by Abby Stern
Eleven
Oh no! It’s 8:30 A.M.! I don’t know how I’m going to make it to the hospital in rush-hour traffic on time, but I will. I have to. I throw my hair in a ponytail as I leap out of bed. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I hurriedly brush my teeth and look less like Caring Daughter and more like Singer Slash Infamous Strung-Out Widow of World’s Biggest Rock Star with the crusty mascara smeared across my face and my foundation now in only clustered patches. I grab my phone from the charger as I scurry out of the house. Robin will never forgive me or let me forget it if I’m late to meet my mom’s new oncologist.
I throw my disorganized Cuyana leather tote on the passenger seat and rush to the hospital. I floor it and refuse to heed all of the traffic signs and signals, and pray that my reckless driving won’t result in my being a patient at the hospital where I’m going. I race against the clock and decide to valet my car when I reach the hospital and somehow by the grace of God I manage to make it through the gargantuan maze to Dr. Jacobs’s office with two minutes to spare.
When I arrive in the waiting room, I find my mother is reading this week’s issue of The Life and Robin is updating her patients’ charts.
“Hi.” I go in to hug my mom, then Robin.
“You look lovely, El,” my mom compliments. I know that I don’t and she’s being polite, a trait Robin opts not to mimic at the moment. Instead, she glances me up and down with the perfect combination of contempt and judgment. Even though I’m technically here on time, in Robin time, I’m late. She continues charting. My mom returns to The Life, enamored, and I search through my e-mails.
Nice work, Ella. I had other reporting from this party but yours is much better and we’ll use your observations online. You’ll see your points reflected in the next scoring e-mail.
Victoria
Nothing from Maggie. In fact, her e-mail bounced back, which is odd, but all that really matters is that Victoria received my file and it will calculate into my points for the week. My mother’s pointy elbow pokes me to get my attention and I shift my focus to her. She moves her finger to the bottom right corner of her page in the magazine.
REPORTING BY ELLA WARREN
“Seeing your name in here will never get old.” She beams. Robin intentionally keeps her attention fixed on her work so she neither has to argue nor feign enthusiasm for the sake of maintaining peace in an already less than ideal situation. I cock my head to the side and rest it on my mother’s shoulder. I’m in a losing battle with my lethargy so I shut my eyes for a moment to recharge. I could fall asleep like this so easily right now. My body is punishing me for my lack of sleep and choosing points over my physical well-being.
“Joan Warren,” the nurse calls. We march over to her single file. She looks like she’s my age and motions for us to follow behind her floral scrubs and escorts us into Room Four. She lays a chart very similar to the ones that Robin has been distracting herself with on the counter. “Joan, I need to get your vital signs and then Dr. Jacobs will be in. Would you please step on the scale?” My mother complies. I study Robin and the nurse to see if any of the numbers cause concern but neither provide any indication either way. She continues taking my mom’s blood pressure and temperature. “Any other physical problems?” she asks.
“No,” my mother answers.
The nurse slides the chart into the holder on the door and leaves us all in silence as it shuts. I hadn’t noticed the room is blanketed with posters and pamphlets for everything a layman could ever want or need to know about leukemia. My mother stares in front of her with a smile as if she’s here for one of our doctor’s appointments like she did when we needed our annual physical for sleepaway camp. I also look straight ahead because the reality that my mother is very sick is setting in and I fear that one haphazard glance at something might induce a flood of tears and that’s the last thing she needs right now.
I’m concentrating so intently on not looking at anything that my widened eyes begin to dry out. I hear my mom’s file being taken out of the holder and rifled through like it was one of those animation flip-books and the door opens. Robin jumps out of her seat to acknowledge her colleague and her entire demeanor changes. She’s gone from egomaniacal know-it-all to fawning admirer with a twist of a doorknob.
“Hello, Robin,” he says, shaking her hand. Dr. Jacobs is in his early fifties with dark hair that’s only starting to salt-and-pepper and a sky-blue button-down tucked into his dark gray pants. I’d come to find out that his greeting is the most genial he ever gets, and while according to Robin and the American Medical Association he’s the country’s leading hematologist and oncologist for leukemia, his bedside manner leaves something to be desired.
