Trying to Keep Death at Arm’s Length
By: A Singular Story
Tags: Life Lessons, Family, Love, Self, Spirituality

Since we’re early for the appointment, we stop for coffee.

As my father bites into a giant chocolate muffin, my stepmom and I wink at each other. The best way to get my father to stop complaining is to feed him something, anything.

I notice he’s looking increasingly somber and subdued. At our small table, shared anxiety is palpable. As I root around in my backpack for more gum, my head starts spinning. But I force out a trademark goofy smile all the same and reassure my stepmom that whatever comes next, we’ll deal with it together as a family.

As we make our way around the Pantheon and past the Portuguese bookshop, she turns to me.

“You know, you can come in with us if you like,” she says.

The coffee I’ve just ingested threatens to exit my body through my mouth, geyser style. This wasn’t part of the plan. Deep breath, stand firm, let’s go.

“Of course, I’d be happy to if you’re sure you don’t mind,” I reply.

My parents both nod.

To defuse tension as we wait for the oncologist I whip out my cell phone and show my stepmom pictures of my cats. Back when I flew out at the end of December, my husband made them each an Instagram account to try and cheer me up. Desperate times call for desperate measures so I deploy the cute and even though my stepmom is a dog person, she relaxes enough to stop dabbing her eyes with a tissue.

The oncologist calls us in and I shake his hand as my parents introduce me. Somehow he becomes aware I’ve come from Seattle and he says he can hear it. I only have a slight anglo lilt in French when I’m extremely nervous, an audible tell that betrays my calm and composed exterior.

As he reviews the latest PET scan results with us and examines my stepmom, I get a better idea of how he’s been managing their expectations. I hear him loud and clear, and when we look at each other, he knows that I know.

This knowledge is heavy.

But I’m here purely as a witness, and at no point do I join in the conversation between him and my parents. The oncologist prescribes a new protocol in pill format and sends my stepmom to a nurse who will explain how it works.

Walking out of the cancer institute, we’re all a bit unsteady on our feet and in need of a pause so we stop at the Corsican coffee place near the Portuguese bookshop. My parents have barely sat down that my father is already scheduling medical appointments into his phone and organizing the new paperwork. My stepmom texts her son to tell him we’ll be on our way to his place shortly for a family debrief. I excuse myself so I can pop in next door and get the grammar book I’ve needed for weeks.

With a cheerful and assertive “Boa tarde!*” I walk into the shop where I spend a few minutes choosing books before timidly attempting a conversation in Portuguese with the owner, a well-known translator and editor. I want to ask him for advice about settling in Lisbon on a long-term temporary basis but my heart isn’t in it and I sound like a chipmunk with an Azores accent. The words tumble out at random but I still manage to leave with a business card on which an email address is underlined.

Granted, it might have been easier in French but the thought didn’t even cross my mind. I go back next door clutching a grammar book, a history book, a novel from the bargain box, and some Portuguese cough drops for my stepmom.

There was a small Dr Bayard display box jammed on the fiction shelf; she likes candy.