Stuffed
Shells
Jimmy Stewart and Charlie Brown
I’ve been compared
to my grandfather since the day I was born. I inherited his dark thick hair and
am told that I had a similar hairstyle to that of Ernie from Sesame Street. I
guess it’s a stretch of a compliment at best. Our thin frame and George
Bailey-like persona have always been looked upon as identical. I can thank my mother for these traits, whom
is a spitting image of my grandfather. Proof of genetics. Like brown hair, cancer
has to do with genetics. Unlike brown hair, cancer is far from a desirable
characteristic. It’s like a family heirloom that no one wants.
My most vivid
memory of my grandfather was when I was three. My brother and I were playing
with a small building set on my grandparents’ living room floor. I broke one of
my brother’s pieces and all I can remember is my grandfather’s disappointed
voice. He wasn’t angry, nor did he raise his voice. He was disappointed which
is far worse than anger. When I think about it, I can’t recall what he said but
I can see him sitting in his recliner perfectly. In my mind his words are muffled by time and
sound like the teacher from the Peanuts, frustrated “Whah, Whah’s”. Unfortunately, it’s the only memory of him that I have.
Years later, I
remember rummaging through my closet and for whatever reason, discovered that
the broken piece was the only one from our entire set that had survived many
years of spring cleaning. Regrettably the unpleasant has a tendency of sticking
around with us. Why couldn’t the
unbroken pieces make it? They weren’t busted. Why couldn’t I have a more
meaningful memory of my grandfather?
Even in the short three years I knew him, I know there were countless of
them. He passed away shortly after a five-year
battle with leukemia.
Yesterday
There’s always an
event every few decades that defines a generation, a landmark number on the
calendar that connects the masses. The baby boomers are identified with the
John F. Kennedy assassination in 1963; my generation with September 11th.
Anyone that was older than three for either of those dates could tell you where
they were, whom they were with, and will always begin or end their story with
the cliché, “I remember it like it was yesterday”. But it’s true; I could tell
you everything about that day. I was in Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s fourth grade class
on a Tuesday when I found out about the
attacks on New York City and Pennsylvania. I guess the mind has a way of
capturing all these little details on our days that we would prefer to
forget. In eighteen years I’ve only had
one other of these unofficial “yesterdays”.
Stuffed Shells
I
remember sitting at the kitchen table as the words breast cancer fell from my mother’s sentences. I remember cringing
almost as if snow had fallen down my back. The foul word was then followed by a
gentle bombardment of more filthy words such as chemotherapy and
radiation. The next 18 months of our
family’s life was laid out in front of me like a blueprint, an agenda from
hell.
During my mother’s
treatment she wrote small stories that were later compiled into a memoir of her
experiences. One of her first short
stories she explained how she broke the news to my brother and me. She told of how strong I was and how well I
took the news, a fourteen year old in shining armor if you will. I’m glad I
will be forever romanticized in a piece of literature because I can tell you
that this is far from the truth. The word tears
never made it to my page of glory. Maybe
her version is right and maybe I’m wrong (all I know for sure is that we had
stuffed shells that night for dinner). But I can’t be, I remember it like it
was yesterday.
Holding on Tight
Everyone has had
that horrendous combination of fear and uncertainty at one time or another.
Sitting at that table I’ve never experienced the feeling so strong. The only
feeling I can compare it to would be like riding one of those rickety wooden
roller coasters at one of those carnivals that stay in town for about a week at
most. Oh, and you just ate syrupy cotton
candy and over-priced popcorn right before you’ve mustered up the courage to
pull that rusty bar down over your lap. There’s nothing you can do but go along
for the ride. Every single drop puts
your stomach up past your heart. But even this doesn’t compare to how I felt
the next 18 months.
Just a Day at the Beach
The other day in
my Microbiology class we learned that the word cancer originated from karkinos,
the Greek word for crab. Hippocrates
noticed that the inside of tumors looked similar to the outline of the
crustacean. I couldn’t see the
resemblance, but I couldn’t think of a better animal to name the disease
after. It comes out of nowhere and bites
you on the ass while you’re enjoying a beautiful day at the beach; just
enjoying life. That’s what cancer did to us: bit us right on the ass.