“This is my mother, Joan Warren,” she introduces with a newfound meek voice. I’ve never seen adult Robin behave in any way other than authoritatively and never timid, like she is now. Dr. Jacobs shakes her hand but quickly and is more eager to get down to brass tacks than socialize. I don’t bother to introduce myself. While I most likely won’t be inviting him to Holiday’s next dinner party, if he can cure my mother, I will endure any form of botched social decorum he desires. Dr. Jacobs studies my mother’s chart, nodding as though this is not the first time he’s reviewing her case. He does that thing where he licks his index finger before he flips a page and his beady eyes absorb the information.
“How are you feeling, Joan?” he asks.
“Okay, I guess. I’m not really sure what cancer is supposed to feel like.”
“It doesn’t feel like anything, but if you are having any symptoms I need to know about them.”
“I’ve lost some weight recently but that’s all that comes to mind.”
Dr. Jacobs makes a note. “I’d like to get you checked into the hospital and start you on chemo ASAP.”
“How long will I be here for?” she asks with the first hint of fear I’ve seen from her.
“Hopefully about a month. If you go into remission or even if your blood counts are doing okay I will let you go home. We’ll do a bone-marrow biopsy on day fifteen to see whether the blasts have been cleared from the marrow, but we need a full twenty-eight days to get confirmation of remission.”
My mother takes a deep inhale.
“Joan, I’m going to be very aggressive with your treatment. Aside from your AML your body is functioning well for your age. I want to get some blood work from you today to determine what chemotherapy I’m going to give you and will be monitoring the combination and dosage throughout your treatment. We’ll get you in and started within the week.”
Robin is feverishly taking notes like I do for work, although in this case the devil really is in the details, since we’re dealing with life and death.
“Do you have any questions for me?”
My mother purses her lips. She obviously has one but she’s hesitant.
“Mom, it’s alright. Whatever it is, the time to ask is now while Dr. Jacobs is here. No matter how uncomfortable the question makes you or if you think it might upset us.” Robin rubs her back. “Ella and I can handle the answer to anything you want to know.” I nod in agreement. Her emphatic nature is usually a nuisance, but this time it came in handy because she convinced my mom to speak up.
“What are my chances?” Instead of looking away she stares directly at Dr. Jacobs. Whatever his answer is, she’s ready for it. For his part, Dr. Jacobs doesn’t adjust his tone or use any flowery language for the sake of being conciliatory.
“Joan, I’m hopeful about your case but I can’t make you any promises. No one can.” I glance at my mom to check in and make sure she’s okay. She isn’t showing any emotion or sadness if she’s feeling any. “Medicine isn’t perfect and neither am I. But I am the best at treating leukemia and I give you my word I’m going to give you my best. I can’t fight for you; I need to fight with you. I need you to want to do whatever it takes and be unwilling to give up.”
“I’m ready to fight,” she announces. Dr. Jacobs appears pleased t
hat he won’t need to do much coddling with her.
“Do you have any other questions?” Robin asks.
My mother shakes her head, stoically.
Dr. Jacobs returns to her chart and makes a few more notations.
“The nurse will be back and will give you the rest of the information you need for prior care and what to expect during treatments, side effects, and everything else you’ve never wanted to know.” His eyes are still engrossed in her chart while he rattles off what I imagine is his typical Things to Know Before Chemo speech, by rote. The days after your chemo treatments will most likely be worse than any hangover you’ve ever had. Try to eat as much as possible in the days before you’re admitted to the hospital.”
“You’re probably the only man in Los Angeles who says that to women,” I quip. He looks up from the chart and glares at me, unamused with my attempt at humor, and returns to the chart.
“Make sure you’re eating the right foods. Once you start the chemo your appetite will most likely decrease and your taste buds will change, so I want you to make sure you’re eating whenever you have an appetite.”
