She Ain't Heavy, She's My Mother (16 page)

“I need to know, I need to know, and nobody has any answers. You are her doctor. Please tell me something, anything.”

“Young man,” he said calmly, with kind authority, “this is not usually done, but since I know your mother would want me to, okay.”

He put his arm around my shoulder as he walked me down the hall.

“Now son, I am going to be honest. You are old enough for the truth. Your mother had a serious procedure, and
we had to remove one of her breasts because there was a cancerous tumor inside. We also removed some lymph nodes for testing. If the lymph nodes prove negative, then your mother’s situation will be much better. I believe that we got it all and that the tests will come back negative, but we have to wait a few days for the results. Do you think you can you hang in there until then?”

I nodded. “So if those tests come back negative, then she’ll be fine, right?”

“Well, son, it’s not as easy as all that,” he went on. “You see, if those results come back negative, then there is a very good chance it didn’t spread, but there are other tests we have to do to make sure it’s not traveled to any other organs in her body. If all those tests come back negative, that’s good too. But the rule is five years cancer-free before patients are considered cured.”

Dr. Sebastian was paged over the loudspeaker, and he patted my shoulder gently with his manicured hands before leaving me alone at the end of the hall. What would I do if my mother died? Because of my father’s heart condition, I always feared that he might die, but I had never, ever thought about losing my mother so soon.

T
O OUR GREAT RELIEF,
all the test results came back negative and her lymph nodes were clear. However, ten days after her initial surgery, she underwent a hysterectomy. Then, as if all of that weren’t enough, she had a subcutaneous mastectomy on her remaining breast. Mom entered the hospital at the pinnacle of feminine beauty, but within
a month she walked out a butchered and completely altered person. No matter how she tried, she would never be able to lose the nearly twenty pounds she gained in the hospital due to the change in her hormone levels—and perhaps to the rich New Orleans food that friends and family lavished on her. All in all, she would never physically be the same again. But her face, her dancing, twinkling eyes and stunning smile, remained, as did her indomitable spirit.

That spirit would be tested again and again in the coming years, years filled with more and more illness and fear. Mom underwent two grueling and painful reconstructive surgeries as well as three more resulting from her body’s reaction to the implants.

Meanwhile, Dad’s heart continued to falter severely as he drank more heavily. Finally his doctor informed Mom that he was indeed killing himself with alcohol. Never missing a step, Mom sought a nearby treatment center in Baton Rouge, and twice a week we would drive for our coaching sessions on how to perform an intervention. Mom was fully prepared to leave him if he did not agree to go to the treatment center after we confronted him with how his drinking had negatively affected our lives. Fortunately, he agreed to go. And with only a few slips, Dad remained sober for the rest of his life. But it was indeed too late; the damage to his heart and other vital organs was irreversible.

Two months after his release, just short of Mom’s two-year mark of being cancer-free, a tiny malignant tumor was discovered and removed just under the skin of
what remained of her left breast. By this point Dad was in and out of the hospital constantly, a huge oxygen tank was kept in the den, and everyone in the household had taken a course in CPR. The recurrence of Mom’s cancer was the worst possible news. There are many words I hate, and although
hate
itself has become one of them, it appropriately describes my deep sentiments surrounding the words
malignant, metastasize
, and
recurrence
.

Mom made a trip to the M. D. Anderson Cancer Center in Houston for a complete evaluation, and upon returning she announced her plan to the family. She had stopped at Neiman Marcus in the Galleria Mall, and I was proud that without my help, Mom had selected a stunning ensemble all on her own. We all sat on the massive L-shaped chocolate leather sofas that faced the vintage brick hearth—Dad, Jay, Moozie, Oralea, and me—as Mom made her presentation with an air of confidence.

