The Cookie Cure

by Susan Stachler

  It all came out in a rush. Poor Randy. I felt awful, but I needed someone to hear me. I needed to say it out loud. Thankfully, Randy didn’t try to stop me. He just listened.

  We stared at each other. Everything stopped. Randy reached for his wallet. “I’ll be right back.” I watched him walk out the door, upset and confused.

  Twenty minutes later, Randy was back with more food than we could possibly eat, covering the entire surface of the coffee table with to-go containers that he pulled out of a paper bag. “I didn’t know what to get you. I got cheese dip, chips, guacamole, tacos, and a burrito. I thought maybe you’d like the quesadilla? Suz, have whatever you want.”

  We sat on the couch, enjoyed our Mexican food, and turned on a movie. Sitting there with him, surrounded by the food he had brought as a thoughtful gesture to comfort me, I felt just a little bit better.

  Dear Sue,

  We had gone through a string of tests and found nothing conclusive. But I knew where it was leading. And I was becoming afraid that Susan might know too. I was trying so hard to be casual and brush off her questions, but I think she saw right through me. Even Ken and I never discussed the possibility of Susan having cancer.

  After her surgery was over, we had to wait days for the results. I called at the first opportunity the doctor had given us to check in and was told to call back the next day. I got the same response the next time I called. I was turning into a wreck. The third time I called, as soon as the nurse started to say that she didn’t think there was any news, I pleaded with her to double-check. “My husband and I have been waiting for days. Could you please see if the lab results are in for Susan Stachler?” I held on the line, switching the phone from my left hand to my right while wiping the sweat that was beading up on my palms onto my jeans. Finally, I heard someone come back on the line. “This is Dr. Jackson.”

  4

  So That’s What It Feels Like

  A week had passed. It was time to go home to get my stitches out, and I was looking forward to it. I wanted to hear what Dr. Jackson had to say.

  Arriving home, I noticed that something was off as soon as I opened the back door. The house was silent and dark, and in a family of six, that never happened. I made my usual trek through the house, down the back hallway to my bedroom. As I passed the kitchen, I saw Mom rummaging through the refrigerator. She seemed really focused on finding some long-lost jar of pickles or something, and she didn’t look up or say hello to me, which wasn’t like her at all. I reached my bedroom, dropped my bags, and put some ChapStick on. In the midst of my usual five-minute routine, it dawned on me. I bet she knows.

  Coming around the corner with a cheerful “Hi, Mom!” I took a seat at the counter. Mom was on one side of the kitchen island; I was on the other.

  Fidgeting and twirling two empty glasses around and around, Mom asked, “Would you like a drink? I just made lemonade.”

  “Sure. Thanks,” I said.

  Mom looked drained. Her eyes were tired and her brow was furrowed. I didn’t like seeing her like this. Once the glasses were filled, she began tapping her fingernails on the countertop. “I’ll pour Dad some too.” Dad walked in and took a seat near me.

  Mom turned her back to us, and as she put the pitcher in the refrigerator door, she took a deep breath. “So… We got the results. We’d been waiting to hear from Dr. Weens.”

  Dr. Weens? I thought. That’s Dad’s doctor. She’s an oncologist. I didn’t know she was part of this.

  Mom turned around and faced me. “You have a treatable form of cancer. Treatable. Sweetie, you have Hodgkin’s disease.”

  I sat there and stared at Mom’s face, relief washing over me. I felt like I had been holding my breath for weeks, and now I could finally inhale. But, then… Wait, what? Hodgkin’s? I have Hodgkin’s. I thought I had heard Mom clearly, but I had to ask. “It’s Hodgkin’s?”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Mom repeated her well-rehearsed mantra. “It’s treatable, curable, things are different now.” I knew Mom didn’t want me to think about Aunt Sue, but it was too late.

