by Olivia Jake
When I picked my mom up, she looked slightly yellow, but I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to worry her. Plus, by then, we had gotten her tumor marker and it came back perfect, so we were sure it wasn’t cancer. When her sister had been sick, I remember her tumor marker was the big barometer throughout her illness. As she got worse, so did it. So the fact that my mom’s didn’t show anything had us both breathing a sigh of relief.
Our first appointment was in the morning with Dr. K, the Gastroenterologist. His full name was longer than his specialty and he looked like a linebacker of a man with thick, meaty hands. Perhaps it was because he was so big and imposing that my mom seemed even more like a little girl than usual. I’m not sure when an act stops being an act and just who the person really is, but I was starting to think that what I had for so long thought of as a facade was actually the real Barbara. Maybe she wasn’t feigning deference, innocence and subservience. Perhaps this was her. She delicately told the doctor of her symptoms, embarrassed to talk about the gas and the bloating because it wasn’t ladylike. Finally, he had her lie back and pulled up her gown to palpate her stomach and I gasped.
My mother had always been about appearances. I often wonder if she’d be as proud showing me off if I were heavy and unattractive. Regardless, this was a woman who still in her seventies worried about counting calories, exercising most every day, making sure she never left the house without the right jewelry and makeup. So when the doctor lifted her gown to reveal her severely bloated stomach, I knew it wasn’t just gas.
“Owww.” She whimpered as he pressed tenderly from spot to spot. I watched as his fingers seemed to sink into her flesh like it was soft play-dough. My mother had never been heavy. Ever.
I was grateful she had her eyes closed and couldn’t see my expression. I couldn’t let her see my fear or concern. I had to be the strong one. I tried to read the doctor’s face, but he didn’t give anything away. Finally, after pressing all around, he lowered her gown and explained the procedure he was about to perform which would enable him to see the mass from the inside. We both listened and when a nurse came in to wheel her down to the room where the procedure would take place, Barb asked, “Can Stephy come with?”
“I’m sorry, Barbara. She’ll need to wait here. But it’s a quick procedure, no more than an hour and you’ll be in twilight. She’ll be waiting for you when you wake up.” He smiled and looked from her to me and then back to her.
“You’ll do great, Ma.” I reassured her and then bent down to kiss her forehead before they wheeled her out.
As much as I may have hated my mother’s weakness when it came to the men in her life, I loved her more than anything. I think what I felt for her was the true definition of a love / hate relationship. I felt both emotions so strongly. And watching them wheel her away was one of the moments where I didn’t hate her weakness, I pitied it. She seemed so fragile and small, so vulnerable. I knew that somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew whatever was going on with her body wasn’t just gas. She was too afraid to face it, much less face whatever it was alone. I was genuinely glad to be there with her, to be her rock. Dysfunctional as it may have been, I was used to her needing me, and being that person for her obviously validated or filled a need in me.
We’d already spent most of the day in the hospital, time passing, lulling both of us into silence, going from waiting room to doctor’s office to procedure room to recovery room back to another waiting room and now into another exam room. I felt like a zombie.
Then the surgeon, Dr. O’Malley came in. What a sweet man. He had a soft smile and tender touch as he put his hand on my mother’s arm. He was the antithesis of Dr. Rosenberg.
A short, heavy set, ruddy man, he was warm and caring and waited patiently as my mom talked about this and that, like he had all the time in the world. He let her talk for a good five minutes about what she’s been feeling and going through, repeating what he obviously already knew. When she finished, his expression shifted from warm to concerned.
“Well, Barbara,” he finally said, “we’ve had a chance to look at your case in conference, and we all agree that the best course is six months of chemo and then we’ll see if we can operate.”
Barb and I looked at each other, both in shock, and then back at him.
“What?” I asked like an idiot.
Poor Dr. O’Malley couldn’t grasp what I didn’t understand. He knitted his eyebrows and cocked his head. “I know how hard this must be to hear, but with your mother’s type of cancer—”
I didn’t let him finish. “Cancer? But, but, her tumor marker came back perfect. I mean, if she had cancer, it would show up on a tumor marker, right?”
