Not a battle but a siege

For Simone Gerow, cancer was not a battle to be fought, but a siege to be toughed out until resources ran out. And tough it out she did, for almost an entire year since her diagnosis last summer.

The end for Kerri’s auntie was expected, which did not necessarily make it easier. The beginning was that of a war baby, born in 1945, abandoned by her birth parents and adopted into a British family. She moved to Canada and fell in love with a rock band’s keyboardist, and then also fell in love with another family: The Gerows.

I get that. I, too, have fallen in love with this family of generous, funny, kind individuals. And so she stayed on this side of the pond, had one son, followed the music across the continent, bought a house in Ottawa she loved, and planted a garden.

She loved her garden.

I got to know Simone (pronounced the French way, otherwise it was Sindy) over the years, but so much more during the past year. Since my schedule is flexible and no one in the Ottawa-based family drove except Kerri and I, I took her to many appointments. We laughed, shared tales, and got to know each other quite well. Whenever I’d bring her to the hospital in a wheelchair and leave her there to go park the car, I’d lock the wheelchair and joke that I didn’t want anyone kidnapping her. She’d always respond with a funny quip, or a smile.

She tackled her diagnosis with grace and strength, and courage I don’t know if I’ll ever again witness.

“I’m a tough old bird,” she’d tell the doctors as they described treatments. And she was.

I was with her when she was put into palliative care. We knew it was coming—she’d been getting weaker by the day. We were ushered into the room, and when the doctor came in, she didn’t sit down at the computer like usual, but took a seat before Simone. We both knew it was coming, but it still wasn’t easy to hear.

“The treatments have stopped working.”

Simone sat there, simply nodding and thinking. The doctor continued.

“You’ll be put into palliative care, meaning a palliative care doctor will come visit you at home and take care of you.”

Simone made a noise of acknowledgement. The doctor looked at me, expecting more of a response.

“She’s British,” I joked while fighting back my own emotions. “That’s all you’ll get from her.”

Laughter. The great balm.

“I’d like to see the summer,” Simone said finally.

The doctor nodded in turn. No promises, but hope.

Simone had been stoic throughout her treatments. When we got home after that appointment, she sat down on the steps once I’d helped her inside, and her three-year-old dog, Bandit, happily licked her face. Her shoulders dropped.

That’s as close to defeat as I ever witnessed from her.

She lived for a few months after that appointment. Made it to summer. Got to see flowers come up in her garden. She ate a lot of burgers, and fried chicken, and Lindor truffles, and ice cream, and all the treats she could stomach. She kept losing weight, but not her sense of humour.

Then the appetite went. As did the rest of her strength.

She was moved into a hospice but still cracked jokes and got zingers in every time we visited.

A week in, as her lungs filled up with fluid and breathing became a struggle, she decided she was done and wanted to go to sleep and not wake up again. We all gathered, the little family, and had a chance to say goodbye. There were tears, but also lots of laughter.

“We’ll give an injection every hour until she’s well out and sleep until she’s gone. She’s so weak that she’ll probably fall asleep after the first injection.”

But, true to her word, she was a tough old bird and right after the third injection, she woke right up, took a final sip of tea, and fell asleep. She never woke up again.

Simone saw half of the summer and passed away on one of its most beautiful days. She did not believe in life after death, nor did she fear death. She made it to eighty and would have loved more time but accepted death when it came knocking.

There’s no way to portray a life in a simple blog post. Even in a whole book, or volumes in a series, you still miss out on the quiet moments that forge a soul.

When I said goodbye to Simone, I read her the dedication I intend to use for an upcoming book (not written but planned out), and I think it tells everything and nothing, and captures her perfectly:

To Simone Gerow,
The toughest old bird I ever did know.

Rest in power, my friend. You will forever be missed.

Simone and Oreo being BFFs during her last visit to our home.