Memento Mori

Zelda: I sometimes think of myself as permanent. Other times, everything feels fragile and temporary, including me. “Memento Mori: You must die.”

Until then, I just need to show up.

I want to show up for Zach and support him as he deals with cancer and the health care system. But sometimes, I don’t know how to help. Last week, for instance, Zach complained about a new pain in his chest. It was near his sternum, and there was actually some palpable swelling in the area. He had no trouble breathing, and no new pain anywhere else. He didn’t want to go to urgent care. But we both wanted to know what was going on. So, with his permission, I called his oncologist’s office, and they agreed to see us that afternoon. 

The nurse practitioner asked if Zach had a history of bone fractures, and he said no. But he had several falls last year, and scans showed fractures in his ribs and backbone. I thought he might have forgotten, in the fog of chemo, so I piped up with the details. He shot me a look and said, “I’ve never broken anything. What are you talking about?” 

I dropped it. But the nurse said she suspected a pathological fracture, and said they’d check it during his next CT scan. Zach rolled his eyes. 

After we left, Zack said he’d felt humiliated, and he wished he’d never mentioned the chest pain. Worse, he threatened to stop telling me about any pain he was feeling.

I’ll admit I have a righteous streak. If something is wrong, I want to make it right. But I certainly didn’t mean to humiliate Zach. I thought I was being a helpful advocate. It’s hard to remember all the discussions, and scans, and decisions, which is why I bring a notebook to every appointment and write down what we talk about. I go back to that notebook all the time, especially now, as we’re searching for any possible treatment options we might have overlooked.

And I want to remember my conversations with Zach, so I make notes about them, too. 

Here’s one we had on the couch the other night.

Zach: How long does it take to die?

Zelda: Too long, according to my mom. 

Zach: Funny girl.

Zelda: You don’t think you're dying, do you?

Zach: I’ve been dying since I was born. 

Zelda: Not what I meant. You think your time is running out?

Zach: No. But I might not have as much as I thought.

Zelda: What do you want to do with the time you have left?

Zach: That’s a stupid question. 

Zelda: I mean, we’re all going to die—Memento Mori—we all have a limited amount of time here. What are your priorities?

Zach: Again, stupid question.

Zelda: Why is it stupid?

Zach: It doesn’t do any good to worry about dying.

Zelda: I’m not worrying about it.

Zach: Yes, you are. All you do is worry. It’s pointless. 

Zelda: I guess I’m thinking about my own mortality. 

Zack: It’s so uplifting talking to you. You’re morbid. 

Zelda: It’s morbid, thinking about what you want to do with the time you have left?

Zach:  Jesus H. Christ. I don’t want to worry about that.

Zelda: What does the H stand for?

Zach: Help me.

Zelda: I want to help! I know you don’t have a bucket list or anything. And we spend so much energy focused on what’s the matter with you. I want to focus on what matters to you. What do you want to do?

Zach: I thought I’d be better by now. Riding bikes. Diving. Finishing up projects. Instead, I’m on the couch. I don’t like who I am right now. 

Zelda: Who do you want to be?

Zach: Me. I want my life back.

Zelda: I want your life back too. [Reaches for the notebook and pen on the TV table and starts to scribble]

Zach: Wait, what are you doing? Are you writing this down? You better not be blogging about this….