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Two days later, I sat in the waiting room at the doctor’s office chewing my lip nervously. It had taken some coaxing, but I’d finally managed to pry the information out of my mom that she had an appointment today with her oncologist. I told her I was going with her, and made it clear that it was a statement, not a request. Mom sat beside me, staring off into space without a trace of emotion on her face, leaving me to wonder how she felt.
She must be terrified not knowing what was ahead of her or how her body would react to the treatment and surgery. I tried to put myself in her shoes, and when I did, I felt empathy, something I’d never before felt for her. I didn’t normally associate anything but anger with my mother, but on impulse, I reached out and grabbed her hand. She flinched and pulled away as if she’d been bitten by a snake. Her eyes met mine questioningly, and I hoped she could see the compassion I felt, rather than the hurt from her rejection. Awkwardly, she patted my leg and gave me a weak smile. It wasn’t an overwhelming display of affection, but I guess we had to start somewhere.
“Margaret West, the doctor will see you now.” A stern-faced nurse led us into the office of Dr. Riddles, the only oncologist within driving distance of Woodridge. He was based out of Ocean Beach Hospital, a twenty-mile drive from home. I knew we were lucky he was so close and had agreed to see Mom; otherwise, we would have to drive all the way to Seattle.
The nurse directed us to the leather armchairs facing the large mahogany desk of Dr. Riddles. He was a kind-looking man in his late fifties who shook our hands as we took our seats. As soon as he spoke, I knew I liked him. Instead of delving into medical terminology and talking over our heads, he cut right to the chase.
“Margaret, Hope, I’m sure you have a million questions, and I’m happy to answer every one of them. Let me begin by saying I have every belief that together we can beat this thing. We’ve caught it in the early stages, which is good. Until I do the surgery, I won’t know the full extent of what we are looking at, but from my preliminary diagnosis, I believe we can eradicate the cancer with a combination of surgery and chemotherapy.” Dr. Riddles didn’t flinch or look away as he delivered the prognosis. He maintained eye contact with both of us, and it set my mind at ease, knowing that Mom was in good hands.
I waited for her to say something, but she seemed incapable of speech. She looked at me, pleading with her eyes, and I knew it was up to me to be her mouthpiece.
“Dr. Riddles, can you please tell us exactly what the plan of action is?” I cleared my throat as I asked the question.
“Of course. First and foremost, we will do surgery to remove the cancerous mass in your mother’s colon. I am cautiously optimistic that we’ve caught this before it has spread to other parts of her body. We need to do this surgery as soon as possible. I have availability for the day after tomorrow. Margaret, you will need to remain in the hospital for about a week after the surgery, just until you’ve passed the window of time for the highest chance of infection. Once you’ve regained your strength from the surgery, we will begin chemotherapy. You will continue the chemo biweekly for three months, at which time we will reassess. I’ve personalized this plan to you and your individual needs.” Dr. Riddles spoke kindly to my mom, who appeared to be blinking back tears.
“The day after tomorrow? I’m scheduled to work that day....” Mom looked at me again for help. Instead, Dr. Riddles intervened.
“Margaret, your days of working are on hold for the unforeseeable future. Between the surgery and the chemo treatments, you will be too weak to work. Not to mention, your immune system will be compromised. As a nurse who works around sick people, you’d be highly susceptible to illness. My recommendation is that you put in for a medical leave of absence immediately.” Dr. Riddles looked compassionately at my mother.
“I don’t think you understand, Doctor. I have to work for a living, otherwise I have no money. That’s the way the world works.” My mom’s words sounded harsh to my ears, but Dr. Riddles had obviously heard this argument many times in his career, and he appeared to take her anger in stride.
“I do understand, Margaret. Of course, you may do as you wish, but without this surgery and treatment, I have every reason to believe you will not survive this.” The doctor’s words, purposely blunt, floated in the room. I knew he said them to make an impact on my stubborn mother, and I waited to see if they would penetrate her tough exterior.
To my surprise, instead of arguing further with the doctor, Mom began to cry. I felt helpless. In my twenty-eight years of life, I had never once seen her cry or show any sign of weakness. Sometimes I wondered if she was even human, she was so hard. Her tears unsettled me, but they also let me know that underneath that tough shell lived a woman made of flesh and blood; a woman who was facing a very uncertain future.
Dr. Riddles looked at me, silently prodding me to comfort her. He obviously had no idea that we didn’t have that kind of relationship. Not knowing what else to do, I leaned awkwardly toward Mom and put my arms around her.
Instead of pulling away from me like I expected, she gripped my arms desperately, collapsed into them, and sobbed. Stunned by her uncharacteristic reaction, I wrapped her more fully into my embrace and held her while she cried. I felt my heart expand a little bit as I was confronted with the humanity and the frailty of my mom. I realized in that moment that regardless of what she said, she needed me.
Something inside of me shifted, and I found myself trying to understand her in a way I never had before. Yes, I felt sorry for her situation, but it was more than that. A tiny brick in the wall I’d built up against her crumbled, and a little bit of the bitterness in me left. It was nothing earth-shattering, but perhaps it was a tiny tremor that might incite more little quakes in the future.