“Unfortunately, no. 10-15% of people have the type of DNA where it just doesn’t register.”
“Well then what the hell is the point of a God damned tumor marker?” I shouted. My mom patted my arm, embarrassed by my outburst. Even then, upon hearing she had cancer, she still wanted to be ladylike.
“I’m sorry, Stephanie, Barbara.” Dr. O’Malley said sympathetically.
“But, I don’t understand, doctor.” My mom said with fear. For the first time, she wasn’t trying to impress the man before her. She was raw, open, naked.
Dr. O’Malley took her hands in his and stared deeply into her eyes, “There is good news here, Barbara. From what we can see, the tumor is isolated, meaning it hasn’t spread. If we move quickly, and the chemo works—”
Before he could finish, this time Barbara jumped in.
“I swore I’d never do chemo. Ever. I’ve seen what it does to people. To women. I don’t want to look like that. Do you have any idea how much time I spend to get my hair to look like this? And I still wax my eyebrows, at my age! And dye my eye lashes.”
This was truly a first. My mother, not just standing up to a man, but sharing her beauty secrets with one. I wish the circumstances were different. If they were, I’d have been so proud of her. But in that moment, all I could think was that it took cancer to force her to abandon her Southern Belle act. Fucking cancer.
“Barbara, I’m not a woman, so I can’t pretend that I know what it must feel like to lose those parts of you. But they’re not who you are. Hair grows back. Wigs can be purchased. But if we don’t do the chemo, I guarantee you that this cancer will grow and slowly, painfully, kill you.”
Finally, sweet Dr. O’Malley lost the Mr. Nice Guy and got down to brass tacks.
“But, but the tumor marker said…” she said weakly and trailed off as I grabbed her hand and held it. The tears welled up in her eyes and mine as we stared at each other.
“Stephy, honey, you know I’ve always said—”
“Mom,” I jumped in before she could finish, “you don’t have a choice. If you don’t do the chemo, the cancer will grow and, and… you heard the doctor. You have to do it. You just have to.” I pleaded.
Her hand went up to her hair. “But my hair…”
“We’ll buy you a wig, mom. We can buy you a whole assortment!” I said enthusiastically, through the tears. I sniffled and used the back of my hand to wipe my nose.
She shook her head. She hated it when I did that. She said I looked like trash, and that I should have a Kleenex handy and lightly blow like a lady would.
“But, but…” my mom asked feebly looking to me, then Dr. O’Malley, then back to me.
There was nothing more to say. Dr. O’Malley couldn’t do anything for us. He was a surgeon. And if we were lucky enough to make it to him, it wouldn’t be for another six months. We certainly couldn’t have been the first patients who he’d delivered bad, life-changing, unfathomable news to. And based on all the people in all the myriad waiting rooms we’d seen, we most definitely wouldn’t be the last.
I don’t think either of us said a word on the drive home. I racked my brain trying to think of something, anything I could say. But there was nothing. There was no more conjecture, no more wondering what it was. My mother had pancreatic cancer. The same disease
that ravaged and killed her sister. Once we got the diagnosis, there really just wasn’t anything more to say.
After I dropped Barb off, I was a mess. I was numb, yet I felt far too much. I don’t think either of us were even remotely ready for the news that Dr. O’Malley gave us. Even after everything. All of her discomfort and symptoms, after all the appointments, all the tests, hearing those words out loud, perhaps no one is ever ready to hear them. Up until that point, we’d both chosen the cafeteria-style of news. We picked out the parts we liked and focused on those while avoiding the other unappetizing bits and pieces. Obviously, with something like this, we had no choice, no say at all as to what ended up on our tray.
I had been doing so well in my recovery if that’s what it could be called. So God damned well. It wasn’t recovery in the usual sense of the word, not from alcohol or a substance. It was abstention of destructive behavior. Yet somehow my car drove not to my house, but to the lovely, swanky, high-end bar at the Bel Air Hotel. I didn’t know what I’d do, I just knew I couldn’t go home and be alone. Not even my dogs could comfort me. I needed distractions, I needed a drink and I needed something else to focus on.
