Seventy-Two Hours

by Stringham, C. P.

  “I’m not the right one to teach someone else to be a better person.”

  “That’s not true. Not at all.”

  “Can we head back to the cottage? Please.” I’d had enough of the lake.

  Chapter Twenty

  December 6, 2011

  No matter how old the group of students, the time period between Thanksgiving and Christmas, was an incredibly hard time for teachers to keep their classes focused on their academics. I had just told my seventh period 8th grade history class that I was assigning them the Preamble of the Constitution to memorize. There were only 52 words total. They had ten days to accomplish it before I pulled each separately out into the hallway to recite it back to me verbatim. They were permitted three mistakes which included being able to start over from the beginning again. You’d think I’d asked them to memorize “The Old Testament” for the amount of groaning that went on immediately following my announcement. The same response I’d had the previous year and every year since it became part of the state curriculum for 8th grade. It wasn’t an unrealistic assignment. After all, I’d been assigned the same thing when I was in 7th grade civics class. And survived it.

  I took a seat on the front of my desk, legs dangling, and looked out at the panicked faces of my students. “Just like I told my other classes today, this isn’t a difficult assignment. It wasn’t devised to torture you,” I said with a chuckle.

  “We don’t have to do it in front of anyone else but you, right?” asked one of my more extroverted students.

  “Nope. Just me.”

  “What if I can’t remember it?” another asked.

  I laughed again. “You can do it,” I urged. “You know the lyrics of Top 40 songs, but you’re afraid you can’t memorize the Preamble? It’ll be easier than you think.”

  “Do you have it memorized still?” a doubtful boy named Troy asked.

  “I do. ‘We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.’” I recited before hopping down and taking a rather dramatic bow with plenty of hand flourish.

  Some of my students laughed and clapped. Those were the ones coming to terms with their assignment. A few still looked terrified. Some indifferent. One or two looked hostile.

  “See how easy that was?” I asked rhetorically before taking my seat again.

  “But you’ve had a long time to learn it,” one of the boys replied.

  “Mr. Burdett, was that a crack about my age?” I teased.

  His face turned bright red as his classmates began teasing me and laughing. Thanks to my own question, the discussion quickly shifted to a debate over what year I was probably born. They’d narrowed it down to somewhere between the year 1960 and 1975. My ego was taking a beating along with my assignment.

  As the bell rang, students merged into a pack and filed through the doorway still laughing over poor old Mrs. Gardner’s age. I gathered my belongings together as my thoughts already began focusing elsewhere. I was leaving early for a doctor’s appointment. A substitute wasn’t needed since I had a prep eighth period and advisory for ninth period. My classroom neighbor, Ken Wrigley, would cover both my advisory and his own until dismissal time.

  It took me less than ten minutes to commute to the clinic. I was extremely nervous as I rode the elevator up to the second floor. Hands clammy. Mouth dry. Heart rate creeping up. All because of the little lump I’d found three days ago while doing a routine breast exam in the shower.

  I checked in on autopilot with the receptionist. Found a seat. And waited. And waited. When my name was called, I’d almost missed it. I was so caught up in my own thoughts.

  Once I was examined, my doctor tried her best to reassure me that it was probably nothing. A cyst. I’d be fine. And then she sent me for a mammogram. My last one had only been four months prior. From there, I was sent home.

  The waiting game would kill me. I went to school the next day and while on my lunch, checked my cell phone and saw that I’d missed a call from my doctor. I returned the call and, together with the accommodating receptionist, scheduled a biopsy for the next day. The lump appeared to be a dense, two and a half centimeter mass.

  When Chris came home from work that night, it was a little after seven. He was talking into his phone from the moment he walked in the door. I wanted to sit down with him as soon as he got home to tell him. But I had to wait. Work was priority after all.

  Clinton came home from helping my father work on his newest muscle car project while Chris disappeared with his phone. His clothing sullied with garage gook. He opened the fridge after saying hello and took out the plate of food I’d saved for him. Using his hip to close the door, he peeled the plastic wrap off and examined the pork chop, buttered noodles, and creamed peas.

