I am somewhat recovered, at least on the surface, when Ezra parks the buggy in front of a medical complex. He hops down and secures the reins to a post, then offers me a hand to get down. “They told me I can get a wheeled chair for your mamm,” he says. “I will go and find it now.”
“Thank you,” I say solemnly as I start to rouse my mom. I don’t even want to look at him. Not because I’m angry, but because I don’t want to start crying again. “We’re here,” I tell Mom. She sits up fully with an anxious expression.
“Where?” She holds her head in her hands. “What is happening?”
I remind her about coming to Hochstetler to see the doctor. “It’s a woman doctor,” I say as cheerfully as I can. “I think she’s going to really help you.”
“Will she give me more pills?” Mom asks in a shaky voice.
“I think she will,” I assure her. “Ezra has gone to get a wheelchair for you.”
“Who is Ezra?”
I explain once again who he is and that he brought us here. I’m just finishing up when he returns with a wheelchair. He helps me to load Mom into it and then proceeds to push the chair. “I’ll show you where the doctor’s office is,” he says as we go into a building.
Eventually we enter a waiting room, and Ezra politely introduces me to a gray-haired receptionist who looks like she’s been sucking on a lemon. Without further ado and to my relief he excuses himself, promising to return in a couple of hours. The receptionist hands me a clipboard with paperwork. “Can your mother fill out these forms?” she asks. “Or should you do it for her?”
“I’ll have to do it,” I say.
“You have your insurance information?”
“We don’t have insurance.”
She frowns at my clothing as if that explains everything. “No, of course you don’t have insurance,” she says in what seems a slightly superior tone. “Well, just fill out the rest of the spaces. Do the best you can. And make sure you give us the correct billing address. And a phone number where you can be reached, if you have one.”
I roll Mom’s chair over to the seating area, then sit down and start filling out the forms. It’s not that difficult, except that I feel rattled—like my brain’s not fully functioning. I’m not sure if it’s because my heart just got trampled, or because my mom is slumped in her chair like a marionette whose strings have been cut, or because that snooty old receptionist seems to be putting me down for being Amish—even though I’m not! I eventually get the form filled out correctly, and with fairly neat penmanship as well. I take it up to the grumpy receptionist, setting it on the counter and waiting.
“The doctor will be with you as soon as she’s available,” she says curtly.
“Thank you.” I return her curtness with a forced smile. I am suddenly aware that I am my mom’s advocate. I’m all she has, and I recognize it’s vital that everyone in this office, including this receptionist, respect me. “I’m very grateful that the doctor could see my mom on such short notice,” I say politely. “She’s had a really rough time with this illness. Before we moved here, so her parents could help out, she was diagnosed with BPPV.” I pause, seeing that the receptionist looks fairly surprised by my little speech. “I’m sure you know what BPPV is—benign paroxysmal positional vertigo. The diagnosis seemed plausible since she was so dizzy and unstable that she had to quit her job. But then her doctor changed the diagnosis to Ménière’s disease, which also causes a form of vertigo. He prescribed diazepam for her, and although it does relieve some symptoms, she has never improved. Lately she’s been much worse. So I hope Dr. Hoffman can give her a more thorough examination, and maybe even suggest a different form of treatment.”
The receptionist looks surprised and slightly perplexed. “Yes, well, I hope so too.”
“Thank you for your help,” I tell her.
“You’re welcome.” She smiles at me as if she’s suddenly realized that I’m human and have feelings.
“Oh, by the way, would you mind if I plugged my cell phone into an outlet? It’s been dead for weeks, and I’d really like to charge it.”
“No problem.” She points one out to me.
I thank her again, then plug in my phone and go back to sit with my mom. She’s still pretty out of it, but being here and talking to the receptionist like that renews a spark of optimism in me. Despite my agonizing morning with Ezra, I feel surprisingly hopeful. I’m not even sure why, but I suspect it has to do with these past few weeks of talking and acting Amish. I know it’s impossible, but it almost feels as if my brain cells had been shrinking. As if I was forgetting how to think. I’ve always been considered fairly intelligent in school, but it’s almost as if I’ve been playing dumb.
Okay, dumb is not the right word, but I was definitely not being myself. Maybe the word is suppressed. Because it’s crystal clear to me now that I was pretending. There is no denying it. I was so smitten with Ezra and my unrealistic dreams of our future together that I was willing to suppress my personality, my intelligence, even my spirituality, just to please him. I totally compromised myself simply to fit into his world. And here is the irony: it is a world that Ezra doesn’t even want to fit into. Or so he says.
“Anna McNamara?” a nurse calls out.
“Yes,” I say eagerly. “We’re over here.” I push Mom’s wheelchair toward her. “It’s time to see the doctor, Mom,” I quietly tell Mom, but she doesn’t respond.
