By Mal Schoen
In Memory of Mal Schoen
A participant in Stanford’s Writing Your Cancer Journey writing group, Mal Schoen passed away in February 2018. He wrote this letter to his mother and read it to the writing group.
So many people in so many ways have helped me since my diagnosis in 2013. Doctors, nurses, hospital and insurance administrators. Friends drove me to chemotherapy appointments. Online cancer-buddies buoyed my flagging spirits with encouragement. My brother distracted me with games of online Words With Friends. My sister aired me out with local shopping trips. But your help, Mom, is the help that comes first to mind with a special poignancy.
Since Dad died in 2011, your own health was slowly deteriorating, and continues to do so. A so-called cognitive decline. Though you still live on your own, your world has continued to shrink. The next thing any of us knew, I was in a hospital recovery room waking up with less of my colon, none of my appendix, and a brand spanking new colostomy situated on my belly, hidden for a while under the hospital gown and blankets.
Like me, you don’t like to fly, but there was no question in your mind that you needed to be with me. You took the train from Portland and a day later, my sister picked you up and brought you to spring me from the hospital—nine days after surgery. You slept on my couch and kept me company for weeks. I did my own cooking anyway, but what I needed was just for you to be there.
Over the next year and a half, I had two more surgeries, and each time you got on that train and traveled through the mountains and arrived to sleep on my couch. The best time was Thanksgiving 2013. I had just had my second surgery—the takedown of the colostomy, an unbelievably happy occasion. We cooked our Thanksgiving meal together—a turkey breast for you, Tofurky for me—and you surprised me with holiday decorations that you taped up on my kitchen windows. It was just the two of us—my brother stayed home in Portland, and my sister stayed at her home, as well. But it may have been my best Thanksgiving ever. You and I have been so close for sixty years, but these visits had a special glow to them. Our futures were both so uncertain and under siege, but for the moment we were healthy and happy and together, both grateful for what we had and might continue to have.
Next week, I will be the one journeying through the mountains on the train to spend Thanksgiving with you—and my brother, and our friends. Your dementia has gotten a bit worse, and my scan and blood work in September were a tiny bit concerning—so Lord only knows what will be next year—but thankfulness reminds me to keep my mind on the present time.
Thank you, Mom, for the gift of your presence when I needed it most—I hope my presence has likewise been a help to you.