  “What’s up?” Clinton asked as he popped his plate into the microwave.

  Clinton was experiencing a growth spurt. He was almost taller than me now. He wore his Levi’s slung low despite parental protests and his hair was unruly and long; his bangs in front of his eyes constantly. I knew it was so he didn’t have to make eye contact when he didn’t want to.

  “Your father just got home and Carson is working until 9:30.”

  “Where’s he at?”

  I watched as he looked around with marked annoyance. “He’s been on the phone since he came home. I think he’s in the family room.”

  “Huh. Did he know where it was or did you have to give him freaking directions?”

  I was about to chastise him when the microwave beeped and Chris came strolling in.

  “That smells great. I’m starved,” Chris announced as he inspected Clinton’s plate. “You just getting home, bud?”

  “Yep,” Clinton answered as he first salted his food and then squirted ketchup on his meat. He used ketchup for every meal.

  “Did Grandpa get it painted yet?”

  “Nope.”

  “Still working on the Bondo or did he at least get the primer sprayed on?”

  It was almost painful being an observer to their strained conversation.

  “We sanded today.”

  “You’re wearing masks, right? That stuff isn’t good to inhale.”

  Clinton popped a soda top. “No. Really?”

  Chris didn’t miss his sarcasm as I watched his jaw clench and I stepped in with, “Let me heat up your plate. What would you like to drink?”

  “Do you have homework tonight?” Chris questioned.

  “Nope.” Clinton.

  “I do.” Me.

  Clinton and I answered simultaneously. The two of us exchanged amused smiles before he grabbed up his stuff and headed to his room to eat.

  Chris washed his hands while we waited for his dinner to heat. Since I’d already eaten (if that’s what you called it,) I figured I’d sit at the table with him and enjoy a mug of hot tea before telling him my news.

  He took a seat at the trestle-style table across from me. “I sent you an email today. You didn’t reply,” he informed me as he cut a piece of meat.

  “Sorry. I haven’t had a chance to check my school account since lunch time.”

  “Busy day, huh?”

  “More like stress-filled.”

  “Unruly students?”

  That was when I knew he’d completely forgotten I’d had an appointment about my breast the day before. I wasn’t mad at him when he sort of gave me the brush off when I’d discovered it days ago. Instead, I interpreted his nonchalance as his way of trying to keep me from panicking unnecessarily before I’d had it checked out. But not now.

  I felt myself sit straighter in my chair. “What else could it be, right?” I asked rather stiffly.

  “Middle school students are the hardest. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. All those newly acquired h
ormones exploding in their bodies. They have to unleash that angst somewhere.”

  “Somewhere,” I repeated in a far off voice.

  I felt like I was becoming an expert on angst.

  Chris finished his dinner and left for his home office to spend time with his laptop and a cup of coffee. I sat there stewing. The longer I stewed, the tighter I became wound up.

  Clinton came and went as he took care of his dinner dishes and returned to his room to play video games or talk with his friends on Facebook. Or both. Normally, I’d get him to talk about the car project he was working on with my father. Just so we spent some time together in the evening. My father’s hobby was common ground between us. Not invasive like school and friend talk. While Clinton may not feel comfortable speaking with Chris, he had no trouble letting me into his life. To an extent. Although our mother and son relationship wasn’t perfect by any means, I still attempted to keep an open line of communication between us. Just not then. No. That night was an exception.

  Once I put my ire away, I started with homework papers, and then I began grading the unit tests I’d brought home with me. Normally tasks I would do during my prep period. Only I’d used it to research breast cancer.

  I’d just finished writing the 14th dismal grade on the top corner of a test when I realized how harshly I was grading my essay questions. They were 8th graders. Not graduate students for Christ’s sake. I put my Red Pen of Doom down and gathered the tests up. They’d wait another day.