As I go by the front desk, the receptionist gives me a thumbs-up sign. “Good luck,” she says quietly.
“Thanks.” I give her a sincere smile, then follow the nurse into what appears to be an examining room.
“Are you going to stay with Anna?” The nurse peers curiously at my slumped-over mom and then back at me.
She hands me a pale blue gown. “I guess she can remain in her chair for the exam. Just have her remove her upper clothing,” she says. “The doctor will be in shortly.”
As I help Mom take off her T-shirt, she seems to be growing more alert. I explain what’s happening, but as I’m helping her into the cotton gown, I can’t help but notice that besides being thinner than before, she also has a lot of bruises on her arms and torso. “Are these bruises from falling down so much?” I ask with concern.
“I don’t know,” she mumbles. “I fall a lot.”
As I tie the gown behind her neck, I am assaulted with guilt. My poor mom! So sick and dizzy, and although Mammi was probably trying, she wasn’t really caring for Mom in the best way. If I hadn’t been so distracted with my pathetic love life, so obsessed with Ezra, so caught up in becoming Amish, I might’ve noticed. I might’ve done something sooner.
A tall, dark-haired woman in a white coat comes in and introduces herself as Dr. Hoffman. She has kind eyes and a gentle voice as she asks Mom some preliminary questions. When Mom struggles to answer, I try to explain. I basically tell her the same thing I told the receptionist, only with more detail this time. I can tell the doctor is carefully listening as she writes things down.
The doctor asks me some specific questions about Mom’s behavior and symptoms and the timeline of her illness as she begins her examination. She does all the typical things, checking her blood pressure, heart rate, and breathing. She taps Mom’s elbows and knees and asks about the bruising. I explain how the dizziness makes her fall.
“She’s been staying with my grandparents, and I’m not sure my grandmother understood how sick she really is. You see, my grandparents are Amish, and, well, they don’t have much respect for modern medicine.”
The doctor gives me a puzzled expression. “Aren’t you Amish too?”
I glance down at my clothes. “No, I dress like this to fit in better. But I am definitely not Amish.”
“I see.” She looks into Mom’s ears, mouth, and eyes, but she seems most interested in her eyes, particularly the right one. “Did your other physician run many tests on you?” she asks Mom. “Any MRIs or CAT scans?”
“Cat skins?” Mom gives her a confused look.
“Did you go to a hospital to get your head looked at?” the doctor says simply, pointing to Mom’s forehead. “To see if something was inside there.”
“Besides my brain?” Mom asks. I don’t think she’s trying to be funny.
“Yes.” Dr. Hoffman nods. “Did you lie down in a machine?”
Mom frowns. “No . . . no, I don’t think so.”
The doctor looks at me. “Do you know if she’s had any scans done?”
“I honestly don’t think so.” I try to remember. “Our neighbor was a retired nurse, and she had said the doctor needed to do more.” I sigh. “But we didn’t have insurance. Maybe that’s why he didn’t. And he said she had Ménière’s disease, so maybe he thought that was that. I put his name on the form in case you need to contact him, but I don’t have his phone number.”
“Well, that’s ridiculous.” Dr. Hoffman stands up straight. “Something is going on in there. We need to find out exactly what it is.” She reaches for a pad and starts writing something down. “And I intend to see that we do.”
“Do what?”
“Get your mom an MRI. As soon as possible.”
“Really?”
She nods as she continues writing. “I wish she could have it today, but I know that’s not possible. Still, I’ll call right away and tell them it’s urgent.” She hands me a slip of paper. “This is for the scan. Stop by the receptionist on your way out and Betty will give you some more forms to fill out. Hopefully we’ll get it scheduled before the end of the week.” She hands me another slip of paper. “This is a prescription for more diazepam. If I didn’t think Anna was getting the scan this week, I’d change her to a different med, but as it is, I don’t want to rock her boat too much.” She smiles at Mom. “We’re going to get you well, Anna.”
“Thank you,” Mom mumbles.
“Yes,” I tell the doctor eagerly. “Thank you!”
“The paperwork Betty gives you will explain exactly what you need to do to get your mom ready for her MRI.”
“What about not having insurance?” I ask hesitantly. “We don’t have much money either.”
She sighs. “Don’t worry about that yet.” She explains that the nurse will be back in to draw some blood as well as gather some other information. “While she’s doing that, I’d like a word with you.”
When the nurse returns to the examining room, I go find Dr. Hoffman.
“I don’t want you to be alarmed,” she tells me as I sit in her office. “But I think this is very serious. I’m almost certain your mom doesn’t have Ménière’s.”
I nod. “I thought so.”
“The MRI will show us more, but based on everything I saw today, I’m concerned it might be a tumor.”
