Chapter 2 - ELEVEN MONTHS OF CANCER
Paige was admitted that evening.
Breast cancer.
Locally advanced.
Treatable.
Serious.
Her oncology team had recommended chemotherapy months earlier.
She started.
Then treatment became inconsistent.
Missed appointments.
Delayed prescriptions.
Transportation problems.
Unpaid balances.
Not because every treatment required cash up front.
Because the practical pieces around treatment kept collapsing.
Gas.
Copays.
Food.
Medication.
Phone access.
Someone driving her.
A stable place to recover.
Susan had told me Paige was “sleeping a lot lately.”
She never used the word chemotherapy.
Dr. Rebecca Owens asked Paige:
“Why did you stop attending regularly?”
Paige looked at me before answering.
“Susan said Damian’s money was gone.”
I felt cold.
“What?”
“She said the Calgary rent increased. Your hours were reduced. Greg needed help keeping the house from foreclosure.”
“We don't have a mortgage.”
Paige closed her eyes.
“I know that now.”
My house had been paid off three years before I left.
Paige continued.
Susan told her I was financially struggling.
Then said asking me for cancer expenses would force me home and destroy my career.
“She said you’d resent me.”
I looked at the floor.
“Why didn’t you tell me anyway?”
“I tried.”
“When?”
“Lots of times.”
I remembered messages.
CAN WE TALK TONIGHT?
I’M TIRED.
I MISS YOU.
Whenever I called, Susan was around.
Or Greg.
Or Paige said:
“Not now.”
She explained.
“My phone stopped working properly.”
Greg gave her an old replacement.
Video calls failed constantly.
Texts disappeared.
Some calls went straight to voicemail.
The hospital social worker, Alicia Monroe, asked:
“Did your husband ever personally tell you not to spend money on treatment?”
“No.”
“Did he personally tell you money was gone?”
“No.”
Every answer separated what Paige knew from what Susan said I believed.
Then Paige told me where she had been sleeping.
The backyard storage shed.
Not every night.
After treatments made her sick, Susan complained Paige was disturbing the house.
Then said the smell of medication and vomiting upset guests.
Eventually a cot appeared inside the shed.
“Why didn’t you leave?”
“Where?”
Her parents were dead.
She had stopped working during treatment.
Her debit card was repeatedly declined.
My family told neighbors she had developed “behavior problems.”
And she believed I had placed Susan in charge.
That part was true.
I had.
May you like
I had given my mother authority without creating any system that let my wife challenge her.
That was mine to carry.
