Erica Settino holds a Bachelor's degree in Psychology, and is currently completing her MFA in Creative Writing at National University.  Presently, she works in animal welfare, rescue, and advocacy, and has been teaching yoga for over ten years.  Her work and practice fuel her writing and creative process with passion and determination.

All That Remains (May 20, 2010. Issue 17.)

I glance at the clock again: impatiently noting that a mere five minutes has passed since last I looked. Willing the hands to move with my mind, I pace the length of the waiting room -- one, two, three times. I grimace at the clock; time stands still. I feel alone. Although surrounded by my familial support system, I am separated and alien in a situation in which I have no control. My mother has been in surgery for eight hours. I watch as countless doctors push their way through the forbidden double doors that hold my mother captive. A knot of foreboding settles in the pit of my stomach as each physician passes me by. My senses are elevated, wickedly taunting me with association of each new sound to my mother’s suffering. The buzzing of a janitor’s hand tool is no doubt the drill they will use to cut into her skull. The metallic scraping of a gurney on the aluminum trash can mimics the removal of the stubborn tumor itself, and the cries of the elderly woman in the next room become my own, as I realize I may not see my mother again.

Struggling to find my breath, I concentrate instead on my brother, Shaun, asleep on the floor of the waiting room. Fear and anxiety ignite angst in our otherwise cordial relationship, and we argue incessantly throughout the day. I wonder how he can sleep at a time like this; and on the floor no less. He actually looks peaceful. I envy his detachment: this is a silent admission, made with guilt and shame. Urging my mind to wander, I join my brother in an attempt at rest. Drifting between moments of wake and sleep, I am aware of the whooshing of the double doors. Startled, I look up; my pleading eyes met by the smiling face of my mother’s surgeon, approaching me with purpose.

Leaning his tall frame upon wooden crutches, his right foot held off the ground, I envision him hunched over my mother’s vulnerable form; sweating and aching with injury as he navigates blood vessels and nerve-endings, his knife poised; painstakingly calculating with perfect precision the literal line between life and death. With an unexpected timidity he offers: “We got the whole thing. It took a little longer than we thought, and we had to cut pretty deep, but the entire tumor is out.”

I mutter my mediocre thanks. How can one sufficiently praise a man for removing a radiating tumor from her mother’s head? Do I hug him, buy him a gift card to a swanky steak house; promise my first-born? A silent handshake must do, as it is all I have to offer.

With postoperative abandon, I feel relief; fooling myself into believing the hard part is over. At dinner, we toast my mother, her health, her recovery, and her spirit. I wish out loud that she were with us: “she is,” Shaun says, and finally I begin to cry.

An Acoustic Neuroma: the second most commonly diagnosed brain tumor, invaded my mother’s body, stealing her hearing and life, as we know it. Perched on the acoustic nerve, the tumor branched out in diameter, although benign, its presence was felt. It still is. Along with permanent hearing loss, my mother suffers from disorientation, confusion, overstimulation, and residual neuralgia. Facial paralysis and nerve damage are two additional side effects she battles daily. And this is just the physical.

After a week in the hospital I bring my mother home. I always knew I would take care of her: the same way most young girls know they will grow up to be mothers themselves, I knew very early on that I would do for my mother as she did for me.

To love and nurture one’s child unconditionally; to support, cheer, advocate, and steer with gentle guidance and fierce loyalty, to laugh, cry, celebrate, and grieve -- to live. These are the gifts my mother offers. With her as my teacher, I learned how to be the best version of myself. And, I learned how to survive. Much of our life was instinctual endurance: living paycheck to paycheck, searching for the home we could call our own. Emotional and physical devastation and loss lurked nearby waiting for the next opportunity to pounce, and it seemed it always did. These are my memories, approximations of the hand I was dealt, and shards of experience I have internalized and carry with me. Each seared upon my emotional flesh, a vivid reminder of where I have been, and compass for where I will go. The only constant is my mother. My best friend: the Maid of Honor at my wedding, just eleven short months after the arduous ordeal. It is my turn.

I try, but I am not a mother. In fact, I am her daughter, selfishly affected by her decline; I ache for the normalcy of our relationship. But I am inept. Consciously aware of her fragility and frightened by her reality, I hold my breath. Not ready to relinquish my role as the child, I am eternally angry. Then she smiles. We laugh, making jokes when she doesn’t hear: “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you,” she admits.

