last saw Jodie face-to- face. We were the type of friends who always kept in touch through email and facebook. We were able to follow each others lives through photos and the occasional chat on the telephone. Her pictures burst with a thousand words, and they always clearly expressed the happiness of the life that she had both created and deserved.
I can remember how excited my old friend was to let me know that she was pregnant once again. This time, however, the pregnancy was not nearly as pleasant as her first one. The morning sickness was more intense and she seemed to have nagging pains throughout. The doctors assured her that it was normal for pregnant women to feel uncomfortable and to have sore muscles due to increases in body-weight.
The real mystery of these dramatic discomforts was only discovered when Jodie went into labour. Her labour was premature and was an extremely painful and taxing ordeal. It was discovered at that time that the cause of all of her additional pain was a cancerous tumour which had rapidly developed during her pregnancy. The growth resulted in the miscarriage of her new baby, and this wreaked tragedy in every sense of the word. Not only did Jodie lose her baby but was faced with the daunting diagnosis of a very rare form of cancer. I can only imagine that her turmoil must have been unparalleled. Her family was informed that given the seriousness of her condition, the doctors were unclear if she would be able to pull through the operation required to remove the tumour. It was a time of shock, bewilderment and grief for everyone who knew and loved her.
Jodie picked herself up from her painful ordeal and made it through the surgery successfully. Her journey with cancer, however, had just begun. She was to undergo intensive and pervasive chemo-therapy in an effort to truncate the spread of the deadly disease. She faced it all, being a powerful woman, with a type of courage that I had never had the privilege to witness before. Jodie was purely motivational. She latched onto this life with all of the fervour and grace imaginable.
After a tremendous battle with cancer involving many rounds of treatment, and in her twenty-eighth year--Jodie was taken from us. She was a mother, a wife, a daughter, and she was my friend. Her life was a pure example of courage. I am both grateful and blessed to have known her. She changed who I am as a person and taught me at a very young age the value of making each and every day count. Jodie's memory inspires me whenever I think of her.
Raymond Lindquist, a pastor in the Presbyterian Church, is quoted as having said: “Courage is the power to let go of the familiar.” From Jodie I have learned also that courage can be defined as having the strength to say good-bye. She will always be my special brown-eyed girl.
My Dearest Jodie: “Do you remember when we used to sing?”
The evening before our physics midterm exam we were again together at Jodie's house being our usual boisterous, silly (and studious) selves. About twenty minutes into our intensive session, she decided we needed a break. I was in full agreement. The music on her favourite radio station was blasting in the background. We had always required something to hum along with in order to keep the energy level high. Jodie was not fond of the particular selection that was playing during our “break” and decided that we needed to call the radio station and request something different--something we could really belt out. The song she decided on was by Van Morrison called, “Brown Eyed Girl.” I am sure it was no coincidence that her eyes are brown as well.
“Do you remember when we used to sing, Sha la la la la la la la la la la te da!” rang from the top of our lungs when the disk jockey finally played our request. After the song was over, he wished us luck on our midterm over the air. We instantly felt popular and cool -- whenever I hear that song now I still think of Jodie.
Jodie is an amazing individual. She was a member of Canada’s World Junior trade mission to Malaysia in 1998. She was our class valedictorian and she gave a truly amazing speech on the power of dreams. She was awarded the Governor General’s Award for academic excellence upon graduation along with numerous other scholarships. She studied at Memorial University of Newfoundland and the University of Edmonton, earning undergraduate degrees.
After university, she met a dashing young fellow and the two fell madly in love. The quotation under Jodie's picture in the yearbook had read, “I want nothing for myself, only a tall, dark, handsome son-in-law for my parents.” And she got that in spades! Jodie was wed in a beautiful ceremony held in our home town. Not long after, Jodie discovered that a little one was on the way. Nine months later, or thereabouts, a gorgeous baby girl was born and was named Emma. She was immediately the love of Jodie’s life--her absolute pride and joy.
I do not remember when I last saw Jodie face-to- face. We were the type of friends who always kept in touch through email and facebook. We were able to follow each others lives through photos and the occasional chat on the telephone. Her pictures burst with a thousand words, and they always clearly expressed the happiness of the life that she had both created and deserved.
