“I’m going down for my powernap.” I said. It was 5:30 in the afternoon in Sterling, which meant it was 3:30 in Houston. You still hadn’t heard anything back from MD Anderson. You spent Monday trying to get your scan results to the right place. Today was Tuesday and I was going out of mind. I’d spent the day warding off calls from Aunt Janiene and Morgan about what was going on. And you spent the day warding off calls from me.
“Get me up when they call.” I kind of barked at you as Katie hovered in the background anxious about what may unfold.
I retreated to my bed, donned my iPod and relaxed to the sound of rain and thunderstorms. I got up as soon as I heard the three gongs. I was surprised you didn’t come and get me. I’d listen for the phone. In fact I had the phone next to my pillow.
“They called my cell.” You said as I rounded the corner to your room. Katie tried not to cry.
"Why didn’t you come get me?” I was pissed. You looked dumbfounded. “I banged on the door—Mom!” I guess I mistook your banging for thunderstorms in my powernap.
“You could have opened the door.” I said as I took a breath and looked into your eyes. “So.”
“It’s back.” I knew, but still hoped. I searched for a better feeling by playing one of our Abraham games. But it didn’t work so I tried Ho’oponopono. I never told you about Ho’oponopono. It is based on ancient Hawaiian teachings, where you take responsibility for everything and everyone that crosses your path. I took responsibility for your cancer among other things. “I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I love you. Thank you.” You’re supposed to say it all the time. It is supposed to help you get to a zero state where you are guided by inspiration. They call it cleaning. I stumbled across it last December during your first round of Dicarbazine. I even wrote down those four lines down on an index card so I wouldn’t forget it. I never told you because you would get mad at me for taking responsibility. You always said it just “is.” And I stilled cleaned.
“They’re talking combo chemo treatment plus interferon.” I could tell you were going into auto pilot. I'd seen it so many times before when you had to explain and re-explain your treatments to Dad and me.
“Can I book flights?” I asked.
“Not yet.” I bit my lip and tried not cry. And started to clean.
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I remember the call. I always felt chained to my desk and helpless. Being a world away was the hardest part for me and feeling secluded from everything going on. I know I got calls, but I knew I wasn’t told everything. I understood it was hard to talk over the phone, so I remember trying not to ask to much and just taking in whatever I was told. I hated myself a lot of the time being far away from Greg and family.
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