Elegance of a Eulogy

It's been almost two months since I received the phone call. Much has happened. Much has changed, some for the better, a little for the worse. People's lives have been affected, for good and for bad. Whenever you must deal with the passing of one of the most important people in your life, if not the most important person, it's somewhat shocking to find that there are no blueprints. A whole host of relationships are affected by this feeling, and there's nothing to be done for any of them except to simply forge on ahead.

But weren't we doing that in the first place?

*

2000 - I had been away at my first high school band camp. Even though I was only in 8th grade, our school marching band had suffered so much disinterest under the prior band director that 8th graders were required to join with the high school students. We doubled the size of the band, no small feat when there are 60 students in marching band. It had been an experience, being away from home and getting an inside look at what marching band was like and how high school would be working. For a middle school kid such as myself who was the epitome of anti-social, introverted, and mildly frightened of the world thanks to snippets of bullying since roughly the 4th grade, it was a terrifying time. But then, every middle school kid feels roughly the same. Middle school sucks. Fact of life.

Returning home, I realized exactly how bad a week's worth of sweaty laundry could reek. I dragged my bag full of worn t-shirts upstairs, where I trusted my mother to do the wash. I knew how to do laundry, but tended to "fuck things up" in terms of stray pens, etc. Typical teenage oversights, in other words. It was safer, at that time for my mom to do the laundry. Safer being a relative term.

As I moved my suitcases into my room, my mom came in, followed by my brother. Taking me into my brother's room, she told us that she had some bad news. I recall the chipped, white paint on the closet door behind her that doesn't quite shut, the swiveling wooden latch, hand-made and loosely attached so that it doesn't actually hold the closet shut so much as prevent it from swinging all the way open. The push button light switch against a rusted metal plate. The lights were off, and a few dead flies littered the carpet, signs that vacuuming had been neglected while I was away. Facing me, her hands on my shoulder, she said the words that changed the course of the next twelve years of our lives:

"I have breast cancer."

I froze. "I'm scared, Mom." The year before, my Aunt Laura had died from breast cancer. I was still fuzzy on the details from that ordeal, more out of a middle school kid's desire not to know more. All I knew was that cancer was bad. An invasive disease that slowly crept in and destroyed your life.

My brother chimed in. "I'm scared too." He was still in elementary school at the time. Only 10 years old. He's just 22 now. Over half of his life so far, his mother would be fighting cancer, at risk, or recovering from treatments.

"I know," she replied, "But we're going to get through this."

*

I've struggled with exactly what to write, where to write it, and how to write it. Much of this is intensely personal. Much of it is so personal that it's been shoved down into some filthy black hole inside of me for years, only being released in intense bursts of foul energy that threaten to overwhelm and destroy those around me (or so I fear/have feared/still fear). Much of it is something that I have feared will come across as petulant, whiny, self-absorbed, possibly out of self-preservation, possibly as a defense mechanism against having to experience all of the pain.

After much thinking about it, I've decided that this is something that I can no longer keep bottled up inside, wishing that it would go away, pretending that it doesn't hurt to see one whom you love destroyed, slowly, by inches before your eyes over the slow progression of years.

But there is more to it than that.

*

The initial mammogram was a hard time for her, and for us. I was unaccustomed to seeing my mother without hair, a sordid reminder of her illness. I overcompensated at first after the announcement, doing everything in my power to make life easier for her. I thought that if I could do that, the cancer might go away. I miss being young. I miss my naivety.

Chemotherapy and radiation treatments all but eradicated the disease during the first go round. The first two years of high school were relatively cancer free, although she took up the offer to serve as a counselor for those who were diagnosed with breast cancer for the first time. Anything she could do as a survivor, she was willing to do. She would continue this for several years after that, although she eventually settled back into her own treatments.

The first remission came when I was a junior, just gifted with the ability to drive. I already was depressed at the time, afflicted with all the angst and woes that come from high school, carrying over the traumas of middle school, and with the pain that is the daily life of a high school student. And now here we were, saddled once more with this reminder of my mother's mortality. This time around, it was even simpler than the first diagnosis, and a couple of radiation treatments later, it was gone. No chemo, no hair loss, and no massive drama. However, psychologically, the idea that a remission could happen at any time was planted in my mind.