The bar itself was small, only six or so seats and the entire place was occupied by high-end industry businessmen and women. Thankfully, there was one seat open in between two men in suits and two women similarly dressed. I eased myself in and was grateful the bartender took my order within seconds. I felt the first sip of my martini go all the way down, concentrating on what it felt like on my lips, my tongue, the back of my throat, and then all the way down my chest and into my stomach. I closed my eyes as I felt the immediate effects while visualizing the liquid travelling through my body. When I opened them again, the businessman next to me smiled and I smiled back, took another healthy sip and again imagined the route the alcohol went. As much as I didn’t want to be alone, I also couldn’t bear the thought of trying to make small talk with a stranger, much less doing what I used to do, so I fished my phone out of my purse and pretended to focus on it. After a much-concerted effort of not looking back at the suit, I heard him and his friend start talking again and knew he’d given up on me.
The first martini went down quickly and easily, not that I thought there’d be much struggle. As the bartender set the second one in front of me, the men left. I put the phone back down and enjoyed the simplicity of my drink when I felt someone slide into the seat to my right. I didn’t even bother to look up as the bartender made eye contact with the new patron, nodded and said, “The usual, Brad?”
When I heard, “Thanks, Scott.” I thought, I know that voice. I don’t want to, but I do. I took another healthy sip and turned over my shoulder to see none other than the illustrious Dr. Rosenberg. He did a double take as he tried to either place me or remember my name. Or both.
“It’s Stephanie Lawson. My mother is one of your patients.” I said flatly.
“I know who you are.” He said dismissively.
“Of course you do. Silly me to think the great doctor would ever be at a loss.”
I chuckled to myself as I looked back at my martini. Of all the gin joints… I would pick a bar to get away from anything and everything cancer, and who sits down next to me but my mother’s God-damned oncologist. Perhaps this was the universe telling me I really shouldn’t have been there. As the bartender placed Dr. Rosenberg’s drink in front of him, I asked for the bill and then downed a good portion of the rest of my second drink, which burned. A lot.
“Are you leaving because of me?”
He was nothing if not direct. Still, I rolled my eyes and looked at him. “Yes.”
He chuckled. “Well, at least you’re honest.”
“Wow, a compliment? Or a semblance of one. Careful, you wouldn’t want to mess with your cheery bedside manner, it might confuse us simpletons.”
What I said seemed to actually hurt him a bit, not that I knew exactly what his expression meant, but whatever it was differed from the smugness I’d witnessed in his office.
“You really don’t like me, do you?”
“For a doctor who seems like a know-it-all, I’m pretty sure you know the answer to that.”
“So you’re just going to shoot the messenger?”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
He shook his head and took a long sip of his drink as he waited for me to explain.
“I hate to break it to you, but in your line of work, for us patients your delivery is all you have. So yeah, as a messenger, you suck.”
He took another long sip as he let my comment sink in and then said sincerely, “I’m very sorry about your mom.”
I looked at him like he was from another planet. Talk about Dr. Jeckyl / Mr. Hide.
“You know about her diagnosis?”
“I spoke with Dr. O’Malley and Dr. K this afternoon in conference.” He said softly and then took another sip. “I’m guessing that’s probably why you’re here.”
It was hard to reconcile the man sitting next to me, or how anyone could switch from being so cold to sounding so caring in a matter of seconds. Perhaps it was the alcohol, for both of us. The drink made him softer and made me more receptive. There was no way I could be sure. I didn’t know this man.
“And that’s why I’ll be leaving.” I finished the rest of my drink and dug in my purse for my wallet. When I looked back up, Dr. Rosenberg had my bill in his hand, giving it back to the bartender.
“Scott, please put this on my tab.”
“Sure thing, Brad.”
“I don’t need your pity. I can pay for my own drinks.”
“I’m sure you can. But you’re wrong about not needing my pity.”
His tone was so odd, it was resigned. It was such a cocky comment, but the way it came out somehow sounded caring. I just looked at him.