  Dad moved over and sat right next to me, and Mom came around the counter to join us. My head went down, and I stared at my hands folded tightly in my lap. So this is what it feels like? I have cancer. It’s what I expected, but it feels different. And just as I was settling into one thought, another one came up. But, Hodgkin’s—how can this be? Of all things? Oh, Mom… Aunt Sue. She died from this… Tears streamed down my face.

  My parents didn’t move. I wasn’t angry or scared, but in that moment, everything just seemed unreal. I clearly remember thinking, I can do this. My parents were waiting for my reaction. I needed to let them know I was okay. It was then that I realized I had a choice—it was my choice how to handle things.

  I let out a chuckle. “It’s my name. It’s all because you named me Susan. You should have called me Frank, then this never would have happened!”

  “Susan!”

  I swear, they were almost exuberant with my response. They’d been holding their breath too. Dad laughed a little and seemed relieved I wasn’t a total mess, but it was a fleeting moment. Seeing Mom in such pain, my heart broke and my tears started up again.

  “Mom, how long have you known?”

  “We had an idea after your surgery.”

  They’ve been holding this news in all this time? I asked, “What do you mean you’ve had an idea?”

  “Dr. Jackson talked to us in the lobby after your surgery. He said the tumor was larger than he expected, which is why the surgery took longer. Honey, the part you could feel was just the top of the tumor. He said it was the size of his fist, and it went down toward your heart.” She paused, then added, “That’s why Dr. Jackson was pleased with the incision. He worked to keep it as small as possible.”

  “What else did he say?” I asked.

  Mom patiently answered each of my questions. I could tell she was concerned that I’d be mad at her for keeping this information from me. I wasn’t, but I did want to know every detail. She continued, “He came out and said, ‘It looks like cancer.’”

  Oh my gosh. Mom and Dad. That must have been terrible.

  Becoming distressed, I asked, “In the lobby? Mom, does Randy know?”

  She nodded her head slowly. “He was sitting right next to me. I wish he hadn’t been.”

  I could not stop crying. “Randy knew? He never said anything.” My heart sank. Randy heard that I have cancer. It was starting to make sense why Randy had seemed distant for the last week, why the only thing he could do when I broke down was to comfort me with Mexican food. He didn’t know what to say. He was around, but he wasn’t acting like himself. Then I cried even more, remembering how I had uncharacteristically yelled at him. Do you have any idea what it’s like to worry about someone? What’s wrong with you? He walked out the door and didn’t come back for hours. I had no idea what was going on.

  “Don’t be mad at him,” Mom said.

  “I’m not. I just…” My mind was racing.

  “He followed our wishes,” she explained. “If you want to be mad, be mad at me. I told him not to tell you. I was very sorry that he’d heard what Dr. Jackson said, but I had to ask him not to say anything to you until we knew for sure.”

  Mom paused for a moment, but I could see in her face she had something else to say.

  “Who else knows?” My voice rose. “Do Granny and Grandpa know?”

  “Yes.”

  “No!” I exclaimed. “No, you didn’t tell them.” I was sobbing now. It was bad enough envisioning Mom and Dad and Randy hearing this news, but Granny and Grandpa? The image of them sitting in their recliners in their den, getting the news over speakerphone that I had the same disease their daughter had died from was more than I could bear. My grandparents were tough and lovely, but they were also getting old.

  The more I le
arned about who knew about my diagnosis, the more dreadful it was. I felt an indescribable sadness. I didn’t want anyone worrying about me.

  “What about the kids? Did you tell them?” I asked. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like for my brothers and sister to hear about my cancer.

  Mom seemed drained too. “I told Luke right before you got home, and I’ve called Robert. Dad is planning to tell Carey when he picks her up from school today.”

  “Carey? No. Do we have to tell her?” Through my tears, I managed to get out, “Mom, you could have told me, you know.”

  Mom looked over to Dad, and he chimed in. “Dr. Weens told us not to.”

  Mom explained that Dr. Weens would not make a diagnosis until she had reviewed all the tests herself and the final results were in. She’d been concerned about the possibility of non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma, a worse form of the disease, and wanted to rule that out first. Oh, dear God, I thought. So Mom was praying all week that I would be diagnosed with the disease that killed her sister, rather than the one that Dad has?

