He came with Grandma

Yesterday the weight shifted. Since June, and especially since last month, the possibility that I might undergo surgery or treatment and then get on with my life and the possibility that I might not survive this third bout have both stood in my line of vision, but the former was clearly the likelier of the two. Today, both possibilities remain viable, but the relation between them has reversed.

Poor Dr. Iqbal. She thought we already knew more than we did, so when she began telling us about patients who survive four years or more with chemotherapy, she thought she was giving us good news. The upshot is this: I have cancer in the bile duct. We’ll begin treatments in two weeks. In the meantime, we’ll continue with tests over the next few months. If we can convince ourselves that the malignancy is limited to a single location, we might be able to remove it surgically, follow up with more chemo, and actually cure it. If not, I will receive shots and pills on a regular basis for as long as my body holds up. Even given that scenario, there is a chance that in a year or two we fight the cancer back sufficiently to make me a candidate for a liver transplant, but Dr. Iqbal has warned us that it would be very unusual for that to happen.

The initial response among family members was to glom onto the most optimistic interpretation possible and play down any information that militated against it. As Todd reminds me, this is how our family does things: no matter what life throws at us, we look at the bright side and try not to get down. There’s something admirable in that, and frankly, I think that right now I need to respect whatever response works for Mom and Dad. I'm only facing what every person has to confront sooner or later; what they’re going through no one should ever have to experience.

For my part, though, I need truthfulness a lot more than I need optimism. Last night Mom said that my dying was the elephant in the room that she couldn’t bear to look at just yet. But now I am the elephant, and I want people to see me for who I am. If the only Scott Becker people can bear to think about, laugh with, or have over for the holidays is the one that’s likely to be around for another forty years, then I’ve already been turned away in favor of someone who doesn’t exist.

A single-panel comic in this morning’s LA Times shows a family gathered around the Thanksgiving table, and the angel of death carving the turkey with his scythe. A young woman leans over and tells the man next to her, “He came with Grandma.” I’m going to cut that one out and keep it.