“Okay, my loves, here’s the deal. The sweet doctors at M. D. Anderson ran every test possible, every fancy kind of X-ray, on every fancy advanced machine on the planet. And thank God, they could not find a trace of the cancer anywhere. That’s the good news … Hooray!” She shook her bejeweled hands over her head in a “praise the Lord” gesture. Whenever the phrase “good news” was used, I knew bad news was right around the corner. She continued, her voice as lovely as always but stronger and more determined.

“I asked them what they would recommend for treatment, and the doctors said full radiation and chemotherapy. So I said, ‘Okey-dokey, let me get this straight. There
is no cancer detectable in my entire body, yet you want to blast me full of toxic chemicals and radiate me to boot?’” She was on a roll, acting out the exchange both physically and vocally, imitating the Texan twang on top of her own lilting drawl.

“‘Hm-hmm, that’s correct, Mrs. Batt.’ So I asked what they would have for me if in fact the dirty little rascal came back to visit again, and they said, ‘Well, then, we would have to use a lesser treatment.’ So I said thank you very much, and that I would let them know my decision. Now y’all, I have thought and thought about this. Maybe this tiny recurrence was a fluke and not related to the last cancer spell. Why pull out the heavy artillery now? Wouldn’t it make sense to bomb when attacked? So I’ve decided to take a pill that has been shown to help keep the kind of cancer I had at bay. But wait, there’s more. On the plane ride home, I sat next to a lady who was coming back from M. D. Anderson as well. We started to chat, and she pulled out small containers of her own food, and I asked her what it was. She explained that she was on a macrobiotic diet, and it had been proven that it helped fight cancer. She said that we are ingesting a lot of chemicals and preservatives in our diet that cancer just loves. She also gave me names of books to read and groups that teach creative and healing visualization and so on. So here’s the deal, I am going on that diet and I am going to every class I can and beat this. Then if one day I have to do the chemo, so be it—no Gayle!”

She stopped and corrected herself as if admonishing a small child. “Take that back, take that thought back from
the universe!” She reached out and grabbed the air in front of her and tossed the imaginary thought over her shoulder. Mom inhaled a big, deep breath and continued for a moment with her eyes closed. “You are a healthy and healing child of God.” She quickly opened her eyes wide, explaining, “That is what is called an affirmation. Cheryl, the lady on the plane, said it’s all about positive thinking and seeing yourself well, mind over matter. So that’s it, kiddos, I am now off to a little grocery on Esplanade called the Whole Food Company. They sell only organic and chemical-free food. I think we will have some free-range chicken tonight, and steamed vegetables and kale. Any questions?”

Our mouths ajar, we could only look at one another in silent shock. “No? All righty, then.”

She kissed us each as she made her way to the door, collecting her handbag and notepad from the plane ride. With each kiss we smiled slightly, not knowing what to say. “Family, I am off to the Beacon Bookstore, then to make an appointment at the Agape Center, and finally a pass by the Whole Food Company. Oralea, I’ll be back in about an hour and a half. Would that give us enough time to fix a healthy dinner? Oooh, and brown rice too?”

Oralea nodded.
“Oui, Madame
, I hear you loud and clear!”

As Mom hurried out the side door, Dad, stunned, muttered, “Jesus Anthony Christ.”

Jay shook his head. “They obviously didn’t do a brain scan, because Mom has lost it!”

Moozie and I sat completely still, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

Oralea marched front and center, put her hands in her white uniform pockets, and grinned from ear to ear. “You gentlemen can say what you want, but Miss Gayle’s done put her boxing gloves on. That is the sign of a woman in love. She in love with her family and she in love with life and you just can’t mess with that, no way, no how. I guarantee, that lady is going to outlive us all, they are going to have to drag her kicking and screaming from this world. Oooooh, that’s my girl. Now excuse me, I got to make a few calls and find out what the dickery-dock is brown rice and how do you cook it!”

