Cancer and the Monolith, Part 3: Time

Time shrinks, the past is regrettable, everything goes blank.

Death has a funny property: it makes time go backwards, starting with the future.

“I have stage four cancer”

I looked ahead — the time in front of me shrank. The infinite well I was staring blankly into had shrunk to 3 feet and, all of a sudden, I had to make the most of what was left. I looked behind — the time I’d lived through took new meaning. The preciousness of all time became apparent.

With my mother: the meals during which I’d absent-mindedly stared at my phone. The weekends I didn’t come back home. The weekends I did but spent with friends instead of her. The trip we postponed until she couldn’t go anymore.

With myself: the mornings I slept in. The days I watched too many hours of TV. The nights I spent idling around a bar — there, but just barely.

“Can you help me?” she asked, pointing at her shoe.

Four years old: a flashback to receiving my first pair of laced shoes. My mother bends over to tie them for me. She makes two loops, pulling one through the other. “Bunny ears, see?”

I hold the tears back because I don’t want her to know how difficult this is for me. She does the same, only I don’t know it yet.

“Hold my hand.” We step into the crosswalk.

She’s lost 10 pounds and walks slowly. I’m worried she’ll trip on the curb. I slow my step to help her across the street. I hear a voice: “hold mommy’s hand. Don’t cross the street without me.” I try not to hunch, my chest fills with lead. She looks up at me. “Am I kid the now?”

I’m reminded loneliness is bred through silence. All human experiences are shared. It wasn’t a secret to either of us anymore. She was becoming the kid.

“Ew, I don’t like that.”

I go to the grocery store, panicking through the aisles for anything she’ll eat. Fruit mostly, some rice, a couple of pieces of raw fish. She loses 10 pounds, then another 10. She’s eating 200 calories a day. She’s losing more weight. She can barely eat anything.

A bell rings.

She can’t stand up without me. She has a button that lets me know when she needs my help. I go to her room, bending over her bed and wrapping my arms around her. “Give me a hug.” We stand up and walk to the couch where she likes to sit in the afternoon.

This experience doesn’t have a memory — at least not one that belongs to me. We’re almost back at zero.