As your face flickered onto my screen, I could see you looked tired. I had called you on Skype for Mother’s Day. You had just been talking with Jennifer, and Dad said you were very tired. But truth be told, you looked worse than tired. You looked like someone struggling to keep up with a conversation that had turned into a foreign language. Nods and occasional whispers were all you could muster. But it was Mother’s Day, and your son was calling.
Dad and I spent most of the time talking. You sat resting, your eyes occasionally fluttering open, but mostly I couldn’t even tell if you were even awake. Dad and I chatted about all the usual things: How school was going, what I had been up to, what the weather was like here and over there. All the while we danced around the biggest topic, the one that all of us knew concerned us most but for which there was nothing left to say. The tumour in your brain was at the helm now, and we were sailing the sea of inevitability toward an end no one wanted to reach. There was no turning back, no slowing down. There was only the time it would take, and no more. So what else was there to say?Continue Reading