Happy Birthday or Whatever (9 page)

“Oh I so itch, Annie. Itch everywhere. The itchy worse than cancer. Even on my face! All I want is scratch everything. You should have seen Mommy. Like mosquito bite all over. And I so
hot. I sweat like crazy person. My pajama get so wet. But doctor gave me medicine and I feel better now.”

“Well I'm glad someone feels better.”

The doctors instructed her to stay in the hospital for two nights, though she wanted to recover at home. She wanted to read in her own bed with the comfortable king-sized mattress and down pillows, not the twin-sized adjustable mattress with bars on the side. The hospital's reading selection, she explained to me, was boring. She preferred her trashy Korean novels over the self-help cancer survival books or healthy lifestyle magazines. She wanted my grandmother's comforting stone-pot stews, not the institutionalized meals that came divided into four sections on a plate. (“Why hospital food have so much potato?”) My mother hated spending more time at the hospital than she had to—she already visited the doctor every week to receive chemo drips and check-ups. Still, the rest of my family liked having her in the hospital because the around-the-clock patient care gave us a sense of security, a feeling we rarely felt.

After my mother's infection was under control, her sister-in-law picked her up to drive her home. As my mother and aunt were driving through an intersection just a few miles away from my parents' home, a driver ran through a red light and crashed into the side of their mini-van. My aunt was shaken up, but fine. My mother, however, was not as lucky. The impact and the seat belt damaged her chest tissue, which was still recovering from the infection. An ambulance picked her up and she was readmitted into the hospital. She needed surgery again.

“This is so fucking ridiculous, Mom. Why is this happening to us?”

“Anne, you stop cry. You mouth so dirty, I get bleach.”

This time, she sounded weak and fragile. She wheezed from the pressure of the bandages. She talked softly and slowly and her
mouth was dry. She couldn't drink anything twenty-four hours before going into the operating room. It was the worst I had ever heard her, and I thought that maybe she wouldn't make it. Cancer, an infection, an allergic reaction, a car accident, a daughter with a dirty mouth. It was as if someone was trying to get rid of her. I wanted to be there.

“Can I at least come home for the weekend?”

“Anne, shh, it OK. You promise me you not worry. Please stay at school. You have no reason to come.”

“No reason? You're the reason why I'd come. Just to see you, don't you want to see me?”

My mother was silent. I tried not to get angry; this wasn't allowed to be about me.

“Anne, sweetheart, please. You come home for summer vacation in three week. You can wait. I don't want you see me like this. On outside I look worse than I feel on inside, you understand?”

I heard her voice shake, just a little. Or maybe I thought I heard it shake. I couldn't remember the last time I heard my mother cry. Crying was not something she did; she was too tough for that. When my mother told her mother about the breast cancer, my grandmother started tearing. My mother scoffed, “Don't be such a baby, I'm fine.” As far as I know, nothing, not even cancer, could make her cry. At least not in front of people. She was careful to keep up an illusion of strength and for the most part it worked, or maybe everyone let her think it was working.

“It's just not fair, why did he have to crash into you? Why couldn't he hit someone else? Anyone else? Why did he have to hit the one with cancer?”

“No problem, you know? I do surgery before, very easy. I go sleep and doctor fix and I wake up. So easy for me. Nothing to worry about. How school? You meet any Korean boy?”

“Mom, this isn't funny. Cancer's not funny.”

“You know what funny?”

“What?”

“Today Daddy tell me I got jury duty. I got jury duty, how funny! I think jury duty worse than cancer. Maybe I tell them I have cancer and they feel sorry for me, you think?”

For my mother, I wrote a request for an excusal from civic duty and sent it to the Jury Commissioner's Office, citing extreme physical impairment. I attached a copy of her medical records, highlighting the long list of prescribed drugs that stopped her cells from dividing so quickly—drugs with side effects that could impair judgment in a courtroom. I also attached a copy of the accident report, in case breast cancer wasn't a good enough of an excuse. My request was granted.