“A brain tumor—as in cancer?” A wave of fear rushes through me.
“Yes, but don’t assume the worst prognosis here. There are dozens of kinds of brain tumors, some benign. Or it could even be a cyst or a clot. But don’t get me wrong—all of these left untreated are dangerous.”
“Oh.”
“It’s clear your mother is suffering. The MRI will help us determine what the next step is, and it’s possible it will be surgery. I’m telling you this now so you can prepare yourself, Shannon.”
“Thanks,” I say in a shaky voice. “I appreciate that.”
“You seem like an intelligent and caring girl. Your mother is blessed to have you helping her like this.”
I nod.
“As I was saying, after the MRI, depending on how it turns out, it’s very likely that your mother will be scheduled for surgery.”
“Will you do it?”
“No,” she says quickly. “I’m only a general practitioner.” Her eyes light up with a smile. “However, I can recommend an excellent neurosurgeon who goes by the same name as me.”
“There’s another Dr. Hoffman?”
“My husband—Dr. Mitch Hoffman.” She grins. “And if I do say so, he is good.”
“So even though this is very serious, your mom is in good hands now. It’s fortunate you brought her in here when you did. I’ll have Betty request copies of all her medical records from her doctor in Indianapolis before she has the MRI. Although, based on what you’ve both told me, I doubt they’ll be too helpful.”
The nurse is finishing up when I return to the examination room. It’s a good thing because I can see that my poor mom is completely worn out, and her pill has completely worn off as well.
I act perfectly normal as I help Mom get dressed. I assure her that things are looking up and that help is on its way. Of course, her biggest concern at the moment is getting her next pill. She is feeling dizzy and nauseated. I find a bag for her to hold on to as I wheel her chair back to the reception area. I settle her into a dimly lit corner, then go over to speak to Betty, the receptionist. First I give her Mom’s debit card to settle today’s bill, which saves us 15 percent, and then she hands me the paperwork for the MRI appointment.
I quickly fill out the MRI form and hand it back to Betty. “My mom needs her prescription filled ASAP,” I explain. “She’s feeling really miserable, and she still needs to make the buggy ride back home.”
“How long is the buggy ride?” Betty asks with concern.
“Almost two hours,” I say glumly.
She grimaces. “Probably less than fifteen miles, I’ll bet.”
I nod.
“What if I can get someone to give you a lift?” Betty offers. “In a car.”
“Oh, wow!” I feel like hugging her. “Could you really do that?”
“I think so.” She reaches for the phone. “Why don’t you run down to the pharmacy. Walgreens is two blocks down on the right. You get that prescription filled while your mom stays here with me. In the meantime, I’ll see if I can find you girls a ride home.”
I quickly thank her, then grab up my cell phone and explain to Mom that I’m off to get her pills. “We might even have a car ride back to the dawdi house,” I say hopefully as I reach for the bag Mammi gave me.
“Really?” She makes a little sigh.
I pull a wrapped sandwich from the bag, as well as a sugar cookie and a bottle of water, and set them in her lap. “I want you to do your best to eat some of this,” I tell her. “Otherwise you won’t be ready to take a pill when I get back.”
“Okay,” she agrees reluctantly. “But hurry, Shannon. I need that pill.”
“I’m on my way.” Looping the strap of the cloth shopping bag over my arm, I rush out of the medical center and down the street to the pharmacy. Unfortunately, there is already a line ahead of me. I’m not sure how much time passes until it’s my turn, but when I reach the counter I tell the pharmacist that this is urgent.
He reads the prescription, then gives me a bewildered look. “Is this for you?”
“No, it’s for my mom.”
His expression turns to suspicion. “Your mom takes this?”
“Yes,” I tell him. “And she needs some right now.” He’s still staring at me as if sizing me up, and I suddenly get it. “Oh.” I point to my clothes. “You think I’m Amish, don’t you?”
He looks even more perplexed now. “Well, I, uh—”
“I’m not Amish. Neither is my mom. But my grandparents are Amish, and we’re staying with them this summer.” I point to the paper still in his hand. “You can call Dr. Hoffman’s office if you want to verify it. My mom is waiting for me there right now. She may have a brain tumor, and she needs the diazepam to deal with her dizziness and—”
“Fine,” he says quickly. “I believe you.”
“Thank you. Please hurry.”
“There’s a line of orders ahead of you, but I’ll see what we can do. Give me ten minutes.”
I thank him again, and then, remembering my charged phone, I step outside and push the speed dial for Merenda’s number. As I’m waiting for her to answer, I notice that I am being watched—not just watched but stared at—by a group of what I suppose are tourists. I’ve heard that they come by the busload to gape at the Amish, and some of them even try to take photos, which is forbidden by the Ordnung. I turn my back to these rude onlookers and face the pharmacy as Merenda answers the phone.