“She will,” Robin interjects. “I’ll make sure of it.”
Dr. Jacobs is indifferent to Robin’s obsequious attitude. “The nurse will get you set up for checking into the hospital and your first cycle of chemo.” He scribbles the last bit of information down and closes the chart. “Call me if you have any emergencies before then.” Dr. Jacobs shakes my mother’s hand.
“Thank you,” my mother says.
Robin once again rises as a sign of acknowledgment and chimes in, “Thank you, Dr. Jacobs. I really appreciate you taking the time to help us.” He accepts her gratitude but leaves without furthering the conversation. Robin stares with esteem as he exits. She lets out a venerating sigh and I realize Robin doesn’t hate celebrities; she just doesn’t like the ones that come from Hollywood. I unintentionally gasp at the revelation.
“Are you okay?” she asks me.
“Uh-huh,” I assure her. I can’t help but snicker a little in her direction.
“What is it then?” she insists.
“You were totally fangirling over Dr. Jacobs.”
“Oh come on. I was not,” she argues.
“Yes, you were.” I realize he’s like her medical version of Sexy Indie Film Actor.
“No. Absolutely not,” she maintains.
I give my eyelashes a coy flutter before I begin my imitation of her. “Hi, Dr. Jacobs.”
“I did not do that,” she insists. She rolls her shoulders back and puffs her chest out.
“Dr. Jacobs, if you ever need anything, and I mean anything—”
She cuts me off. “That’s enough, Ella!” she screeches. I’ve never heard her yell with this kind of disdain before.
“Girls, please,” my mother demands with a sharp yet calm voice. She was never one for raising her voice and now that she has I feel like I’m ten again.
“I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t really sleep last night. I didn’t mean to be so combative,” I explain. I feel horrible for trying to rile my sister up now of all times.
“I’m sorry too, Mom.” Robin, now desperately afraid of being seen as anything less than perfect, grabs the chance to reclaim her title and changes the subject. “How are you feeling about all of this?”
“I’m fine. I wasn’t expecting to have to live in the hospital for a month. I don’t know why but my mind didn’t register that as a possibility.”
“Mom. Ella and I will come for chemo and to visit. I’m here all the time anyway, it will be just the same as if you were staying at my house. But maybe a little less disruptive without Marianna. It’s going to be okay.”
“It is,” she says, sanguine. “I don’t want either of you to worry. I will be just fine. I’m going to fight this…” she asserts. This was the first time I’d seen a full return of the mother that I grew up with. She’s always been a positive woman who never let anyone’s opinions or odds stop her from doing anything she set her mind to. “… Or it will kill me,” she jokes. I can’t help but laugh but Robin is not enjoying her wisecrack.
“Don’t say that. I don’t know what I’d do if—”
My mother doesn’t let her finish. She doesn’t want to bring our emotions to that place. “Ella, can you run and grab me a café au lait somewhere while we handle everything with the nurse?” my mom asks. Coffee? I would swim to Colombia for coffee right now. Salvation! “And a muffin too,” she adds. “Might as well start increasing my caloric intake now.”
“You got it. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“Go to the cart. It’s much better than the coffee in the cafeteria,” Robin instructs. “It’s—”
“Robin, I think I can find a coffee cart.” I don’t mean to snap at her again but her attitude causes me to go into defense mode. She doesn’t pursue her instruction any further and I’m glad I will have a few minutes to collect myself so I don’t blow up at her again.
Leaving Dr. Jacobs’s office, I feel lighter and my finger almost dances when I use it to call for the elevator.
As I round the corner to the plaza level to finally procure my mother’s coffee I’m almost crushed by a stampede that’s moving faster and with more purpose than I’ve seen cops busting a meth lab on the news. While the rush of people is almost moving at light speed, they don’t move fast enough. It’s Not-So-Innocent Oversexualized Pop Star flanked by security guards, her father, and an entourage. I can’t believe I’m seeing her and that my sighting was at the hospital instead of an invitation-only Beverly Hills boutique. Despite Not-So-Innocent Oversexualized Pop Star’s pace, my reporter’s intuition kicks in and I immediately start looking for the small details I know The Life craves. First, I notice her pink wig. Then the energy drink in her hand and her now-passé navy-blue velour tracksuit. She struts down the corridor as if it were the tents in Bryant Park during NYC’s Fashion Week.