“What, do you have a brain tumor or something?” I ask, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Mom, can you hear me?”

“BRAIN TUMOR!” she shouts, with a shrug of her shoulders and tilt of her head, pointing to her right ear, as if I need the reminder.

Shaking my head, it is my turn to smile. I am humbled by her strength. Each day brings new challenges, and she is tired. We acclimate: I walk on her left so she can hear me, she uses closed captioning on the television, things could be worse, and some days they are. These changes are a constant I have come to expect: nothing is all good or all bad, just different. And, through the continuous state of flux, I search for all that remains. Suspended in perception and perspective, I hunt fervently for the meaning of it all. This is my nature, and these are the only times I have ever known. An often determined, yet precarious balance of existence that I manipulate, mold, and form, taking shape as my life. Without it all -- without her, who would I be?

Recovery is a process not unlike the changing of the seasons. A sudden, yet unavoidable alteration, so subtle that if you aren’t paying attention you awake to summer; having missed spring all together. But the signs were there. The first temperate day when you shed your sweatshirt for short sleeves, the emergence of the tulips you planted last year as they are once again born to the fertile soil you lovingly water each day. An audible humming of the bumblebees; drinking nectar, creating new life, and the erratic dance of the butterflies, signifying rebirth; all warmed by a gentle blanket crocheted by the mid-day sun. It happens when we aren’t looking. My mother’s hair has grown back. A bouquet of salt and pepper curls spring from her head in a celebration of growth. No longer can I see the angry C-shaped incision, a consequence of marrying metal and steal with skin and bone. Her right eye appears smaller, hindering her genuine expression of surprise when a lifelong friend organizes a benefit and fundraiser in her honor.

“With all you have given, you deserve so much in return,” he tells her, as she wrestles with vulnerability and coordination on the dance floor.

“Take pictures, Erica. I want to remember this day.”

I will never forget. Images pull at me, holding me in the space of remembrance. The hospital bed that supported her unnaturally swollen body, the cane and walker waiting for my fifty-four year old mother in the hallway, her physical therapist working to recapture the balance and strength earned through a lifetime of yoga practice, her still heavy, awkward body held up by the arms of her girlfriends as they smile at the lens I point in their direction, are all burned in my brain. As solid as any tangible item I carry in my pocket, and just as heavy. Recollections invade upon my solace, burning the insides of my eyelids when I lay my head to rest. It would be easier to look away. To detach myself from the mental and emotional anguish she battles still. My flight or fight response begs for my survival; turn and run – flee. Yet I remain present. Not out of obligation, but because it is who she taught me to be, it is what she would do. I am her witness: her reason for it all. When finally, this season ends, I will be the sole person who watches the change take shape.
Experience has taught me that there is an undeniable parallel, which lingers between the best of times and the worst of times. I am careful not to mistake this observation for simple cliché. I do not believe that everything happens for a reason, nor do I think that God has a plan for each of us, doling out illness and catastrophe as He sees fit. My belief lies in free will: the ability to make choices that lead us in one direction or another -- for better or worse. I do however; find it fortuitous that we have the uncanny ability to take from our experiences a lesson. A trinket, in which holds the wisdom of time gone by.

Most recently, my mother has morphed into a gypsy. Unable to stay in our tiny cottage, (have I failed her?) she gratefully and graciously lives with relatives since surgery raped her of her home, her work, and her life savings. A recent invitation from a stranger; a friend of a friend, is carrying her to Woodstock, NY.

“Come heal in the mountains,” the stranger offers. “I have a huge house, and I can see you are a beautiful person.”

“I don’t have any money,” my sad, nearly defeated mother confesses.

“We’ll work it out, you can watch my animals while I am away. I travel a lot. Maybe you can garden and make a few meals. I’m not concerned about money. We’ll work it out.”

So, as spring turns to summer, with a trinket of hope, my mother is off to a huge house in Woodstock, with all that remains. And although some may think it crazy, I support this decision. She calls to tell me of the unexpected, yet welcome opportunity and asks for my opinion. It is then I realize this is what I can do, this is how I help, and this is my role. To love and support unconditionally, steering with gentle guidance and understanding, I laugh, and celebrate. We survive, we live.