Friendships during this time have lasted, I am glad to say. People were there for me then, as they would be there in the future, and for this, I am grateful. At the time, the remission was simple enough that the knowledge of my mother as a cancer survivor (2x now) could fade into the background, not taking a prominent role in my daily life.

I do recall one instance, however, where a band member and classmate of mine came up to ask what kind of cancer my mom had. Upon replying that she had breast cancer, she replied with a disdainful look, saying that "Oh, you can't die from breast cancer."

I said nothing to this. I remember seeing red at the time, remembering my Aunt Laura, and thinking that it must be nice to live in a bubble of ignorance, but I said nothing out of a desire to play the part of a good student and classmate. Looking back now, I have forgiven that person's misinformation regarding breast cancer. Many do survive it, and go on to lead healthy lives. Many others do not.

*

Much has been made of my mother continuing to teach throughout her disease, and I would like to take this moment once more to say that at no point during her twelve year treatment did she take any time off from school. Let me say that again: she never took a leave of absence during her disease. She would regularly receive chemo treatments in the morning, teach in the afternoon, and come home to read an entire book during the evening hours. Cancer was just another part of the schedule, another hurdle in her daily life.

I've known people who need to take time off. It's completely understandable. Cancer sucks. The treatments for it are draining, literally poisoning your body and bombarding it with toxic chemicals and radioactivity. These are things that have been known to kill more often than not. It's not a fun time, nor is it easy. Therefore, it still boggles my mind to know that she never took time off from school. Sure, she would cancel class on some days that she was too weak to get out of bed, but more often than not, she was there, good or bad days, she was there.

And I don't understand how, some times, how she was able to function.

*

I went away for college in 2005, and was moved into my dorm with my parent's help. College was a good thing for me. It really helped me grow beyond my shell, opened my eyes to new ways of thinking about the world, and really introduced me to some of my best friends in the world. I'm glad I had the experience that I did, as it opened my eyes to what I really wanted to do in the world, and how I wanted to go about it.

During my sophomore year, in the spring of 2007, I was looking into renting my first apartment with some of my best friends. We all wanted to live close together, and had settled upon a cheap section within the student ghetto of Bowling Green. (A quaint little ghetto, really, and the apartment wasn't bad by any means. But still, relatively slumly, all things considered.) We were at the rental agency, looking over the leases for our new apartments. There was still snow on the ground, just starting to melt, and the sun was out. The chairs in the rental office were exceedingly comfortable swivel chairs, I recall precisely.

Then my phone rang.

My mom's cancer had returned. This time, with a vengeance. Worse yet, it was the kind that had killed my Aunt Laura. Within a year of her diagnosis.

I remember throwing my phone across the room, my worst fears having come true. As I vented out my frustrations, my anger, my fear of the future, all three of my friends were there to comfort me right on the spot. No words needed to be said there. I then began the first of many subsequent efforts to shove it back down inside of me, laugh about it, and move onward as though nothing had happened.

It was something I became particularly good at over the years to come, in an effort to put a brave face on the world. Shoving my feelings down inside and developing a rote speech of condition became easier than actually confronting the facts within myself. I was hurting. Badly. But admitting that would be giving into the disease, I felt. I could not let it win, could not let my mother's cancer beat my family. It became our shared cross to bear, one that would weigh heavily for the next five years.

*

My relationship with my brother has had its ups and downs. Many downs over the last ten years or so, as two adolescent males growing up in close proximity will often find themselves at odds. We've both been at fault for many things, and both had some growing up to do. However, as I look back on it now, it's my belief that my mom's sickness had as much to do with the strain in our relationship as anything else.

It makes sense, to me. Neither of us were/are particularly articulate about our feelings, both taking after our father in terms of burying our feelings down within. With much anger and resentment over our mother's sickness, but no real person to take it out on, those aggressive feelings have to come out somewhere. Surely not at school, where we've been told fighting is wrong. Video games, movies, music, books, they all helped at some point. But not as much as simply taking it out on each other, both in aggressive and passive-aggressive ways.

Do I wish to have those years back? Yes and no. We both had growing and learning to do to get to where we are now, and I am shaped by my relationship with my brother as much as by anything else in my life. It should also be said that family vacations were a continued source of joy for my mother, and that simply having the family home for Christmas every year was probably her most favorite time of the year. I cannot look at Christmas time without seeing all of our holiday staples, whether it be putting up decorations, frosting a multitude of Christmas cookies, watching "A Christmas Story" all day on the 25th, trips to Grandma's, dinner at the Paragon with the family, and so on and so forth.