  I sat there as numbness consumed me. A negative attitude about my health wasn’t going to help matters. Instead, I returned to focusing all of my fear into anger. Anger at my husband and his outward detachment.

  “Mom?”

  I startled and spun in my seat to find Carson staring at me with worry creasing his young, handsome face. “You scared the bejeezus out of me, Car.”

  “I blame my ninja-like moves,” he teased as I saw him relax a little. “What’s going on? Are you the only one up?”

  “Up?” I asked as I looked at the microwave clock. “Is that the time?!? I didn’t realize it was that late.”

  “I even went to Jamie’s after work. You didn’t realize I wasn’t home yet? I’m crushed,” he said dramatically. “I wondered why Fire and Rescue wasn’t out in force checking on my whereabouts. Do my safety and wellbeing mean so little to you, woman?”

  “Sorry,” I said with a half smile. “I got caught up grading tests.”

  “You do realize the Great Depression is an era of poverty in American History and not something you’re supposed to succumb to while grading tests, right?”

  “You don’t say? Where do you get that wit of yours from, Carson?”

  As he opened a bottle of water he sang, “I got it from my momma. I got it from my momma,” singing a Will.I.Am song while doing a pretty good booty-shaking dance to it.

  Carson was now taller than his older brother just not nearly as broad shouldered. I didn’t think he ever would be. Hudson took after my father and Carson favored Chris in build. Both wore their russet hair short, but Jamie added gold highlights to Carson’s. Hudson was ruggedly handsome and Carson was a pretty boy.

  “Your momma’s wit is spent for the day,” I finally said as I got up. “Time for me to turn in. You should, too. Even a gorgeous creature like you needs your beauty sleep.”

  “Holla! Ain’t that the truth,” he replied with relish.

  “Why do I get the feeling you’re getting your second wind?” I asked as I looked in my son’s eyes as we stood toe to toe.

  “I drank so many espressos at work tonight I probably won’t be able to sleep for a month. Jamie actually kicked me out of her room so she could go to sleep or I’d still probably be at her house. Her parents weren’t even up by the time I left.”

  Any other mother would have suffered a jolt of parental anxiety when her nearly 18 year-old son made a statement like that. But not me. Not with Carson. He and Jamie had been connected at the hip since 10th grade. Purely plutonic. They were best “girlfriends” as Carson called it. Something he only shared with me.

  “Is something the matter?” he asked with narrowed eyes as he studied me closely.

  “What? No. I’m just tired is all.”

  He put his hand on my shoulder to stop my escape. “You are such a bad liar. What’s wrong?”

  “The past few days have been pretty rough. I need the weekend to get here so I can unwind a little.”

  “I’m not buying it. I know that look. It’s the same look you had when Grandpa Gardner had his quadruple bypass surgery. You’re worried about something,” he accused. “Did Clinton do something again?”

  I gave him a pleading look. “No and you shouldn’t automatically jump to that conclusion. Your brother tries his best. He’s just wired differently than you and Hudson.”

  “If it isn’t Clinton, what is it then?”

  I put my head back and looked heavenward. Closed my eyes and took a deep breath. “I’m scared, Carson,” I surprised myself by saying.

  My son pulled me into his strong embrace as I broke down. Too distraught to explain right away. However, what a sense of relief I felt when I finally did.

  Even though I had initially put up a fight, I would be forever grateful to Carson for insisting he join me for my appointment. I hated that he was missing school, but just knowing I had someone in the waiting room made me feel so much better. The doctor performed a core needle biopsy in less time than I’d expected and then told me the pathology report would be in the early part of the following week. I had an entire weekend (and then some) to wait. It would be torture.

  Carson was my driver for the day so I wasn’t surprised when he turned into one of the restaurants near the clinic and announced he was treating me to breakfast. He knew I was too nervous to eat before we left home. We were seated in a booth in the old section. It was a smaller, more intimate dining room and relatively empty at 10AM.

  After our server filled our coffee mugs and left us to peruse our menus, Carson said, “You have to tell Dad what’s going on.”

