I watch the clock throughout the exam, but it’s only partially to pace myself for the test. All I want is for the exam to be over so I can get outside, turn on my cell, and see if Dad sent an update on Mom.
Focus on the test. Pretend you’re in a tunnel where your sole focus is English lit.
NO. Not the tunnel where there’s a white light at the end like when you’re dying! AAAAAAH!
I was getting 4s and 5s on the practice tests before I found out about the cancer. At this rate, I’ll be lucky to get a 3. But it’s okay. What’s the worst thing that can happen if I don’t do well on the AP? I go to a different college, or don’t get credit.
That’s nothing compared to what’s the worst thing that could happen if …
The test, Sammy!!! The test!
Finally it’s over and we’re allowed to leave the room. I race out and turn on my cell. There’s a text from Dad saying Mom went in, she was in positive spirits, and she sends her love. But nothing else.
So I text him.
what’s happening? any news?
Still in the OR, he texts back.
is that bad? I ask.
It’s neither good nor bad. It just is.
what’s that supposed to mean, yoda?
It means, try not to worry (yeah, I know). I’ll text you as soon as there’s news. Love, Dad.
He still hasn’t learned that when we’re texting, I know it’s him. But given the circumstances, I let it slide.
The second hand of the clock on the classroom wall appears to be moving through thick sludge. I think it’s broken. There’s a sign taped above it that says: “Time passes. Will you?” Not that they’re trying to put added stress on us or anything. I take out my cell and check a minute against the clock. Nope, it’s working—it’s my perception of time that isn’t. Still, it’s hard not to keep watching the clock when all I care about is when I’m going to get the text from Dad telling me that Mom’s okay.
I don’t even know why we have to pretend to be learning anything anyway. Schedules are so messed up because of APs.
Some schools let you go home after you’ve taken AP exams because they realize your brain is fried, but not our school. Here at Brooklawne High, the message is Achieve, achieve, achieve! Got to keep those college admissions up!
It’s not till almost twelve thirty that I get a text from Dad saying that Mom’s in the recovery room. How can they have operated on her for that long?
The doctors say she’s doing okay, but that they had to take out several lymph nodes because it had spread.
Does that mean her probability of survival is less than 93 percent? Why can’t he be more specific?
When I text him back to ask, he says he’ll explain more later, when he sees us at the hospital. I’m going to drive RJ so we can both visit without Dad having to leave Mom’s side.
I think it’s cruel of him to make me wait.
Scruffles practically knocks me over in his excitement to see me. Our next-door neighbor Mrs. Maxon came over to let him out during the day, but he gets lonely when he’s by himself for long periods.
“You’re a people dog, aren’t you, Scruffs?” I tell him. He jumps up to lick my nose with such enthusiasm that he almost gives me a nosebleed.
After letting him out and getting a snack, I take out my book to study for the AP exam tomorrow, but who am I kidding? I have to read the same sentence three times because I just want to go to the hospital, and where on earth is RJ? Why isn’t his bus here yet? I should have just picked him up from school.
When he finally does walk in the door, I practically shovel a snack down his throat and say, “Come on, let’s go!”
“Can I at least go to the bathroom first?” he asks. “Or are you going to make me pee in a bottle in the car so we can leave right this very minute.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I guess I’m getting a little over the top, huh?”
“A little?”
“Hurry up. I’ll be waiting in the car,” I tell him.
We stop at the local florist to pick up flowers, tulips from me and daisies from RJ, and then continue on to the hospital. Dad’s warned us that Mom might still be kind of out of it because of the painkillers, so we shouldn’t expect to have any deep and meaningful conversations—she might well be asleep.
Just as the elevator door closes to go up to her room at the hospital, RJ blurts out, “What if she looks totally different?”
I squeeze his shoulder gently.
“I don’t think she’ll look that different yet. She said she probably won’t lose her hair until a few weeks after the first round of chemo,” I tell him. “Anyway, she’ll still look better bald than Grandpa Marty does.”
“But one of her … you know … things is missing.”
“Things? You mean breasts?”
RJ blushes fifty shades of pink. “SAMMY! Stop it!”
“It’s a biological term, bro. Hashtag science,” I tell him. “And Mom’s still Mom. She’s not defined by her things.”
“I know, but she’s going to look different.”
“So? Do you think she’d love you any less if you got your arm caught in this elevator door and it had to be amputated?”
“No,” RJ admits, shrinking back as far as he can from the elevator door.
Nice work, Sammy. He’ll probably have nightmares tonight.
“Anyway, Mom’s having reconstructive surgery, so she’ll have two breasts eventually. This is just temporary.”
As long as she’s not one of the 7 percent.
