My tongue was heavy yesterday, Future Sam. Numb, like I had just gotten a dose of Novocain from the dentist. I noticed it when I was brushing my teeth. It was like having a huge piece of meat in my mouth that I couldn’t chew or spit out. A shot of fear ran through me, and I started to cry.
I was just going to stay in bed and let it pass, grateful it was a Sunday and I didn’t have to talk, but the goddamn NPC Task Force of Feminist Icons practically winked over on the wall above my desk. I recalled that I had promised myself that, in the spirit of Elizabeth Warren, I would find out everything I could about the disease, and approach it with nothing but straight talk. Even if straight talk was impossible because I had a steak for a tongue.
So I took the day off from school today, and Mom was going to go in late for her shift at the medical center so that she could bring me to Dr. Clarkington’s office.
“Did you talk to her on the phone?” I asked Mom.
“Yes.”
“There’s medicine for this, right?” My heart hadn’t stopped beating hard since it happened, thinking about having to cancel my speech. Or worse, pushing through it, leaving my classmates with the impression that I had guzzled a slushie before graduation and couldn’t get rid of my brain-freeze.
“Yes, there’s medicine for it.”
“Do I sound like a dog who suddenly started talking?”
Mom laughed. “No, you don’t sound like a dog who suddenly started talking.”
“That’s how I feel.”
“I’m sorry, honey,” Mom said. “You sound much better this morning. And hey, I’m glad you told me. You can always tell me when you’re feeling bad.”
“What about when I’m feeling good?” I asked, thinking of Stuart’s text Saturday night.
“That, too.”
We sat in silence for a bit, watching a toddler bang two blocks together on the floor. Stuart and I emailed back and forth all day yesterday, about our romantic pasts (or rather his past), about our impressions of boyfriends and girlfriends and what we thought they were supposed to do, about our fears.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Mm?”
“Guess what.”
“What.”
“I have a boyfriend.”
She turned to look at me, eyes wide. “The same guy you went to the Canoe Club with?”
“Stuart Shah.”
Mom gasped, a sly smile growing on her face, though I could tell she was fighting with her is-this-a-good-idea instincts. “You have had such a crush on him forever!”
I smiled with her. “How did you know that?”
“Honey, you made us go to Hamlet three times. You couldn’t take your eyes off him.”
“Oh, yeah.” I laughed, thinking of my poor family three years ago, suffering through Alex Conway putting on a fake British accent as Ophelia. Maddie was fantastic as Hamlet’s mother. You would have never known she was only fifteen. “Time is passing so quickly.”
Mom put her hand on my knee and squeezed. “Tell me about it.”
“So, in that case…” I began, trying to swallow so I could speak as clearly as possible. “I would like to, you know, be able to spend time with him without you worrying…”
Mom made her sound. “Mmhmm. Hm.”
“Mom?”
“I’m thinking,” she said. Then, “Does he know?”
She meant about NPC. “No. But he will.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll be so careful,” I offered.
“Mmhmm.” Mom laid her head back and closed her eyes. She had been up way too late the night before, helping Harrison finish a science project.
“I’m sure he is,” Mom said, eyes still closed. “I’m going to worry about you either way, Sammie. Just be careful. Don’t go anywhere without telling me, or without thinking about the possible medical repercussions.” She smiled to herself. “Guard your heart, too. This is your first real romance. Don’t jump in too quickly. Then again, you probably don’t have to worry about that. You have never been much of an impulsive one. Too much of a planner.”
I thought about the night of Ross Nervig’s party, of speaking my mind to Stuart without planning to, and grabbing him suddenly and kissing him. Maybe there was a part of me Mom didn’t know. There was a part of me I didn’t know myself.
“I don’t know, Mom. Now that I’m about to graduate, I plan on being more spontaneous.”
Mom opened her eyes and burst out laughing.
I said, “Got spontaneity on the calendar for next Tuesday.”
She doubled over again, letting out a snort. I joined her and we laughed until the nurse called my name.
TWO, FOUR, SIX, EIGHT, WHO’S GONNA HELP ’EM GRADUATE?
SAMANTHA!
SAMANTHA!
SAMANTHA!
THREE, FIVE, SEVEN, NINE, AND SHE WON’T FORGET THE LINE!
ANXIETY!
ANXIETY!
ANXIETY!
I did it, though. I wrote the speech, and transferred it to notecards. I’d prefer to memorize it without any resource, but, you know. At least I’m not going to read it off a paper like some kind of amateur. I went with an “overcoming your obstacles” theme. I’m digging it. Some highlights, for posterity (as in, at least someone should be able to experience this if I have a repeat blank-out on the stage this coming weekend and have to be carried off like an invalid):
“I think it’s easy to group all the factors that get in your way into one big wall: money, race, sexuality, relationships, health, time. These are the forces we supposedly have no control over, that conspire against us. But we’ll never get over them if we look at them that way. As we grow older, we have the opportunity to learn where exactly these obstacles find their root.
“If we keep learning about the history of our obstacles, we will have the opportunity to dig the poison out of the world. We will have purpose. Whether the obstacles are individual, like a disease, or bigger than that, like a societal injustice, once we clear one, we have room for hope.
“Optimism does not have to be blind.”
Et cetera.
I just wrote the speech that I would like to hear, you know? After listening to Dr. Clarkington tell me that I might start declining more rapidly, I kind of, just… I don’t know. I wanted to write about optimism. I wanted to write the speech I need.
Because honestly, who’s to say that I won’t improve?
We can’t eliminate that as a possibility.
I could get way better instead of getting worse. Is it likely? No. Is it possible? Absolutely. I mean, just getting this disease in the first place was against all odds. One in one hundred fifty thousand. Was that likely? No. I have a hot boyfriend who is a published writer. Was that likely? No.
Not much is likely. Anything is possible.