"At Least You Didn't Tell Me To Get A Mac Like That Other One"

The routine has become so engrained that it almost sounds like the Abbott and Costello "Who's On First Routine." My mom calls up and has an issue with her computer. She carefully explains it, and I, ever the "funny" kid, tell my mom, "Get a Mac." From "Blue Screens of Death" to connectivity issues to printing problems, my solution remains the same: "Get a Mac."

Now that my Mom's cancer is Cancer, I desperately want to help my mom. I have sat at her computer typing in words as she dictated them because she can no longer type actual words. I have charged her iPad. I have fixed her connectivity issues. I have put together a medication log so my dad can keep track of the myriad medications he and I have to administer throughout the day. Why?

Because my mom always tells me, "You're a good boy."

I guess I never really knew how much I wanted to hear those words. After all, for most of my life, my actions have seemed anything but that of a "good" boy. I think that from the time my sister Wendy, two years younger than I, came into this world I felt a sense of jealousy about having to share my parents with these "interlopers." At a young age, I threw my younger brother, Chris, through the living room window while "horsing around." Another time, I put him in the clothes dryer and turned it on.

I always let my siblings take the short-term blame for my misdeeds. If I managed to fool my mom, it was short-lived, and often my punishment far worse than if I had just fessed up from the start. What did I care? I was young, invincible, and didn't need my parents' approval. More often than not, my mom met my actions with, "You're a bad boy, Jeff."

Fast-forward to today. As a parent, I know what it means to have children. I also know what it means to have children who misbehave at times. Now that my Mom's cancer is Cancer there is nothing I wouldn't do to please her or earn her approval.

When my mom first started to get really sick, she ended up in the hospital, fighting an unseen demon that eventually surfaced as pneumonia. Mom suffered through terrible back pain that did not let her even lie in bed. It turns out that the pneumonia may have caused her to fracture a vertebrae in her back. She spent almost a week in the hospital either sitting on the edge of the hospital bed or propped in a terribly uncomfortable recliner.

During one of his visits to the hospital, my brother, Chris, sat with my mom on the edge of her bed, earning him a "You're a good boy, Christopher" from my mom. Chris beamed for the whole room to see - once again he snuck in at just the right moment and did the "right" thing at the right time. I can tell you I did not like it one bit. I spent nights sleeping on an uncomfortable couch or in a plastic room chair, helping my mom go to the bathroom or helping her to stand because she could not get comfortable. He would swoop in for a few minutes and immediately earn a, "You're a good boy, Chris."

During the past seven weeks on Family Medical Leave, I have tended to every one of my Mom's needs. I have helped my mom make her own funeral arrangements. I have slept with a phone extension next to my head so she could call me at any time to help her get to the bathroom. I have helped her stand only to help her immediately sit down because she cannot get comfortable. I have untangled her oxygen tube, administered her medicine, and helped her adjust her hat to cover her hairless head. I have done this because now that my mom's cancer is Cancer, she needs me to help her.

If I want to remain truthful, though, part of the reason I help in all of those different ways is that my mom has started to say "You're a good boy" after I help ease her suffering in some way. For some reason, I need to hear those words right now.

About a week ago, my mom had difficulty when she wanted to check her email. She had her Microsoft Outlook set up with a custom view that let her look at her emails in a calendar view. At some point in the last few weeks, she must have deleted that view and couldn't find it any more. She asked me if I could fix the problem, so set about recreating that calendar view. Since I use a Mac, and not a PC, I needed to use Google to find the answers.

My mom checked in with me periodically, thanking me and calling me a "good boy." I relished the moment every time she said that to me. It took longer than expected, partly because every time she came in she called me a "good boy" (why would I want that to end?), but I finally found the answer I needed. Mom couldn't wait for me to fix it, so she again popped her head in the room and asked if I had fixed the problem. I told her I hadn't fixed it yet, but I though I found the answer and would soon have it fixed.

As she left the room she reassured me saying, "I know you will. Not like that other one. He would just tell me to get a Mac."