I can remember how excited my old friend was to let me know that she was pregnant once again. This time, however, the pregnancy was not nearly as pleasant as her first one. The morning sickness was more intense and she seemed to have nagging pains throughout. The doctors assured her that it was normal for pregnant women to feel uncomfortable and to have sore muscles due to increases in body-weight.
The real mystery of these dramatic discomforts was only discovered when Jodie went into labour. Her labour was premature and was an extremely painful and taxing ordeal. It was discovered at that time that the cause of all of her additional pain was a cancerous tumour which had rapidly developed during her pregnancy. The growth resulted in the miscarriage of her new baby, and this wreaked tragedy in every sense of the word. Not only did Jodie lose her baby but was faced with the daunting diagnosis of a very rare form of cancer. I can only imagine that her turmoil must have been unparalleled. Her family was informed that given the seriousness of her condition, the doctors were unclear if she would be able to pull through the operation required to remove the tumour. It was a time of shock, bewilderment and grief for everyone who knew and loved her.
Jodie picked herself up from her painful ordeal and made it through the surgery successfully. Her journey with cancer, however, had just begun. She was to undergo intensive and pervasive chemo-therapy in an effort to truncate the spread of the deadly disease. She faced it all, being a powerful woman, with a type of courage that I had never had the privilege to witness before. Jodie was purely motivational. She latched onto this life with all of the fervour and grace imaginable.
After a tremendous battle with cancer involving many rounds of treatment, and in her twenty-eighth year--Jodie was taken from us. She was a mother, a wife, a daughter, and she was my friend. Her life was a pure example of courage. I am both grateful and blessed to have known her. She changed who I am as a person and taught me at a very young age the value of making each and every day count. Jodie's memory inspires me whenever I think of her.
Raymond Lindquist, a pastor in the Presbyterian Church, is quoted as having said: “Courage is the power to let go of the familiar.” From Jodie I have learned also that courage can be defined as having the strength to say good-bye. She will always be my special brown-eyed girl.
My Dearest Jodie: “Do you remember when we used to sing?”
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Letter to Nan
My grandmother, whom I affectionately call Nan, is currently battling with skin cancer. What started as a wee discolouration of her nose has, despite treatment, morphed into terrible tumours upon much of her face. The following is a copy of the letter I wrote and posted to her early in the New Year:
January 13, 2011
Nan,
Some of my earliest and fondest memories are of attending church with you, sitting next to you, listening intently, singing along, and, at that young age perhaps even making a bit too much noise or playing a game. In fact, I'd have to say most all of my memories of you are fond. From eating your scrumptious cakes and pies to enjoying a friendly game of cards, towing along with you on walks in the park, and travelling to Halifax--even simply spending time together, I recall all of this with fondness. Similarly, you are in my thoughts now.
Mom's recent ordeal with cancer was painful, agonizing, and filled with fears. It becomes all too easy to lose hope and become downtrodden faced with that diagnosis. Mom's battle, however, taught me some valuable lessons. I learned not to take anything for granted, to live each day to the fullest and to be grateful for all the blessings in my life and for the new ones that manifest daily. It also taught me that this battle can be beaten.
My thoughts are not only of the memories but also of you. Whether you know it or not, you've had a tremendous influence on my life and you've been an inspiration. You are a strong woman who raised five beautiful children on the rugged out port shores of Newfoundland with modest resources. Yet you always managed to provide love, kindness and support. You've always been deeply involved in service both to your community and to the Church, lending a hand wherever and whenever it was necessary. You could always be counted on. By example, you instilled in all of us the values of commitment, hard work, integrity and service. And your values of honesty, compassion, kindness and love inspire me even today.
I am wishing and praying for a speedy recovery and thinking of you at this time. Although I do not get to see or to talk to you as often as I would like, please know that you are always in my heart. I hope you have an enjoyable Christmas time, surrounded by family and friends, and I look forward to seeing you in the New Year.
Love, always,
Elliott
January 13, 2011
Nan,
Some of my earliest and fondest memories are of attending church with you, sitting next to you, listening intently, singing along, and, at that young age perhaps even making a bit too much noise or playing a game. In fact, I'd have to say most all of my memories of you are fond. From eating your scrumptious cakes and pies to enjoying a friendly game of cards, towing along with you on walks in the park, and travelling to Halifax--even simply spending time together, I recall all of this with fondness. Similarly, you are in my thoughts now.
