As The Storm Moved Out To Sea--Gilda Club writing class prompt

As the storm moved out to sea, she gazed at the horizon and thought about the last few hours. 

Never again, she thought.  I’m too old to be staring down a hurricane, oh, excuse me, tropical storm.  Well, it was a storm all right.  But where could you go on this planet, with climate changing everywhere it seemed, where you could escape Mother Nature?

The last few hours had been a nightmare, but thank God that was in the past.  Mother Nature’s storm was over.  The storm in her mind, though, was just beginning again.

James, she said to her son later. They were just sitting down to a cold supper, thanks to the power being out.  I’ve been thinking

.

Uh-oh, mom.  The last time you told me you’d been thinking, you said you were stopping the chemo.  Maybe you’ve had a change of heart?

No, it’s not that.  I TOLD you I’d start chemo again if this Beast roars again, but I wasn’t doing chemo just for the hell of it, HOPING to keep it caged.  I wanted to feel good again, even if it was only for a little while.  And I was feeling good again, at least until this damn storm hit.  Now I’m all ambivalent.  I did not like for a minute sitting in the bathtub, waiting for the roof to blow off, or that tree to fall on the house, or lightning to strike the old antenna and start a fire that would smoke us to death. I did not enjoy facing Father Death.  In fact, I was scared witless and afraid I wouldn’t live to see tomorrow.  And you know what? It turns out I DO want to live to see another day. 

I want you to be here tomorrow, too, James said softly.

I know you do, son, and that’s part of my ambivalence.  Who am I living for?  Me?  Or you? Or that precious little girl of yours?  Or my sister?  Or the step-kids?  Or my ex—your dad? Or my friends?  Let’s face it.  My friends would get over it—sooner rather than later. The step-kids, likewise.  My sister would be sad, but she’s such a pragmatist, she’d understand.  That little grandgirl is still too young to really miss me very long.  In a few years, she’ll have forgotten ever knowing me.  That leaves you and me, honey. 

What are you trying to say, Mom?

I’m not sure exactly.  I think I’m saying that as long as fighting this Beast is more of a skirmish, not an out-and-out battle, with pain and war wounds and PTSD, I’ll probably keep on with treatments.  But I’m not sure that I any longer want to face long periods of misery, or devastating treatments with no going back to an earlier stage of health.  On the other hand, I hate the idea of putting myself ahead of you.  Your whole life I’ve always tried to put you first, or at least equal to me, when I’ve made decisions that affected us both.  You know that.  You do the same with your little Laura.  It’s what parents do. Or most parents do—most of the time. Oh, my.  This has me so depressed.

 Mom, maybe we ought to wait until at least the power and the water are back on, and the carport is repaired and the water’s out of the basement before you start making life-changing decisions.  Things seem pretty grim to you right now.  Maybe it’ll seem brighter in a week or so.

Maybe. Maybe not. But you’re probably right.  This storm took the starch right out of me.  I’ll give it until we get the house back in shape and see how I feel then.  The one thing I do need to know now, though, is this.  When, not if, this cancer comes back and I go back on the so-called last chemo available, are you going to be able to let this be MY decision?  If I decide to go off the chemo and let nature take its course?

I think so, Mom.  I can’t bear to have to have you gone, but I can’t stand to see you suffer, or even if you’re not in pain, just lying there not able to have a real life.  So I’ll try, Mom.  I’ll try not to interfere.

Thank you, son.  I love you so much.

I know you do, Mom. I love you, too.