My brother and I will be fine.We have each other, and we know our strengths and weaknesses. I'm no longer fearing for that relationship.

*

The next years fell into a sort of routine. I would call home twice a week for updates regarding her treatment, which involved taking chemotherapy at home orally (pills) every day. When I asked her how long that would take, she said for the first time (in her patently casual way) "Oh, probably until I die." It was at that point that I realized that the end was in sight, and that there were no alternatives. My mother was going to die.

In hindsight, that was also the first time that I saw my mother's acceptance of her fate. She would continue to fight up until the end, but death was not something she was afraid of. To me, that signifies a great deal of how she lived her life: fearless, stubborn, and willful against all odds. Sure, cancer was a bitch, but there are worse things in the world.

I would call home twice a week, make regular trips back home, and do what I could from afar while continuing my studies. Through it all, she managed to make it to all but one of my plays and performances that went on during my college career. And I was involved with a LOT of plays. I directed three, acted in many more, and was heavily involved with student productions as well. She encouraged me through it all, taking in everything and giving good, solid feedback. The sort of thing any mother would do. She became close with my roommates and friends, asking about them and sending them Christmas cards and other assorted signs of greeting. Even towards the end, she continued sending one friend cards regarding her recent surgery, wishing her well.

Through good and bad, my mother supported me. Through good and bad, I did my best to support her.

*

Writing this has been weird. I find myself telling the story of her time with cancer, yet it's from my perspective entirely. I had intended this to be a eulogy of sorts, a way of honoring her and of remembering her spirit. In truth, however, I cannot really pull what that means. As I stated before, my mother fought cancer for twelve years. Given that I was 13 when I discovered this, that is almost half of my life. I can relate the last twelve years better than the first thirteen if only because I was better able to assume the rigors of life by that point than I was for the first half of my life.

Long story short, I have a hard time reflecting upon my mother without being swarmed by thoughts of her struggle. It has consumed a great portion of my life; I sought out to direct one of her favorite Shakespeare plays while in college so that she could have a chance to partake in the play; it was as much for her as it was for me, in addition to serving as a learning experience. I passionately pursued a life in the arts, working on my skills as often as I was able to. Towards the end, I was (and still am) working to further my career in Chicago, where I might find opportunities greater than those I could find in southwestern Ohio. All because I know she would have wanted me to.

But it has side effects. The mental strain put on by her sickness was challenging. My relationships suffered because of it. I became a giant ball of nerves and sensitive feelings that could go off at the touch of a button. Depression set in, so that the only reason I could get out of bed in the morning was if I had to be somewhere at a certain time. And even that was hit or miss, depending upon the event. Jobs were easy. Groceries were not. Rehearsal was easy. Homework was not.

It settled over everything like a smothering shroud of fog. While fun might be had, it was always with my mother's cancer in the back of my mind. So it goes.

*

My mother missed my graduation from college. She was too sick to make the 2.5 hour drive to the ceremony, and so she had to miss it. She had not planned on going in the first place until I personally requested her to attend, as a sort of rite of passage for me into the world. She'd been there for me over the last five years through thick and thin, and I wanted her to see me graduate as the conclusion to that chapter in my life. Her missing it was painful, and I regret not having a picture of me in my cap and gown with my mother to this day.

Immediately afterwards, I shipped off to New Jersey for my first professional internship. Going out and working in an Equity theatre environment for the first time, I realized that I had no idea what I was doing. Worse, I was plunged right into my assignment as assistant to the director having never worked with Equity actors before, having never really even SEEN an Equity theatre performance somehow, and moderately unprepared for what was expected of me to start.

And then I got another phone call. The cancer was back, and this time it was spreading. In spite of the chemo.

I froze. Completely. This happened right as the show was going into tech week. I remember it happened on the day one of the lead actor's took a sword blow to the mouth and was rushed off for surgery. I had to stand in for her, and fuzzily remember bits and pieces of that night. I couldn't hit my marks, couldn't see anything really, and could barely keep it together. For whatever reason, I buried it down deep again. The director had his hands full with the artistic director breathing down his neck on every move, and I didn't want to add to his worries. So I shouldered on through, afraid of creating a further disturbance.