RJ still looks nervous when the elevator door opens, although I’m not sure if that’s because he’s more afraid of his arm getting caught and having to be amputated (me and my brilliant analogies) or seeing Mom.
I go into the room, but RJ stops in the doorway, reluctant to enter.
Grandma Sally and Dad are sitting on either side of Mom’s bed. Mom rests against the pillows, her face slack with exhaustion—or maybe it’s the painkillers. White bandages peep out through the neck of her nightgown, as if waving to remind us there’s something missing. There’s an enormous flower arrangement on the windowsill. It’s so big it practically blocks out the light.
“Sammy!” she says, holding out the arm on the opposite side from the operation.
I go to hug her, tentatively because I’m afraid to hurt her. She smells of hospital. I want her to smell like my mom again.
“These are for you,” I tell her, handing her the flowers.
“So pretty,” Mom says. “Thank you.”
“I’ll go get a vase,” Grandma says, getting up from the chair. “Come, Sammy, take my seat. I need to stretch my old legs anyway.”
RJ’s still standing in the doorway, as immovable as one of the presidents carved on Mount Rushmore.
Grandma Sally kisses him on the cheek and then gives him a gentle push toward the bed as she walks into the hallway in search of vases.
“Hey, honey,” Mom says to him. “How was your day?”
“Better than yours, I guess,” RJ mumbles. He sticks out the flowers from a foot away. “I brought these for you.”
“I love daisies,” Mom says. “They’re cheerful faces of sunshine.”
RJ’s looking anywhere but at Mom. It’s so obvious she’s got to notice.
“Our flowers are kind of lame compared to that,” I say, pointing to the massive arrangement on the window. “Are they from Dad?”
Mom smiles. “No. Those are from Grandma Gertie. You know Grandma G. She never does anything by halves.”
“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “Good thing you don’t get hay fever.”
“I love your flowers,” Mom says. “They’re simple and beautiful, and most of all because they’re from you.”
“How’d the AP test go, Sammy?” Dad asks, clearly wanting to change the subject.
RJ uses that deflection of attention to edge farther away from our mom. Judging by the almost imperceptible frown and the slight wrinkle in her brow, I think she realiz
es what’s going on.
“I think I did okay,” I say, keeping my eyes on Mom’s face.
“Just okay?” Dad says.
“Well, I was finding it harder than usual to focus for some strange reason,” I point out, turning to Dad with a frown.
“Let’s not talk about tests,” Mom pleads in a weak voice. “Let’s just be here. Together.” She smiles at me. “Both Sammy and I have had tests out the wazoo.”
Grandma Sally, who has just walked back in the door with two vases, asks, “What’s this about wazoos?” She notices that RJ has edged almost all the way back to the door. “RJ, how about you help me arrange these flowers?”
“Sure!” My brother rushes to assist, even though flower arranging isn’t usually high—or more like anywhere—on his list of things to do. But it gives him a reason not to look at Mom.
“When are you coming home?” I ask Mom.
“I’m not sure,” she says. “I’ll know more tomorrow, after we see the surgeons again.”
No one offers an answer to the question I really want to ask. As long as I don’t ask the question, Mom can be both in the 93 percent and/or the 7 percent group of breast cancer patients. But if I ask the question, and she’s in the 7 percent, then she’s going to die. I refuse to be responsible for the death of my mom by opening my mouth to ask the question.
So I just smile and pretend that I’m not worrying so much that my stomach hurts, trying to give Mom comfort until it’s time to go home to study for the next day’s AP exam.
May 4
Mom is home—they let her out two days after surgery. She has these weird tubes for drainage that have to be emptied and the fluid measured to report to the doctor. Dad helps do it when he’s home, but then they asked me if I’d be okay helping her do it when he’s not, otherwise they’d ask Grandma to come over, or one of Mom’s friends.
“It’s okay to say no if it freaks you out,” Mom said.
How could it NOT freak me out? I mean, seriously … There are these TUBES sticking out of my mom’s BODY with gross bodily fluids in them. EW. EW. EW and MORE EW!!!
Not to mention the fact that because of the Internet research I’ve done about breast cancer, I now know that because Mom’s had it, I’m at higher risk of going through all this “fun” myself someday.
YAY GENETICS!
But despite being completely grossed out, I said yes, because what else would I say? She’s my mom and I’m going to do whatever it takes to make sure she stays in the 93 percent group. Being freaked out is a relatively small price to pay, if you look at it that way.
It’s better than death.
Two APs down. Two more to go. I’ve taken time during study breaks to work on my Faux Prom playlist. It feels like I’m getting to the top of the mountain, and soon I’ll be able to see the view of summer and fun and relaxation—unless, of course, the view turns out to be another mountain to climb.