The surgery to repair her damaged chest tissue went well, much to everyone's relief, and my mother recovered a few days in the hospital. My father told me she handled it well, just like her mastectomy and chemo.

“You mommy very tough. I think is she tougher than me.”

“You're tough, too. We're all tough.”

“Yes, I know. But you mommy, I don't know how she does it. She's like a machine. Like the Terminator. Nothing can stop her.”

My father picked her up from the hospital and drove home very slowly, taking side streets and avoiding busy intersections.

I had two weeks left in the semester, and I managed to finish somehow. I received mostly B's, with a C+ in Introduction to Anthropology, the lowest grade I had ever received in any class. I decided not to tell my mother. There was no sense in pissing off a cancer patient—I didn't want her losing any more of her hair worrying about my grades. I packed up my dorm room and left Berkeley without securing housing for next year. I figured I would sort it all out if or when I returned next fall. Part of me thought that I
wouldn't return and would remain in Los Angeles to help my family and watch my mother recover. But the other part of me knew that my mother would rather die than see me take a leave from college. She wanted me to continue with my regular life, not stopping or even slowing down for her cancer. I think I understood this, but it was frustrating nonetheless. I flew home.

My father picked me up from the airport. He seemed so old; my mother's cancer had aged him significantly. His hair was more gray than black and his skin seemed too baggy for his bones. His eyelids drooped from worry and exhaustion, as did the skin around his mouth and chin. He gave me a hug and helped me with the luggage. For the first time ever, I noticed he didn't smell like cigarettes and instead smelled like sweat. I wasn't sure which was better.

“Mommy's doing OK. She doing chemo again and doctor say she doing good. A lot happen in last five, six month. Everything go so quick.”

I realized that I had never asked how they discovered her cancer. On the car ride home, my father told me how my mother started getting tired easily and had no energy to do her daily activities, like going to the grocery store or cooking.

“She didn't even have energy to go shopping! So I think she must be sick!”

At first they thought she had the flu, with mild aches and pains and fatigue. She took a lot of Tylenol, and when she didn't get better, she went to see a friend from church who was a doctor. The doctor said it was probably a virus that was going around and it needed to run its course—nothing serious. Then one afternoon she took a nap and didn't wake up, even when my father came home. Whenever she's home, my mother always greets my father in the kitchen when he returns from the office. This time, however, she remained in bed and when my father found her, he tried to wake
her. He wanted to know about dinner—he is incapable on his own in the kitchen—and she just wouldn't wake up. My father took her to the hospital where they ran tests and found a tumor in her breast. It was the size of a tennis ball.

“It was as big as a tennis ball? That's insane.”

I find it weird to hear stories about patients with tumors the size of softballs or baseballs or golf balls—how does that all fit in there? How do you not notice a sporting good lodged in your breast?

“We couldn't believe it. We were so surprised. You think flu, and really it cancer. But you Mommy was so calm. She said, ‘OK, what I do now? How we can we make this better?' Very business, but I know she was worried. She wanted surgery right away.”

My father talked about her mastectomy and the chemo and how doctors discovered she had a mild heart murmur, which complicated surgery.

“She has a heart murmur, too? Christ.”

“It very common. She had it her entire life and she never knew. She has a valve that work a little slow—a lazy valve. The doctors have to be careful in surgery and with certain medicine, that's all. Nothing serious.”

My father seemed so calm and matter-of-fact. He talked about my mother's cancer with the composure of someone who had hundreds of conversations about it. My parents have a lot of friends and relatives; I'm sure he had to update all of them several times a day. For him, cancer had become part of his life like a routine. But I knew from his aged face that it hadn't been easy for him.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Oh, Annie, it OK. I don't mind picking you up from the airport. My office is very close.”