I shouldered on through the rest of the internship, doing good work in some spots, barely getting out of bed in other spots. I did a good job in the end, I feel, but by the end, I was emotionally scared, fearing the worst. I moved home and got a job in the local Borders bookstore. When that went bankrupt, I got a job as a server. The whole time, I was saving money ostensibly for moving out to Chicago, but it felt safer being at home. Just being at home felt like it was a major psychological lift to my mother, that having her son around to share time with and enjoy life made things better in some small way, as things wound towards the inevitable conclusion.

One day, we were driving back from lunch or some other gathering that escapes me at the moment. Listening to former baseball star Bernie Williams' new jazz CD, we took in his acoustic flamenco performance of "Take Me Out to the Ball Game". As it played, she looked over at me and said that she wanted me to play the song for her at her memorial. My inner hope was that she would continue to live long enough that I could play it at my wedding, whenever that would be, as our song to dance to. Some things will never come to pass.

*

My greatest fear through the entire ordeal was that I would be away from home when the end came. To that end, I narrowed my possibilities for moving out to places where I knew that I could easily make it home on very short notice. New York felt out of the question, as did somewhere like Florida or California. I wanted to pursue my theatrical dream, but I needed to be there for my mom, who was there for me oh so many times over the years.

When the time came, I moved to Chicago. A six hour drive away, I could make time to come home. By that point, tumors had spread to her spine, causing unbearable pain that could only be solved by lying on her back on the floor. Worse, tumors were pressing against lymph nodes, causing automatic body reactions commonly seen in pneumonia patients, in which her lungs would fill with fluid that caused shortness of breath and pain. Draining the fluid from her lungs became an almost weekly occurrence, one in which I would take a book to read while she received the treatment before going about our day.

Moving to Chicago was extremely hard at first, as I still felt that I was abandoning my mother in her time of need. I told myself that this was the best choice for everyone, and that I was well within a distance where I could come home as needed.

As I moved out, her request to me was that I come home for the end, whenever that might be. Between that and my dog looking out of the window the entire time as I drove away to start my life anew, it was impressive that I made it down the hill at all. I thought long and hard about simply turning around, unpacking, and moving in, tearing up the lease, forfeiting my deposit, and damning the torpedoes all to hell. But I moved out. I reasoned that if I didn't do it at that point, I might never take the initiative again. Foresight is not one of my many blessings, and so I drove away.

I managed to come home for Christmas, with fresh news of getting a nearly full time job working in one of the biggest theatres in Chicago, a Shakespeare Theatre to boot. Christmas was had, family met and gathered, and for the most part, every thing was civil. We even took in a movie, the latest Sherlock Holmes atrocity.

That would be the last time I would ever see my mother in person.

*

I worked in Chicago, starting the fantasy novel I'd been dreaming of writing for years. My goal was to finish the first draft by the end of February, print out a copy, and have her edit it in her spare time. Not because it was her obligation, but because she could see that I was doing work on something I loved, and taking steps towards becoming successful. One of our great shared loves is of Lord of the Rings, something I hold very dear and closely to my heart. This was yet another way for me to pay back all of the love and support that she had given me over the years.

I called regularly, checking in and keeping track on everything at home. When I called on February 14th, Valentine's Day, to check in, she was in good spirits, having watched the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show, her annual tradition. We talked about the upcoming baseball season, and about the Masters. She told me that one of my birthday presents, a mattress pad, was on its way. The other rested on top of my dresser. Even in her sickness, she never missed a birthday for me or my brother, and always had the energy to send us a gift or two, no matter where we were.

Her pain was extreme, by this point, and to combat it she had been given Vicodin. She refused to take it, on the grounds that it affected her to the point where she was too stoned on painkillers to drive to work. She would rather teach than sit at home free of pain. Again, her determination shone through, in the darkest hour. She would be starting a new chemo on the next day, one that would hopefully shrink the tumors in her spine to alleviate the pain.

*

On February 17th, I was at home by 9:00, writing the next chapter in my book. I had six to go before I finished it, and was planning to come home on the 27th for my birthday.

The phone rang at 10:38 pm. It was my brother.

"Hey, what's up?"

"I got some bad news, man."

"...go on."

"Mom died."

"...it's going to be okay."

*

There is no word to describe the cavalcade of emotions that comes crashing down in such an instance. Grief. Sadness. Anger. Surprise. Shame. Pure adrenaline fuels your actions and decisions. Tears were shed, to be sure. I remember calling my friends, desperate for proximity to someone, anyone. I called my Dad. I ran on the beach and shouted at the waves. I could not write anymore that night.

