The devil at play.

Whenever my mother needs to re align herself, she plays piano.
Nothing complicated, but she keeps in time without a metronome, plays slowly and eloquently, following along to notes on paper.

We all do it. For some people it is running, for others it is driving and for many it is an expression of art.
Usually, my mother plays piano after our conversations.


I feel bad sometimes, as I think she envisioned something different.  She was carrying me in her belly for nearly 9 months and dreamt up all the wonderful ways her daughter would bring her joy. I think she saw her best friend, my confidante, and our feminine unbreakable bond forming like she has with her own mother. As it goes, I have filled none of these roles to her imagination. Instead i have taken on one, by nature more so than by choice, which challenges her on all fronts possible, testing her unto tears in some less proud moments. Clashing our opinions and platforms until forcing the other to stare through a different looking glass. I never mean to hurt my mother with our debates, but I strongly believe that it is through these discussions that we can open eachother's eyes.

I came home from the weekend bursting through the door, eating hummus and bread on arrival and dropping bags around me. I was deshevled and tired, ready to unwind from a weekend of travel, climbing and adventuring into another world; the world of a family fighting cancer.

I ran it down to my mum who had hovered into the kitchen to greet me. I knewthat the subject matter is something she is always interested in, always empathetizing with.  For a few minutes we discussed how hard it must be, to be waiting on someone you love which knowledge they could be taken from you at any moment and have been compensated for so long.

My mom brought up a similar story, one of her brothers wife, my aunt.  My aunt recently found out that she will be embarking on her own fight with cancer. She mentioned a phone conversation they had shared that morning, she mentioned she didn't understand how my aunt could talk about theoretically refusing chemo if it seemed right. I jumped on this opportunity. I feel it is an opinion which has formed very strongly on my side, so I shared it.

I can understand my aunt.

I just came back from a weekend of witnessing an entire family who has been on hold for a year. one grateful year. Around the end of summer last year, my friends mom was given one month to live. Her daughters took time from work and school, they went home, the cancelled trips, they waited, gracious for thier time.
Chemo granted them more time, and has continued to do so, although she still needs daily treatment and must sleep on a hospital bed in the living room for monitoring. I have never met such a strong family.

Of course, they would never want it any other way. But I can see that it wears on them, makes them guilty of working, planning and living... It is an extreme situation of balance, and also a sad one of almost " waiting" for the inevitable, which once again, summons guilt.

My aunt is a reasonable woman. She thinks things through and I think that overall she has seen many people undergo chemo and the pain of treatment. She doesnt want to drag on her passing, she wants it to be quicker, so her husband and family can move forward. She is selfless.

I proceeded to explain that if i felt the end was imenement then I would not accept treatment for myself. I would want to let my  family see me off without the thought of hospital beds and long term helplessness.

I think I broke her heart. The woman who spends her life waiting on others, listens to her daughter deny her the theoretical long slow goodbye. She told me it would be different if I was really sick. I told her i hope it wouldn't.

As she quietly stared at the floor i could sense a sadness and helplessness fill the room. I excused myself for a much needed shower, aware that i had once again hit a fence of understanding. As I showered i reviewed our points. I empathized with my friend's situation and with my aunt. and I wondered how in the world a daughter like me could be born with such a challenging disposition from her mother.

As I was drying off I heard the sound floating up the stairs. Long slow notes played and disappeared in time with thoughts, my mothers, her imagination so obviously caught in their expirations. The song was beautiful and mournful, of a fairy tale she had, once, 24 years ago.