Mom's recent ordeal with cancer was painful, agonizing, and filled with fears. It becomes all too easy to lose hope and become downtrodden faced with that diagnosis. Mom's battle, however, taught me some valuable lessons. I learned not to take anything for granted, to live each day to the fullest and to be grateful for all the blessings in my life and for the new ones that manifest daily. It also taught me that this battle can be beaten.
My thoughts are not only of the memories but also of you. Whether you know it or not, you've had a tremendous influence on my life and you've been an inspiration. You are a strong woman who raised five beautiful children on the rugged out port shores of Newfoundland with modest resources. Yet you always managed to provide love, kindness and support. You've always been deeply involved in service both to your community and to the Church, lending a hand wherever and whenever it was necessary. You could always be counted on. By example, you instilled in all of us the values of commitment, hard work, integrity and service. And your values of honesty, compassion, kindness and love inspire me even today.
I am wishing and praying for a speedy recovery and thinking of you at this time. Although I do not get to see or to talk to you as often as I would like, please know that you are always in my heart. I hope you have an enjoyable Christmas time, surrounded by family and friends, and I look forward to seeing you in the New Year.
Love, always,
Elliott
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Courage
Harvey was a strong and hard working fellow. He spent the majority of his life in a tiny outport community shadowed by the rugged set of coastal mountains which stand guard upon the Western shores of Newfoundland. Like most of his kin, he lived directly off of this imposing landscape. He hunted for moose in the fall of the year--an annual adventure which was always anticipated. Spring and summer brought the promise of another cod and lobster season. Many an hour were spent frolicking on a snowmobile in the winter--no matter what the weather, Harvey found great joy in the outdoor open air.
As a child, I recall him coming to live with my family for a period of time. He was jovial, easy-going and ever true to his Newfie heritage, which made him irrepressibly funny. He also adored his country music. When Harvey launched into a sing-a-long with certain favourite tunes, head bobbing and feet stomping, he would miss half the lyrics and always mangled the songs. These 'demonstrations' never failed to garner howls of laughter from my sister, brother and I.
His favourite meal was a Jigg’s dinner. This traditional Newfoundland dish typically consists of a combination of pickled salt beef, boiled potatoes, carrots, cabbage, turnip, and turnip greens. Bread pudding, dressing, peas pudding, and a cooked turkey, chicken or beef roast, (for good measure) results in a literal cornucopia of food. The entire list of ingredients is boiled together in the same pot for hours on end, and it makes for a truly hearty blend. Since becoming vegetarian, I can appreciate that the whole jumbled mess might easily strike some as unpalatable, but nonetheless, such were the makings of many a happy family meal! Even after Harvey moved out of our house, he continued to graciously accept our invitations to join us on Sundays for the weekly feast. His kind spirit was a welcome addition to any occasion.
What I also recall from those years was how much enjoyment Harvey took from Christmas. Although he was a man of modest means, he never failed to provide generous and exciting Christmas presents for us kids. His eyes gleamed as he watched us open our gifts on Christmas morning. And of course, his eyes gleamed again later in the day when we were served yet another coveted Jigg’s dinner for Christmas.
I was contacted by the Ottawa Regional Cancer Foundation on the morning of December 12, while still at work, and I am constantly amazed by how life manages to unfold. After getting off the telephone, I thought to myself: What am I thinking, agreeing to this? Me? I am not a blogger, and certainly no writer, either. I am a community activist. I had gone and gotten myself snared by the moment again, only this time, perhaps, I had bitten off more than I could chew! What would I possibly write about, and how silly would I sound to those people who have directly experienced the coldness of cancer? Could I do them justice? Nevertheless, I concluded that the worst that could happen was that I would end up looking ridiculous (again!) and the lovely people at the Courage Campaign would learn a valuable lesson about being careful with whom they ask to blog for them in the future.
As a child, I recall him coming to live with my family for a period of time. He was jovial, easy-going and ever true to his Newfie heritage, which made him irrepressibly funny. He also adored his country music. When Harvey launched into a sing-a-long with certain favourite tunes, head bobbing and feet stomping, he would miss half the lyrics and always mangled the songs. These 'demonstrations' never failed to garner howls of laughter from my sister, brother and I.