When I arrived home, my mother greeted me in the kitchen. I was shocked. For the past few months, I had envisioned her as
bald and thin, with degenerating muscles barely clinging to her frame. I imagined that her eyes, not her body, exuded the spark I heard in her voice most of the time. But to my surprise, she looked terrific. Her hair was thinner, but still considerably bushy. I could see a mass of gray roots—she hadn't dyed it in awhile. Her skin was still soft and smooth; she has always been adept at applying make-up and made sure to moisturize every night. When I kissed her, I discovered her cheeks were still as soft as they were when I was six years old. She wore a baggy, pink flowered dress that disguised her chest bandages. I loosely wrapped my arms around her, not wanting to disturb what swelling and scarring that lay beneath her clothes. The only noticeable change was in her movements. She walked slowly and avoided gesturing her arms wildly, something she always did to add emphasis to her words.

“Wow, Mom, you look really good. I mean really, it's amazing.”

“Anne, you so silly. I always look good.”

“But no, you look
really
good.”

“You know why? Because I lose weight.”

My mother is not petite. She has an athletic build, with broad shoulders, strong arms, and long legs. She is voluptuous with wide hips and generous curves, but she never needed to lose weight. It wasn't the inches she lost on her waistline that made her look great. Clearly, she had the look of a woman who was beating cancer—a triumphant glow. I wondered if cancer even had a chance against her. If there was a moment when she was scared of dying and leaving her family and friends behind, I didn't know about it. She would never tell me anyway.

“You just don't look like all the cancer patients on TV. They are really skinny and wear big scarves wrapped around their bald heads. You're not bald.”

“No, Anne, I lose weight, I like it. I think cancer is best diet.”

“Mom, that's horrible!”

“I tell everybody at church, get cancer so you can look like model.” She strutted a few steps, with her hands at her hips.

That summer, I spent most of my days taking care of general household duties. I did laundry and dusted and went grocery shopping. For my mother, I rented her Korean movies, brought her tea and pills, and shuttled her to the hospital. Whenever she got home from chemo, she'd shuffle straight into bed and sleep quietly. After a few hours, I'd tiptoe into her bedroom and hold my breath so I could listen for hers.

My most exhausting duty, however, was not taking care of my mother—I was happy to help in that area. It was dealing with the kitchen. My grandmother visited us two days each week and cooked meals for the entire week. When my grandmother cooks, she brings out every single plate, utensil, and pot from the dark recesses of the cabinets. She litters vegetables all over the floor, leaves fish entrails and bones on the counter, and splashes soy sauce and sesame oil all over the stove. I spent a lot of time scrubbing food and grease off every surface in the kitchen, including the walls. As I cleaned, I thought about how my family could've used my help while I was away at college—no one can scour a kitchen sink quite like me. I was hurt that my mother didn't want me to see her weak and vulnerable. I guess because I was the youngest and my mother and I were close, she wanted to protect me. She thought I couldn't handle her cancer, or maybe she was afraid that I could handle it—that I was growing up.

“Mom, you know what the worst part about your cancer is? It's the kitchen. How does Grandma make such a mess?”

“I know, I think she crazy. She cook so much and I not so hungry.”

“But you have to eat—it's important.”

“My medicine make me so dizzy and I throw up.”

I looked at her, wishing there was something I could do. Well, there was one thing.

“I heard from somewhere—maybe I read it or something I don't remember—that marijuana helps with chemo. It helps you get your appetite back and stuff like that.”

She raised her eyebrows. We had never talked about drugs; it was understood that drugs were illegal and not something anyone should do. I went through D.A.R.E. in fifth grade, but I also lived in Berkeley.

“Is that right? But mari-wan illegal. Can
you
get mari-wan, Anne?”

I stopped. I sensed an ambush. Even though my mother was weakened with cancer, she was still sharp and capable of entrapment. There was no way my mother would smoke weed. I couldn't imagine rolling a joint for her or teaching her how to use a bong. She didn't even drink alcohol—she told me she always hated the taste and found no enjoyment in the effects. Was she trying to incriminate me or was I just being paranoid? She knew Berkeley's reputation of “experimentation,” but she had no reason to believe that I had been experimenting. Why did I even bring this up?