I whip out my iPhone and write out everything I see, even noting that Not-So-Innocent Oversexualized Pop Star left a trail of her eponymous perfume as she sped past me. I realize that I’m shaking while typing because I know how much a sighting of her will mean to The Life and the points it will garner for me. As I’m transcribing my astute observations, it strikes me as odd that Not-So-Innocent Oversexualized Pop Star walked by me at all. The psychiatric unit is on the opposite side of the hospital, but perhaps they are trying to shield her from the paparazzi and there’s a back door or tunnel that would provide her with a more private exit strategy. No matter, I hit Send. A Not-So-Innocent Oversexualized Pop Star sighting in addition to what I turned in this morning—this should have Victoria thinking of me as one of her best assets!
I return to my coffee mission. I don’t really need caffeine anymore as that get gave me a boost of energy, but I know my mom wants one and I might as well bring one for Robin too as a peace offering.
“Three café au laits, and one blueberry muffin, please,” I order.
“I’m obligated to tell you our muffins are gluten-free and made with nut-free coconut flour. Please sign this release if the ingredients comply with all of your dietary and allergy restrictions.” And I thought a release for Foreign Born Supernatural Superstar’s party was outrageous. What a difference twelve hours makes. I sigh with disbelief as I sign the release and while I wait for my order my phone buzzes incessantly. I feel a surge of delight because I’m pretty sure it’s a response to the Not-So-Innocent Oversexualized Pop Star item I just sent in. The first e-mail is from Victoria.
This is fantastic! It’s definitely going in the magazine.
Victoria
A sense of relief washes over my body and it occurs to me that though I’m here for a literal life-or-death situation, this e-mail brings me a sense of calm and temporary stability that I desperately need, even if it’s a little odd. My second e-mail isn’t an e-mail at all. It’s an automatic message that Maggie’s e-mail has bounced back—again. I better shoot her a text so she can
get the IT department on it ASAP. I doubt Victoria will cut her any slack if she misses any incoming tips or stories due to a technical difficulty.
Mags, sent you 2 e-mails and they both bounced back. Wanted to give u heads up.
Xo E
“Ella, your order is ready,” the barista shouts. I throw my phone in my pocket, take the order, and make my way back up to Dr. Jacobs’s office, where I find my mother in the waiting room, alone.
“One café au lait and one blueberry muffin that has no nuts or gluten. I hope it has a taste.” I hand her the drink and pastry. The coffee hits her lips as soon as it leaves my hands.
“Thank you, El.”
I take a seat next to her. “Where’s Robin?”
“Oh, you know her. She’s triple-checking all of the information with the nurse.”
“Of course she is.” I stop myself from rolling my eyes as I usually would, because for once Robin’s usually annoying neurosis is beneficial. I remove my coffee from the holder and feel rejuvenated after my first sip. I feel my phone vibrate again through my pocket and place Robin’s coffee on the floor. It’s probably just Maggie replying to my text, but I should check. I unlock my home screen and it’s a number I don’t have saved with a 310 area code.
Unknown Number: Had so much fun hanging with you last night. I want to see you again. Dinner the day after tomorrow?
It’s Nick! I have a quick internal debate about whether to answer now or make him sweat it out for a few minutes but my excitement and eagerness trump the rules.
Ella: Hi you. Sounds good
He clearly isn’t too concerned about the game either as his response is immediate.
Nick: I’ll make a reservation and get the details over to you. Looking forward to it.
Ella: Me too.
I’m brought back to the room when I realize my mother is talking to me.
“Ella, who’s that?” she pries in her cute, excited voice. A stark contrast to the tone she used a few minutes ago when asking about her survival chances.