Chicks Hate Pink
My mother’s
diagnoses came only a few months after my best friend’s mom passed away from
breast cancer. I can remember looking at his empty desk, as I realized why he
wasn’t in school. I prayed I was wrong,
but in the back of my mind, I knew I wasn’t.
She had three sons, one my brother’s age, one my age, and one my
sister’s age. She had battled cancer for as long as I could remember. During
her treatments, members of the community would help out by making dinners. And
I’m not sure why, but I remember my mother making their family stuffed shells.
When something is
on your mind it seems to appear everywhere, in places that you had never
noticed them before; a terrible game of hide-and-seek. Those little pink
ribbons were everywhere, magazines articles, newspapers advertisements, canned
goods at the supermarket, shampoo commercials, etc. And every single company
seemed to be donating to the breast cancer society around the time of my mother’s
diagnosis. It’s like they all jumped on
the bandwagon once it happened. Of course they had always been there, you’ve
looked at them, but you just never took the time to see them. There was no
escaping cancer. No escaping the
pink. My mother’s memoir is called ‘Why
I Hated Pink’; properly named if you ask me.
Torn Pair of Genes
My mother’s cancer
had nothing to do with genetics. Actually it had nothing to do with
anything. Besides my grandfather, there
was no family history or any outstanding risk factors that made her more prone
than anyone else. “Just bad luck,” the doctor had said. I guess that’s one way
to put it.
Card Tricks
Doctor’s base a
cancer patient’s survival rate based on a five-year increment. They give a percentage of the chances that
the patient will live for the next five years.
When I think about this systematic benchmark, all I can picture is a
bunch of doctors sitting in a poorly lit room with short, smoldering cigarettes
in their mouths at a poker table flipping over cards and handing out these
unwelcomed numbers to terrified patients. A Hollywood hybrid between ‘The Sting’
and television show ‘Scrubs’. I don’t
know what my mother’s “magic number” was, but I know for a fact it wasn’t a
hundred percent and that scares the hell out of me.
I don’t know if it
was a blessing or a disadvantage that my mother had been a nurse for over
twenty years when she was diagnosed. I
guess in a sense it’s a good thing to know what’s ahead of you. But after two decades I’m sure she has heard
some horror stories. And I’m sure those don’t sit well with you and result in
some sleepless nights. I think that’s the
one exception that I would be okay with being oblivious to the truth.
Strong One
My
grandfather was in and out of remission a few years before he passed away.
Somehow he remained positive despite leaving the hospital one day and answering
the phone just to hear that he had to go back the again (explains the revolving
doors at hospitals). My mother must’ve
inherited his courage as well. In her memoir she talks about how she would draw
strength from my grandfather’s memory.
She would also say that we gave her so much strength but to be honest,
she carried us through those eighteen months.
Some days I would forget about that putrid word cancer if it weren’t for
her bandana.
Dinner of Champions
From
the first day she broke the news to us, my mom always said that things would be
“business as usual”. That was our unofficial slogan. My mother kept a very tight circle during
this time and only told close friends and family. She would only tell people if
there was a reason to. Thankfully the
grapevine didn’t grow uncontrollably. There was no need to make a big deal out
of something that people didn’t need to know about. Many family members helped
whenever they could and we continued our lives of organized chaos. I remember one night in particular, when my
aunt made dinner for us; it was none other than stuffed shells.
Even
before this series of unfortunate coincidences, stuffed shells were far from my
favorite meal. The ricotta-filled pasta
went from a dinner I could muscle through to an unbearable dish. Along with the agonizing taste of the
Italian cheese come the memories of my mother’s diagnosis, chemotherapy,
radiation and everything in between. But
there is the sweet aftertaste of the words survivor, remission and cancer free.
Tyler Brisbois
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