This Is Your Gravy

Mom always held us to a high standard at school; she expected that we would excel, but demanded that we not leave any easy points on the table. Now the tables have turned.

“This is your gravy,” Mom would say, at times exasperated. “You have to do ALL the little things, the stuff you can control. You have be 100% at that stuff.”

Gravy, in this sense, was anything that was connected to our academic work and was easy to do. 20% of your grade was based on attendance? Then you never, ever miss a class, because that 20% is gravy. 50% of your grade is based on turning in weekly homework? For the love of god you turn those in every. single. week. because that 50% is gravy. Extra credit is offered? Take it, always, every time, because those points are gravy.

Mom expected my sisters and I to be excellent students and, for the most part, we were. Both of my sisters are really, really smart… almost as smart as I am. Just kidding — it’s not that close. But they are still super smart. 🙂

From grade school on, when it was report card time, anything that was not an A was going to be an issue. Mom’s dad, my grandfather, paid cash money for every A, so for me, the motivation was clear: get as many As as possible and go see Pop-Pop to get paid and then go to Clover to spend it.

Sometimes, an A just did not happen. If the effort was there, it was not a huge issue, but it was also understood that my primary focus in life would be to get whatever was not an A back to being an A.

However, if I did not deliver an A and it was because I lost points on attendance? Or I failed to turn something in on time? I didn’t take care of my gravy? Well, now we had a serious issue. Unacceptable. Punishments. Groundings. Surrender of Nintendo.

My parents did not punish us much (at least I was not punished that much), but if I brought home a B in a class because I didn’t do the extra credit or I missed a couple of weekly assignments? Well, then I was on the wrong side of the law.

Mom didn’t just talk the talk, either. When she went back to nursing school in the early 80s, we had a full house with a menagerie of pets. Dad was a Philadelphia police officer working all 3 shifts back then, we were all in Catholic school, and the family demands were high.

My Pop-Pop told my Mom he expected her to finish first in her class, and so that is what Mom set out to do. From a makeshift desk in an unfinished basement, surrounded by laundry that was never fully finished for the 3 years she went back to school, Mom attacked school. And after those 3 years, at her graduation, she achieved her goal: Mom finished first in her class… by just a couple of decimal points.

Just a couple of decimal points. Her name is on a plaque somewhere at the nursing school, and it is on there because of just a couple of decimal points.

You had better believe Mom knew this was because of gravy. One missed assignment over the course of the 3 years, one absence, one lazy moment, and Mom would have placed 2nd.

That was the standard we were held to; that was what was expected.

Now, here we are in this awful situation of the moment: pancreatic cancer. Chemo infusions. Appointments. Lab work. Test results.

There is so much that Mom cannot control, so much that none of us can control.

But there are some things we can control.

There is some gravy here.

Mom’s white blood cells were too low yesterday and we could not get the scheduled chemo infusion. This is due to the chemo mom received 2 weeks ago; the regimen she is on is the most aggressive (read: harshest) regimen a person can be on.

From the provider’s perspective, a delay in treatment, even a lowering of the dosage, is totally normal and expected; they start with the strongest dose and then dial it back as needed.

From Mom’s perspective, it was disappointing. Honestly, it was a bit disappointing for all of us. It was a let down. We were prepped and ready to go, and then we couldn’t. It felt like a step back, even though our provider assured us it was most definitely NOT a step back, but an expected part of crafting Mom’s treatment.

OK. Fine. But things feel how they feel, and initially at least, it felt bad when we were told after labs that Mom could not get chemo yesterday.

They want Mom to take an extra week, to eat well, to get lots of protein, and to get her white blood cell count back up. They are going to make some slight modifications to Mom’s treatment to account for the white blood cell count, as well as some other symptoms. But Mom’s job right now is to get the white blood cells back up. To eat, and to eat well.

Eating has not been easy so far. The first week after Mom’s first chemo was a struggle, and Mom lost a bit of weight. The second week was better, and Mom put some weight back on.

Now we have this extra week, and it is gravy. The extra credit assignment, the take-home test, the attendance points, are all just this: Mom needs to eat, and eat well, all week.

Today was off to a good start, with a lot of healthy food all morning and Mom and Dad off for a nice outdoor walk at the arboretum.

My brilliant sisters and my wife, as well as all of our wonderful Aunts and neighbors, are concocting all sorts of good things for Mom to eat.

Just saying: if I never say or hear the word “protein” again it will be OK.

Whatever Mom can enjoy eating, that is what we need to be seeing her eat.

Mom’s kitchen has always been a magical place; I am sure we can make this happen.

Pass the gravy, please.