  “I don’t want to right now.”

  “If you’re worried he won’t be able to take off work to be with you for your appointments, you shouldn’t be. They’ll let him have as much time as he needs.”

  “I’d rather wait and see what the biopsy reveals,” I remained steadfast while holding back from adding what I really wanted to say which was, “They’d definitely give him time off, but would he take it?”

  I could see my son was wrestling with his conscience. He sipped his black coffee in between a troubled frown. I knew he wouldn’t betray my confidence so I wasn’t worried about that. However, I didn’t like myself very much for putting him in the position of lying to the rest of the family. What kind of mother asked her son to keep important secrets from his father?

  It took five days for the results to come back. Five agonizingly long days. Even after they were in, my doctor requested an office appointment versus discussing my results over the phone. Which meant only one thing.

  I’d had one “coming out of my own skin” moment in my life. That was when we lost Spencer. While I knew it was inevitable, I’d prayed over and over again throughout my life that I’d never have to experience one of those moments again. At 42, I was being dealt another one. Some would argue that I’d been lucky to have so few of those moments in my life. And, I suppose, in the grand scheme of things, they were right. Only I wasn’t feeling so lucky.

  I sat on the edge of the arm chair positioned across the desk from the doctor who’d performed my biopsy. The pencil-thin man with dark hair and little round glasses sat with his arms resting on his desk, hands laced together, and a smile meant to be soothing on his face as he prepared to break the news.

  Carson was with me. Chris was away on a three-day business trip to the Far East and was still oblivious to my current plight. Although, oblivious seemed too nice a word. Dense seemed more apropos. Those around me picked up on my unease. Even
Hudson noticed something in the tone of my voice during our phone conversation the two nights ago. But not my husband. He was too busy to notice. Or didn’t care to notice.

  “Jennifer, your pathology results indicate you have Ductal Carcinoma in Situ. That means you have a precancerous non invasive tumor in your breast,” Dr. Wyatt explained in a clinical fashion.

  I may have stifled a cry. I couldn’t really say for certain since I seemed to have suddenly developed tunnel vision. Focusing only on what Dr. Wyatt was saying to me and not on what I was doing in reaction to the news he was delivering. At some point, my son had taken my hand and was squeezing it almost to make sure I was still there with him.

  The doctor explained how my cancer was considered Stage Zero because it was solely confined to my ductal system. The cells had not invaded my lymph nodes or the surrounding fatty tissue. He told me it was caught very early and the biopsy also revealed it was the type called non-comedo.

  “Your situation is by no means something that needs emergency measures taken. It is, however, nothing to take lightly. This is serious, but you have plenty of time to research it fully, obtain other opinions—which I encourage, and then you can help decide on what option is best for you,” he told me.

  “Mom?” Carson called as he squeezed my hand a little harder to get my attention.

  “Yes? What?”

  “Doctor Wyatt was talking to you about a second opinion.”

  I recalled hearing some of it. “Okay. Yes. I think I should get one, don’t you?” I asked my son.

  “Well, yea. That’s a no-brainer,” he added with conviction.

  “I can facilitate those appointments for you,” Dr. Wyatt offered as he looked at me with genuine empathy. “I can recommend someone in Elmira and, depending on how far you want to travel, I have options for you in Rochester and Syracuse.”

  “Rochester’s good,” I managed to tell him.

  “I’ll have Beverly call to set up a referral then.”

  During the space of time between Christmas and New Years, I underwent a lumpectomy. A successful lumpectomy. Dr. Wyatt removed the tumor and a one centimeter area of breast tissue around it. The timing worked out perfectly. Chris was away on another business trip. This time, he was in the Netherlands. Hudson was home on winter break which meant he was busy spending time with his friends. Carson and Clinton were both off from school for the week. I told my oldest and youngest I was going away for two days to visit my college roommate for a holiday get-together. Carson was by my side the entire time. While he didn’t agree with my decision to exclude his father from what was going on, he understood where I was coming from.