  “What happens now?”

  Mom’s eyes locked on mine. “I’ll tell you what we’re going to do,” she said. “For now, you’re going to go back to school, finish your classes, be with your friends. You’re going to have fun and you’re going to graduate and we’re all going to be there to see you, as planned. Dr. Weens said to enjoy graduation, and she’ll see you in two weeks.”

  As I prepared to go back to school on Monday, I wasn’t scared about my diagnosis—I was relieved. Finally, the lump had a name, and we could put together a plan to treat it. I was worried about Mom though. I couldn’t imagine what this must be like for her. Most of all, I was afraid that when she looked at me now, all she would see was her sister.

  Dear Sue,

  I had to call Mother and Dad and tell them that Susan had been diagnosed with your cancer. They were waiting to hear from me, so when I heard Mother’s voice, I simply said, “It’s Hodgkin’s.”

  There was no response.

  “Mother? Are you there?”

  Her voice was barely audible. “Dad’s out, and I’m sitting here alone, crying.”

  You know Mother never cried. Ever.

  I said to her, “I don’t think I can do this again.”

  She replied, “All right, honey. Yes you can.”

  Honestly, hearing those words didn’t help. “You don’t understand,” I said, more firmly. “I’m telling you, I can’t do this again.” I started to unravel. “God help me, I can’t watch her go through this. Why does this keep happening to me?” The minute I’d said that, I detested hearing my own selfishness, but I continued, screaming now. “I know everyone in the family loved Sue, but just tell me once, please, that you know Sue was also my best friend. I only wanted to name Susan for my sister, and now she has the same disease.” I wailed, “What am I going to do?”

  “Laura. Laura,” Mother said reassuringly. “You’re going to be strong. You’ve done this before.”

  “I don’t want to do it again,” I said. “I can’t.”

  I had held this in for weeks. I’d kept it from Ken, our kids, my friends. And I’d kept it from Susan. I screamed at Mother like I’d never done in my life. “I can’t watch Susan get sick. She’s going to get sick.”

  Sue, because of you, I feared the worst.

  5

  Aunt Sue, Meg Ryan, and Pretty Woman

  Graduation day arrived, the culmination of my four years at college, and I couldn’t believe that it had finally come. As I sat there in my cap and gown, I tried taking in the moment, but it wasn’t exactly what I’d envisioned. I was happy I had a yellow cord around my neck signifying my induction into the honor society, an asterisk next to my name in the program for maintaining a high GPA, and my family in the stands, including Granny and Grandpa, who’d flown in from San Diego. And yet, it wasn’t quite right.

  From my seat in a plastic chair on the basketball court, I heard the commencement speaker’s words—“endless possibilities…exciting futures…the world’s your oyster”—but they didn’t seem to apply to me. As I looked around at the sea of my fellow classmates dressed in shiny, navy blue robes and funny cardboard caps, I realized no one else in that vast arena was in my predicament. I would step onto the stage a college student and walk off a cancer patient. My diploma was my ticket to Dr. Weens’s office. I couldn’t sort out or control what was happening to me, and I didn’t know what my future would hold. All I knew was I wouldn’t be wearing that black interview suit anytime soon.

  When I went up to receive my diploma, I stopped at the edge of the stage to look up to my family. They were clapping, hooting, and hollering for me. Dad was beaming, but my brothers and Randy looked slightly bored. I couldn’t look at Mom. Right then, I was still Susan the student, and I played that role well. I put pressure on myself to perform and deflected any thoughts of cancer. I put up a front and just sort of floated through the day, working to be the best version of happy that I could be. I owed it to my family, but it took so much energy to keep up the facade that by the time our celebration lunch was over, I was worn out.