His favourite meal was a Jigg’s dinner. This traditional Newfoundland dish typically consists of a combination of pickled salt beef, boiled potatoes, carrots, cabbage, turnip, and turnip greens. Bread pudding, dressing, peas pudding, and a cooked turkey, chicken or beef roast, (for good measure) results in a literal cornucopia of food. The entire list of ingredients is boiled together in the same pot for hours on end, and it makes for a truly hearty blend. Since becoming vegetarian, I can appreciate that the whole jumbled mess might easily strike some as unpalatable, but nonetheless, such were the makings of many a happy family meal! Even after Harvey moved out of our house, he continued to graciously accept our invitations to join us on Sundays for the weekly feast. His kind spirit was a welcome addition to any occasion.
What I also recall from those years was how much enjoyment Harvey took from Christmas. Although he was a man of modest means, he never failed to provide generous and exciting Christmas presents for us kids. His eyes gleamed as he watched us open our gifts on Christmas morning. And of course, his eyes gleamed again later in the day when we were served yet another coveted Jigg’s dinner for Christmas.
I was contacted by the Ottawa Regional Cancer Foundation on the morning of December 12, while still at work, and I am constantly amazed by how life manages to unfold. After getting off the telephone, I thought to myself: What am I thinking, agreeing to this? Me? I am not a blogger, and certainly no writer, either. I am a community activist. I had gone and gotten myself snared by the moment again, only this time, perhaps, I had bitten off more than I could chew! What would I possibly write about, and how silly would I sound to those people who have directly experienced the coldness of cancer? Could I do them justice? Nevertheless, I concluded that the worst that could happen was that I would end up looking ridiculous (again!) and the lovely people at the Courage Campaign would learn a valuable lesson about being careful with whom they ask to blog for them in the future.
Monday, January 17, 2011
COURAGE
I was recently visiting with a friend of mine who is a nurse. He is someone that I consider not only a friend, but also, a man who understands spirituality in the same sense that I do. He is introspective and often reflects upon his day through the use of meditation. On this particular day, I happened to notice an intriguing wall hanging placed near the entrance to his apartment. It featured a bright red Chinese symbol at the very top, and below that, in bold, capital letters was the word courage. Underneath was written: "Courage is not the absence of fear or despair, but the strength to conquer them."
Now I'm ever the stickler for a good quote and I was definitely drawn to this one. In our handy, paperless world of advanced technology, I whipped out my trusty BlackBerry and jotted the juicy nugget down for future reference. Who knew when I would need to sound smart or need to impress someone using a fancy quote? This one was simply too good to pass up.
So when I was first contacted by the Courage Campaign to assist with their upcoming events, the very same wall-hanging instantly popped into my mind. Eager to help, I knew that my chance to use the quote had appeared!
Courage, as I understand it, has many different meanings to many different people. It is wonderful that the word is so flexible and can be used to suit a variety of needs and purposes. Very few words summon the same emotional attachment as the word courage-- for it is by the very virtue of our attachment to it which gives it such great meaning. Its many definitions give it power. For some, courage is the ability to flight the battle. In this light, courage is seen to embrace all the valour of war and victory in conflict. For others, courage is simply about the ability to engage in the struggle, for it is the struggle that matters most, regardless of the outcome. And for others still, courage can be the power to admit defeat, to accept surrender and find peace in doing so. Whatever our association, it is plain to see that the word courage is as diverse as those who use it.
On July 25, 2008, I was in attendance at a social gathering hosted by the Public Service Pride network. These are monthly gatherings for queer civil servants and their friends that take place on the last Friday of every month. I was chatting with a colleague who was, at the time, a board member for the Capital Pride Festival. We were leisurely discussing, (and perhaps technically even gossiping) about the upcoming parade, when my telephone disrupted our lively conversation.
It was my mother calling, and so I politely excused myself to take her call.
I thought it strange that she would be calling so early on a Friday evening. She still lives in the small town in which I was raised, called Lark Harbour in Newfoundland. Even with the difference in time zones it was completely unusual for her to be ringing at that hour.
She greeted me with the same set of routine questions as always - wondering where I was and what I was up to. I told her I was out with friends at an event and asked her if everything was all right.
There was a bit of a pause, and then she told me she had been to a doctor's appointment that day. Thinking nothing of it, I asked how the appointment had gone. It was then that she informed me she had been diagnosed with cervical cancer. Feeling a flood of emotions wash over me, I stood silently clutching my BlackBerry. I understood what she had conveyed but I was confused as to what it all meant. This type of confusion quickly leads to fear--a fear that is amplified terribly by the awkward silence of such moments.