“I ruined your evening.” He stated flatly.
I shrugged. “Yeah, but the day was already horrible. This was just par for the course.”
“Ouch.”
I actually felt bad that I could hurt this man’s feelings. “I was going to say, ‘no offense, it’s not you’ but that would be a lie. It is you. I came here to think about anything other than cancer…”
“And then I sit down.”
“Pretty much.” I looked back down into my now empty glass.
Dr. Rosenberg’s voice forced me to look at him, but he simply looked ahead of him when he spoke next. “Once you get the diagnosis, once cancer is part of your life, you can’t escape it. It’s everywhere. The more you try to get away from it, the more it rears its ugly head, mocking you, reminding you that it’s everywhere.” He chuckled and then turned to me, “Get it? It spreads, it doesn’t just stay where it’s supposed to. Because it’s cancer. That’s what it does.”
I wasn’t sure who he was talking to, or what his little speech was supposed to do, but all it did was make me feel worse. Tears well up but I blinked them back as I looked down, gathered my things and slid off the bar stool. If I thought I was fucked up, I was starting to feel pretty damn well adjusted after listening to whatever that was.
“Thanks for the drinks.” I mumbled without looking at him. I walked out, making a mental note never to go back to that bar again.
I was in no shape to drive. Even with my tolerance, I couldn’t handle two martinis on a completely empty stomach. After the day and evening I’d had, getting pulled over for drunk driving wasn’t something I wanted to add to the list. So I sat in my car, put the seat back and thought, that was probably more of a substantive conversation than I’d ever had with a man in a bar. And it was with my mom’s prick of a cancer doctor of all people.
****
I got to work early the next day, determined to make up for my time out of the office. It was so still and quiet I was able to get lost in my work and focus on my computer screen.
“Good morning, Steph.” Marty said from my doorway, making me jump. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you.”
I laughed nervously.
“Sorry, Marty. Just didn’t expect anyone else here this early.”
He laughed genuinely. “Me either. So what are you doing here at the crack of dawn?”
“Just making up for the time I’ve taken with my mom. I don’t like being the new girl and asking for time off.”
He shook his head and took a deep breath. “Stephanie, we have a problem here.” He said sternly and I thought, this is it. I’m going to have to choose between my mother and my job.
“I’m sorry, Marty. I swear this isn’t like me. Honest. I wouldn’t take the time if it weren’t for something really important. I know I haven’t been here long enough for you to know me, but I promise, I don’t take this job for granted. But my mom is everything to me, and, and I have to be there for her. And I understand if you can’t—”
Apparently, Marty didn’t want to hear any more of my rambling excuse as he interrupted me and said, “Enough.” I opened my mouth to try to explain more but he just stared at me. His look alone made me sink back down into my chair.
“Stephanie, do you really think I’m the kind of person who would be upset with you taking a few hours off to care for your mother?”
I opened my mouth to speak, but he continued talking.
“Because if you do, then that’s our problem. Do you understand me?”
“I think so.” I said softly. I was so rattled by everything I wasn’t thinking clearly.
“Jesus, Steph.” He shook his head and then came all the way in and sat down. “Let’s start over, okay?”
“Okay.” I still wasn’t sure where he was going.
“How’s your mom?”
“Huh?”
“You just said you’d only take time away from work if it were serious. Which means, it’s serious.” He paused so that I’d get it through my thick skull before he asked again, this time speaking slowly and deliberately. “So, how is your mother?”
I wasn’t used to talking about my personal life with anyone, much less my boss. But I was so touched that he asked and that he seemed genuinely interested and concerned. After the initial appointment with Dr. Rosenberg, having someone actually interested in hearing what I had to say, inviting it, was a nice change of pace. While part of me wanted to tell him she was fine and get back to work, it was becoming clear that he didn’t like the brush-off. Whereas most people didn’t really wait to hear the answer after they asked, “how are you?” Marty actually did. Plus, I knew I’d need to take more time off for more appointments in the near future. So I told him as much as I knew. And the more I talked, the more questions he asked.