Liz was an exceptional woman and among many things – a mother, friend, computer programmer, cook, guitar player, science fiction expert and applied mathematician and a wonderful poet.
Coming from a family of literature lovers, linguists and writers, words were always part of my upbringing. But there was one word that, throughout my young and adult life, never entered our vocabulary: cancer. The word always seemed foreign, part of an unfamiliar vernacular or inaccessible jargon.
But its cruelly clacking consonants and, later, its meaning were forced upon us in May 2010 when my Mum was first diagnosed. From the way she contacted me I knew at once that something was wrong. A simple sms at the wrong time of day: “Hi love, can you call me when you get a chance?” It was ovarian, she said, something to be expected for a woman her age (66). And within days my mother, who, despite her weight, had barely seen the inside of a doctor’s office, was being rushed into an emergency hysterectomy.
The initial diagnosis was good: the ovaries were clear. But there was evidence of other, unexplained tumours. Liquid in the omentum. Ascites. Peritoneum. With each new week it seemed a new, strange and thoroughly unwelcome word was being added to our swelling family dictionary.
The initial chemo treatment (for PPC) went well. The cancer seemed to be in remission, and by October 2010 my mother was celebrating the first growths of leg hair and seriously contemplating taking her wig – which she had previously welcomed as the gift of a perfect hairdo – and throwing it away with the drugs that had become part of her in-treatment life.
But by January the signs weren’t good. Her weight loss was dramatic and she was anaemic, and the cancer was back. She was placed on new nanotechnology chemo, meant to target specific tumours. It was a strong drug but my mother fought on. She refused to give up work, or indeed most parts of a hectic social schedule that involved art and guitar lessons, dancing with her life partner (and nursing hero) Trevor, travelling and cooking.
When I last visited her it was early April. She was weak but still full of hope, promising to visit my wife and me (we live in Amsterdam, she in Johannesburg) regardless of the results of her upcoming scan. But it wasn’t to be. Within weeks of her beginning to lose hope for the first time – a sentiment sweetened by the news that she was to become a grandmother for the first time – her condition declined dramatically and she passed away, peacefully, at home.
What was left were memories, and messages passed on to me from friends to whom she shared her pride and love for me even if she couldn’t always tell me herself. For my mother was a pragmatist and a scientist first and foremost (a science fiction enthusiast whose love of fantasy was underpinned by her wonderful job title: universe developer).
It was this rational strength that meant she never told me how badly she was doing – I found out later that the tumours had reached her liver as far back as December 2010 – and perhaps what kept her going through the pain and discomfort. It was this logic that made her question why she had waited so long to go to the doctor even after several weeks of severe indigestion. It was this ethos that gave her remarkable courage and generosity.
And led to another new word in our family vocabulary: heroine.
Written by Elan Gamaker, son of Liz Simmonds.