I knew what cancer was. I knew its implications and I understood the ramifications. What was baffling was how this could be happening to my Mother? Never before had the 'C' word hit so close to home for me.
Never before had I fully appreciated the gravity of the word. But now, it was my turn to experience the terrible initiation process that lurks behind the pithy phrase "cancer scare.”
Mothers have an uncanny ability to detect exactly how we are feeling at any given moment. Mom informed me that she was only calling to let me know about the situation and that I needn't be worried. She told me that although she would potentially have to undergo treatment, this was no cause for undue worry. But my fears would not allow me to fully trust her assurances.
Looking back, I realize now what an extraordinary person my Mother was, and is. Despite her own doubts and despair, she was able to connect with me and be there for me--even during one of her own darkest hours. As a result of this brave woman's ability to reassure me throughout one the scariest experiences of my life to date, I came to understand that courage is not the absence of fear, but indeed, a steadfast rallying cry by which we can come to face our fears and conquer them--together.
Now I'm ever the stickler for a good quote and I was definitely drawn to this one. In our handy, paperless world of advanced technology, I whipped out my trusty BlackBerry and jotted the juicy nugget down for future reference. Who knew when I would need to sound smart or need to impress someone using a fancy quote? This one was simply too good to pass up.
So when I was first contacted by the Courage Campaign to assist with their upcoming events, the very same wall-hanging instantly popped into my mind. Eager to help, I knew that my chance to use the quote had appeared!
Courage, as I understand it, has many different meanings to many different people. It is wonderful that the word is so flexible and can be used to suit a variety of needs and purposes. Very few words summon the same emotional attachment as the word courage-- for it is by the very virtue of our attachment to it which gives it such great meaning. Its many definitions give it power. For some, courage is the ability to flight the battle. In this light, courage is seen to embrace all the valour of war and victory in conflict. For others, courage is simply about the ability to engage in the struggle, for it is the struggle that matters most, regardless of the outcome. And for others still, courage can be the power to admit defeat, to accept surrender and find peace in doing so. Whatever our association, it is plain to see that the word courage is as diverse as those who use it.
On July 25, 2008, I was in attendance at a social gathering hosted by the Public Service Pride network. These are monthly gatherings for queer civil servants and their friends that take place on the last Friday of every month. I was chatting with a colleague who was, at the time, a board member for the Capital Pride Festival. We were leisurely discussing, (and perhaps technically even gossiping) about the upcoming parade, when my telephone disrupted our lively conversation.
It was my mother calling, and so I politely excused myself to take her call.
I thought it strange that she would be calling so early on a Friday evening. She still lives in the small town in which I was raised, called Lark Harbour in Newfoundland. Even with the difference in time zones it was completely unusual for her to be ringing at that hour.
She greeted me with the same set of routine questions as always - wondering where I was and what I was up to. I told her I was out with friends at an event and asked her if everything was all right.
There was a bit of a pause, and then she told me she had been to a doctor's appointment that day. Thinking nothing of it, I asked how the appointment had gone. It was then that she informed me she had been diagnosed with cervical cancer. Feeling a flood of emotions wash over me, I stood silently clutching my BlackBerry. I understood what she had conveyed but I was confused as to what it all meant. This type of confusion quickly leads to fear--a fear that is amplified terribly by the awkward silence of such moments.
I knew what cancer was. I knew its implications and I understood the ramifications. What was baffling was how this could be happening to my Mother? Never before had the 'C' word hit so close to home for me.
Never before had I fully appreciated the gravity of the word. But now, it was my turn to experience the terrible initiation process that lurks behind the pithy phrase "cancer scare.”
Mothers have an uncanny ability to detect exactly how we are feeling at any given moment. Mom informed me that she was only calling to let me know about the situation and that I needn't be worried. She told me that although she would potentially have to undergo treatment, this was no cause for undue worry. But my fears would not allow me to fully trust her assurances.
Looking back, I realize now what an extraordinary person my Mother was, and is. Despite her own doubts and despair, she was able to connect with me and be there for me--even during one of her own darkest hours. As a result of this brave woman's ability to reassure me throughout one the scariest experiences of my life to date, I came to understand that courage is not the absence of fear, but indeed, a steadfast rallying cry by which we can come to face our fears and conquer them--together.
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