  The following Monday, Mom, Dad, and I sat in a tiny exam room waiting for Dr. Weens. She had been Dad’s doctor for more than a decade, but I’d never met her before. While I sat on the end of the examination table, Mom and Dad sat side by side directly in front of me. I wasn’t nervous or worried. If anything, it was funny seeing my parents squished into two little chairs wedged between the door and the doctor’s cabinet. The nurse had kindly brought in an extra chair, but there wasn’t much space. We didn’t wait long before Dr. Weens, a tiny, rather plain woman, came into the room.

  She didn’t mince words. I was instantly swamped with information and medical terms, and soon my brain became exhausted from trying to follow the conversation. I was feeling lost, until she uttered the words, “After further reviewing your results, we are looking at a combination of radiation and chemotherapy.”

  Chemotherapy. What? I had been under the impression I’d just need some radiation. I sat there not saying much at all, trying not to cry. I wanted to make a good impression on Dr. Weens. If I was brave, if I was strong, then I was in control. Besides, I didn’t think I deserved the luxury of crying. At least I had my parents with me. I was not alone, and that was more comfort than I could possibly say. If I started crying now, the cancer would already be winning.

  I braced myself by putting my hands on both sides of the examination table and leaned forward to try to hold up my end of the conversation. But all I was saying was a lot of, “Yes, okay, I can do that.” I felt like I was sinking into myself. Nothing could have prepared me to hear the words, “You’ll need chemo.”

  As Dr. Weens continued explaining the disease, the drugs, the advances in medicine and technology, I tuned out, stuck on the idea of chemotherapy. I’m going to get sick. This will be miserable. And my hair. Will it fall out? What will I look like? And what about our trip to California?

  My family was planning to go to San Diego the next week to see my younger brother, Luke, run a marathon for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society. Months ago, I had suggested to Luke that he should run in it and raise money for cancer research. Now, along with Dad’s and Aunt Sue’s names, he would be adding my name to his jersey. We had also planned a few extra days to go to the San Diego Zoo, visit family and friends, and spend a day at the beach. Mom was probably going to take us to the cemetery to visit Aunt Sue’s grave, then stop at her favorite Mexican restaurant to toast her afterward.

  Even though I was wondering about whether my hair would fall out and if I could still go to California, I wasn’t about to ask those questions now, partly because I didn’t want to hear the answers, but also because we were dealing with a deadly disease. Dr. Weens’s main concern was my life—not my hair or a family trip. So I sat there in silence, nodding my head every now and again.

 
For weeks, we’d been talking about my lump, then my cancer diagnosis, but treatment had always seemed far away. It never seemed real. But now, Mom and Dad were taking notes on all the appointments and tests I needed to have done: echocardiograms, biopsies, PET scans, meetings with my radiologist, facility tours, and surgery to implant a port for my chemotherapy. It was a lot to take in, and this would all be done over the next week! I couldn’t believe that any of this was happening, and at such a rapid speed.

  Later that day, I asked Mom to call and leave a voicemail for the doctor, asking the questions I couldn’t stop thinking about. Going on the California trip would mean pushing the start of chemo back one week. I crossed my fingers and hoped for the best.

  • • •

  The next day, I sat at the kitchen counter, peacefully enjoying a snack. It was a quiet afternoon, and my parents were both working in the home office. Mom was tweaking the menu for her dessert business, and Dad, I imagine, was perfecting intricate financial spreadsheets for it. I could hear Mom walking through the dining room, the hardwood floors creaking under her feet. She stopped in the entrance of the kitchen. Her cheeks were pale and her expression deflated. I knew she’d reached Dr. Weens. I stayed seated on the kitchen stool, and Mom stayed planted in the doorway.

  “Dr. Weens said she waited for you to graduate and has put off treatment as long as she can. You need to start chemo right away.”

  I understood what she’d said, but I still asked, “What does that mean?”

  Mom answered, “We can’t go to California. Dad’s already called Delta. You and I can use the tickets another time.”

  “It can’t wait until we get back? We seriously have to start chemo right now?” I didn’t want to believe that this was so serious that four or five days would make a difference.

  “That’s what Dr. Weens said.”