I vowed to be there for her from that moment on, and not just out of a sense of obligation. I needed to be there for her emotionally as well. She needed a cheerleader, and I was the only one around to do it.
“Mom, please don’t worry about the money; it’s not important. I’m going to take care of you now. The only job you need to worry about is getting better.” I whispered this in her ear, knowing that she wouldn’t want Dr. Riddles to hear me talk about finances.
Mom nodded in understanding as Dr. Riddles handed her some tissues.
“Are you ready to beat this thing, Margaret?” he asked.
She dabbed her eyes in an attempt to regain her composure. I heard the resolve in her voice as she said, “Okay, Doctor, I understand. I’m ready.”
We drove home from the doctor’s office in silence. Mom looked so tired, and I guessed she was feeling drained, both physically and emotionally. Her surgery was scheduled for the day after tomorrow, and I knew she was nervous about the procedure. We’d had some sort of breakthrough in Dr. Riddles’ office, but things were still strained between us, so we didn’t speak about what had happened. I didn’t know what to say to comfort her, so instead, I said nothing.
We arrived home and Mom neatly hung up her jacket and purse. I followed suit. Glancing at my watch, I saw that it was already five o’clock. I dug through the pantry, trying to decide what to make for dinner.
“What sounds good?” I spoke with fake cheer as I searched.
“I’m not very hungry, Hope. I think I’m going to go lie down. Thank you for driving me to my appointment.” Mom smiled weakly at me as she disappeared down the hallway that led to her room. She went inside and shut the door.
Halfheartedly, I prepared some pasta, fixed myself a plate, and stored away the leftovers in case my mother wanted some later. It was a chilly evening, but after the day I’d had, I needed some fresh air. I grabbed my food, shrugged into my jacket, and headed to the porch swing. I sighed in frustration as I shoveled pasta into my mouth.
My heart hurt for my mom and what she was going through. It had been so much easier when I didn’t feel anything. Now, I was one large, gaping wound, sore and irritated from being picked at too much. I was no longer comfortably numb to my emotions, and while I knew it was healthier to process them instead of boxing them away, I wasn’t used to feeling so many things at once. It was exhausting.
Finishing my dinner, I placed the empty plate on the swing beside me. It was cloudy, and the light was already beginning to disappear. I’d been in Woodridge only a week, but I felt as if I were at least a decade older than when I’d arrived. I longed to feel something besides pain and anxiety; I wished for peace within myself, but that was something I wasn’t sure I could find when I seemed to always be at war with my emotions. The closest I’d ever come to quieting the anxiety was when Sam and I were together. I reminded myself that my life hadn’t been all bad. I had my career. I remembered the feeling of accomplishment when I’d sold my first book. In that moment, I knew I was doing what I was meant to do. And even with all our problems, Jonathan and I had some happy times. I’d briefly been able to envision a happy future for us when I’d found out I was pregnant.
One thought of the baby I’d lost, and my lip began to quiver. I’d wanted that pregnancy so badly. No baby would have been loved more than mine. I would have been the kind of mother I’d needed myself. I felt as if any chance for joy was ripped away from me when I miscarried. A surge of anger bubbled like a cauldron inside of me at the unfairness of it all. What had I done wrong? It seemed like Life had some sort of a grudge against me.
Through my tears, I noticed the little girl next door playing. She saw me looking at her and smiled. I waved back and quickly wiped the tears from my face. She appeared to be in deep thought, as if debating what she should do next. Again, I felt strangely drawn to her, and when she looked at me, there was an uncomfortable tugging in my chest. I had no idea what it meant. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that my hormones were still out of control from my miscarriage. My innate maternal instincts were trying to figure out how to handle the fact that I had no baby to mother.
Dropping her jump rope at her feet, she slowly approached the fence that divided our houses. She was just a little bit taller than the top of the fence, and her piercing blue eyes met mine. Her white-blonde hair was pulled away from her face in a ponytail, and freckles danced playfully across the bridge of her nose. She was rail thin and wiry looking, but when she smiled, her entire face lit up like a lightbulb. I smiled back at her.
“Hello, there,” I said.
“Hi. What’s your name?” she asked quietly.
“I’m Hope. What’s yours?”
“Bridget. Did you just move in?”
“This is my mom’s house. I lived here when I was a little girl. I just moved back.” I didn’t elaborate. How could I possibly explain to this little girl what I was doing here?
“I’ve seen your mom before. She waves to me sometimes.” Bridget shrugged as if that explained everything.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you. It’s always good to know your neighbors.” I swallowed as I spoke the words, remembering that Sam used to be my neighbor, but refusing to allow myself to go there right now.
“Bridget, dinnertime,” a voice called.
“Gotta go. If she has to call me more than once, I never hear the end of it.” The little girl rolled her eyes and took off running toward her house and quickly disappeared inside.
I watched her go, but I couldn’t help thinking about what kind of child I might have had.