A
ND SO IT
was that Mom stayed faithful to her macrobiotic diet, bringing Tupperware containers of brown rice and seaweed to the best restaurants in town and continually perplexing waiters by requesting steamed vegetables and poached fish—Ĉreole cuisine blasphemy. Miraculously, it worked, but as always, with the good news came the bad. Dad’s situation continued to worsen. There were countless trips in the ambulance to the hospital, and he grew so weary of the ordeal. He was diagnosed with premature ventricular contractions, which would throw his weakened and enlarged heart into fibrillation, for which there was no treatment or cure at the time. Mom saw that we had a defibrillator in the home, and educated herself on exactly what medications were needed to stabilize him if such an attack occurred. Her desire to hold on to the man she loved was unswerving, and although he was finally brought home because he didn’t want to die in the hospital, she never surrendered her hope.

Mom called all over the South and the entire country to find doctors who might have any trial or experimental treatments. Nothing. The last attempt was to be a heart transplant; this rarely successful operation was the only possibility left. It appeared that there was a doctor in California who would perform the surgery, and Mom clung to that tiny sliver of hope with every fiber of her soul, but finally the call came that Dad was not a viable candidate. Although she begged the doctor to try anyway, it was to no avail. Mom then gave up, but not completely. She later told me that she ran into her boudoir and collapsed, crying, ranting to the heavens.

“I GIVE UP, DO YOU HEAR ME? I GIVE UP! YOU WIN! There is nothing else I can do, so I am turning it over to you. I’ve done everything possible … It’s your will … not mine!”

The very next day there was a call from Dr. Albert Hyman, a heart specialist from right there in New Orleans. He informed my mother that there was a new heart medication that was garnering great results, and although it had not yet been approved by the FDA, he was able to procure the drug for Dad as an experimental trial. There was a fifty percent chance it would work, with jaundice as a possible side effect. The medication worked, and for the next five years they lived as newlyweds. From being bedridden, he was able to take Mom to dinner, have weekend visits to the Coast with all their fun friends, and dance at the thirtieth-anniversary party Jay and I threw them on October 10, 1985. Given a similar high school home life, I wouldn’t blame a kid for running as far as he could for
college. I chose to stay in my own backyard, and never regretted that decision.

Our fraternal grandmother, Mom-ee, had passed away the summer prior, and left Jay and me a small sum to travel abroad. I had used a little of mine to move up to New York in September to pursue my dream of being an actor. So instead of a European tour, we chose to throw a lavish fête for our parents and reunite their wedding party. Knowing that Dad would not hear of such an extravagance, we decided to make it a surprise, but Moozie informed us that Mom would just have a fit if she didn’t have time to get the right dress, and that we shouldn’t do anything to suddenly shock Dad. So we compromised, and both Mom and Dad received the invitation when all their family and friends did. Dad called me, reeling. “Are you boys out of your minds? You can’t afford this kind of party right now; you are just starting out in life.”

Jay and I had rehearsed our response. “Dad, one day we will be able to afford this, but we don’t know what the future holds, so we are doing it now.”

The event was fantastic. Friends from all over the country flew in, and as he went to bed that night he said to Mom, “I just can’t sleep, Gayle, tonight was just so wonderful…. We have two wonderful sons.”

He leaned over to kiss her, smiling and saying softly, “I have you to thank for that.”

One month later, almost to the day, Dad died in his sleep. He was fifty-five years old.

M
Y ONE DREAM,
my single goal, was to be in a Broadway show, and now it was finally happening. So what if it was
Starlight Express
, Andrew Lloyd Webber’s monstrously overproduced mega-musical retelling of “The Little Engine That Could”? And I was dressed as a train with five-pound roller skates on each foot, singing and dancing a grueling routine on a massive three-story “train set” complete with illuminated Plexiglas bridges, tunnels, drops, and bowls? And so what if the show received some of the most scathing reviews in theatrical history? I was on Broadway! I loved every moment of it, especially working with the cast and, as a principal, having my own dressing room, with my bio and picture in the
Playbill
. But mostly I loved the sense of belonging I felt every time I walked through the stage door. I have never tired of that glorious sensation, and pray that I never will.