“Shannon!” she says urgently. “What is going on with you? I’ve texted you like a million times and even called your landline over and over. I was starting to think you and your mom had been kidnapped or something. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, we’re okay. Well, kinda okay. It’s a long story, and I only have a few minutes.” Even so, I give her the quick lowdown about staying in Amish country with my Amish grandparents and relatives. She is stunned.
“You’re kidding!” she cries. “That’s unbelievable.”
“I know!” I can’t believe how good it is to hear her voice—her normal, enthusiastic voice. It makes me so happy that I feel like crying. “It’s been a strange few weeks,” I confess. “Seriously, it’s like being in a different world. Or on a different planet.”
“You could be on one of those reality shows.”
I frown down at my clothes. “Yeah, I guess. You wouldn’t believe what I’m wearing right now.” I describe my outfit.
“No way!” she exclaims. “Can you send me a photo?”
“Sure.” I laugh as I hold out my phone, taking a shot of myself. Of course, as I’m sending it I see the faces of the shocked tourists who are watching me. “Uh-oh,” I tell Merenda. “I’ve been spotted photographing myself, and that is a real no-no for the Amish.”
“Will they throw you in Amish jail?” she asks.
“No, it’s just some tourists.” I explain that I’m at a pharmacy, waiting for Mom’s pills, and without going into all the details, I tell her Mom is worse.
“I’m sorry.”
“She’ll get an MRI this week,” I say weakly. “So I feel a little bit hopeful.”
“Wow, that’s a lot to take in.”
“So much has happened to me here,” I confide. “I mean so much, Merenda. You wouldn’t even believe me if I had time to tell you everything.”
“I’m guessing you didn’t get the butterfly tattoo then?”
I laugh. “No, but seriously, compared to what I’ve been through, getting a tattoo would be a walk in the park.”
“I know what’s happened to you,” she says. “You’ve fallen in love, haven’t you? I can tell by your voice.”
“It’s a long story, Merenda.” I let out a weary sigh. “But yeah, you’re right. I guess I kinda did.”
“Who is he? Is he Amish? Is he—”
“I honestly don’t have time to tell you about it now. Besides, it’s all over with anyway. It all ended this morning.”
“Oh. Are you okay?”
“I think so.” I take in a deep breath. “I mean, I’ve never felt so hurt, ever. But at the moment, well, I need to focus on my mom getting well. I don’t want to go into it now, but her condition is really serious. At least there’s this really great doctor helping us.”
“An Amish doctor?”
“No, silly, there’s no such thing. Don’t you know their education ends after eighth grade?”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. But I gotta go. Hopefully Mom’s pills are ready by now. And she really needs them. Keep praying for her, okay? There’s the MRI this week . . . and, well, it’s likely she’ll need surgery too.” I try not to consider all this implies.
“I’ll keep praying. Call me when you can.”
I promise to keep her posted, then go inside where Mom’s prescription is just being put into a bag. Once again I use her debit card, thankful that the Social Security check must have been direct deposited in the bank by now. Then I thank the pharmacist and hurry back to the doctor’s office to discover that Betty’s daughter-in-law, Leah, has come to take us home. She’s an ordinary looking woman, slightly overweight, dressed in baggy jeans and a faded pink T-shirt, but her eyes are kind.
“Betty signed out this wheelchair for you,” she tells me as I’m giving Mom a pill. “So you can keep it until after the MRI.”
I thank her again, but as we’re leaving I remember Ezra. I quickly explain the situation to Betty, but she assures me he’s already been here. “I told him you didn’t need him anymore,” she says as her phone starts to ring.
“Yeah.” I wave to her as I wheel Mom out. “I don’t need him anymore.”
As Leah drives us through the countryside in her air-conditioned minivan with her radio tuned to an upbeat Christian station, I know that what I told her mother-in-law was true. Despite feeling so hopeless and like I could not live without Ezra just this morning, I know that I do not need him anymore. Oh sure, my heart still aches from it. And as we pass a familiar-looking horse-drawn buggy, I avert my eyes, realizing it might take some time to get completely over him. But I do know I can live without him. After all, here I am, alive and well. As I help Mom lean back into the seat, using the weight of my own body to hold her steady, I’m not so sure about her, though. The grim expression on Dr. Hoffman’s face when she told me it could be a brain tumor seems to be etched in my memory.
I suspect the next few days are going to pass very slowly for both Mom and me. It would be very easy to get consumed with worry, but that’s a good reminder that the only thing I can really do is pray. I realize that since I’ve been asking others to pray for Mom, it’s time I started doing this myself. So as the minivan continues zipping down the road, I pray.