The weirdest sensation was a feeling of relief that dominated everything else. She was no longer in pain. It was over. This disease that had defined her, a person of so many wonderful qualities unlike any other I have ever met was freed from the shackles of this hideous thing that twisted and corrupted her body so terribly.

Did I feel shame at having not been there for the end? Yes and no. Yes, I would have liked more time with her. But at the same time, I feel that she did not want a long, drawn out death, one where she would no longer be able to teach, to function as a person. It came suddenly, it came quickly, and it came at home, in her bed, just two days after she taught her last class. She went out the way she would have wanted, fighting.

*

When remembering my mom, I remember her love of baseball. Her passion for her classes. Cinema. John Ford movies. Reading mysteries. Shakespeare and his plays, and movies. Watching the NCAA tournament, the Masters, Opening Day, the World Series, the Ken Burns Baseball documentary, the channel always being on ESPN no matter the time of day or year. Her taking me to see the re-release of Star Wars, pulling me from school to go see Shakespeare in Love, the Lord of the Rings movies. Her frenetic driving, her colorful use of profanity for any and every reason imaginable, her fervent love of nature, her love of cardinals, the Reds, the outdoors, time with her family. So many things defined her, things beyond cancer.

That's the way she would have wanted it.

*

At the memorial, I played guitar for her. The Quaker meeting house overflowed. So many people came. Her friends, her students, neighbors, childhood friends and classmates, my friends, hundreds of people. Sitting in the front row of the pews, I looked up to see an empty space on the bench before me, facing me. Seated around that were multitudes of my closest friends, my grandmother, my aunt. Any time I felt extremely sad during the service, I would look towards them and invariably one of them would look at me and smile.

I feel strongly, deep within my heart, that the empty space was my mother. She was there, and she made sure that there were people there for me, my brother, and my dad, smiling in assurance that we would get through the day. An informal bonfire was held that night, at which many of my friends, from high school, college, and past college gathered. It was a reminder that life has been good, and friends will always be there for you when needed.

As the days have gone by, I've wondered about my purpose and what would be the best thing for me to do. I no longer feel so tied to stay close to home. It is as though I have a chance to start anew, and to not stay fixed on one set regimen of functionality. I've thought about moving somewhere bold and new, making a fresh start. I've thought about returning home to what I know. I've taken the time off to think about my direction in life, what matters to me, and how best to honor my mother's memory.

I have finished my book. I've written stories I've always thought about writing. I'm finding my voice and rhythm as a writer, my passion as an artist. I know what I want to do, and rather than find out what I don't want to do, I want to pursue these passions. Writing is a joy to me. The arts are a joy. Nothing else makes as much sense, except for wandering the pathless woods, which remain calling me.

It's hard to write a eulogy, I find. I cannot separate myself from the last twelve years, but what I can say is that they've affected me, but are no longer a cross to bear. Rather, they are simply another chapter in my life, one which has been read and closed so as to move on to the next chapter.

We will be scattering her ashes in the Superstition Mountains of Arizona, the site of one of our family vacations long past. She was still healthy then, back before cancer. The pictures show us all smiling, happy, free from any pain and suffering. Now that we are through this, it's our job to find that happiness once more.

The best thing about that is that no matter what happens, life is still good. Friends are still there, and people still care. Of all the things I've discovered in the last two months, that is the most important: life is still good.

Elizabeth Sue Willey Cook 1951 - 2012

(Postscript #1: You didn't think I'd forgotten these, did you? Well, back to some semblance of normality anyways. My associate has informed me that my previously considered line-up of blog entries has been somewhat...er, marred, by the last two months, and so I will be focusing instead on the chronicles of myself and my associate over the last few years. There is a story to be told, and we shall find it, somehow. In the meantime, stories will be written and hopefully published. I'm awaiting word on three stories as we speak, and constantly writing new ideas. I'm beginning revisions on my book, and am grateful for all of the feedback I've received. In addition, I hope to continue to pursue my theatrical dreams, however that might come. In the interim, stay posted here, faithful readers.)

(Postscript #2: It might strike no one in particular, but after I finished writing about myself and my brother, he called me to see how I was doing. Call it my mom looking out for us. That's what I'm calling it, anyways.)