Oops. Clearly, I haven’t quite got this Think Positively thing down to a science yet.
Mom’s still pretty doped up on painkillers. She spends a lot of time resting and napping. Dad’s been trying to work from home, but on Friday the hackers released another round of documents, so he had to go in and deal with damage control. He’s been at work most of the weekend. Grandma Sally and Grandpa Marty have been coming over to help, but they had to go to a wedding today, the daughter of one of Grandpa’s clients. Grandma offered to stay, but I know Grandpa well enough to know that he’d be miserable if he had to go by himself. Mom agreed.
I told them it was fine, that RJ and I have things under control.
Actually, Scruffles has been more help than RJ. He hasn’t left Mom’s side since she got home. Even when she goes to the bathroom, Scruffles waits outside the door until she comes out. It’s like he knows she’s hurting and needs the comfort of his presence.
I’m studying downstairs when Mom texts me from her room.
Can you come help me empty the drains?
Even though it’s the last thing I want to do, I text back, sure, coming!
I dread doing this, even though I know it’s important. Seeing the stuff that’s coming through the tubes and having to measure it. Having to look at it to see if it’s turning from red blood into more straw colored … yuck. These are things that I shouldn’t have to think about and I definitely shouldn’t have to look at with my sensitive teenage eyes. I’m probably going to be traumatized for life because of this.
But I paste on my best positive smile and walk through the bedroom door.
“Ready for the drain train?” I say.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Mom replies.
I’m half gagging so many times during the process, but trying to hide it from my mom because I don’t want her to feel bad. She can’t help what’s happening to her body. And if this is what is going to make her better, then I just have to deal, as much as it freaks and grosses me out.
From the way my mom’s wincing, I know she’s trying to hide how much it hurts her from me, too.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“I’m fine,” she says. “But I’ll be really happy when they take these things out.”
“Yeah. I bet,” I say. I write down the volume of liquid on the drainage log and then look up at her face and see her lips tight from trying to keep in any expression of pain. “Mom, it’s okay to say it hurts. It’s not like it’s a big secret or anything.”
She exhales, heavily. “I didn’t want to scare you,” she says. “It’s hard enough for you already.”
“It’s less scary if you’re honest than if you pretend,” I tell her. “News flash: not a little kid anymore.”
Mom smiles, her eyes really lighting up for the first time all day. “How could I possibly miss that?” she says. “You’re a funny, smart, incredible young woman and I’m proud as anything to be your mother.”
I can’t help but smile—even when the next thing she says is: “Okay, I confess. I am ready for my next painkiller because that hurt like crazy.”
The pitcher on her nightstand is empty, so I shout to RJ, asking him to refill it while I help Mom get settled more comfortably. He shouts back that he’s in the middle of something. What could be so important that he can’t do one little thing to help Mom? He’s been completely useless. Less than useless. Meanwhile, I’ve had to do everything. Story of my life.
I help Mom get the pillows just the way she likes them and then get the water myself.
“Here you go,” I say, giving her the painkillers and a full glass.
She grasps my hand as she takes the glass from me. “Thanks, sweetheart. Love you.”
“Love you, too, Mom,” I tell her, and then leave her to rest with Scruffles curled up beside her, his head resting on her thigh.
I close her door, leaving it slightly ajar so I can hear if she calls me, and then go to see what RJ is so busy doing.
I can’t believe my eyes. The little twerp is playing Minecraft.
“Is this a joke?” I ask, barely able to contain my fury. “You couldn’t help get Mom more water because you’re in the middle of playing a video game?”
My brother doesn’t even take his eyes off the screen. “Yeah. So?”
“What’s wrong with you?” I ask, unable to believe my brother is this much of a jerk. “Don’t you even care?”
He doesn’t say a word, just keeps on playing his stupid game. I start to leave the room, thinking what a self-centered little brat he is, when I remember how freaked out he was when we visited Mom in the hospital.
So I turn back.
“I’m scared, too, you know,” I tell him. “Maybe it doesn’t seem like it to you, but that’s because I’m sucking it up and doing the best I can because Mom needs us right now. She needs us a lot. We need to be there for her like she’s always been there for us, even if things freak us out.” I take a deep breath to give him time to let that sink in and release the nuclear option. “At least you don’t have to help Mom empty those drains. Consi
der yourself lucky.”
His fingers stop moving on the keyboard for a moment, but he still doesn’t turn around. When he starts typing again, I leave before I say something I know I’ll regret.
But when I go upstairs to check on Mom two hours later, RJ is sitting on the bed next to her and Scruffles, reading to her from his independent reading book. Even though Mom’s eyes are closed, she has a smile on her face.
On Sunday afternoon, Dad’s at work again, surprise, surprise. I’m starting to understand why Mom gets so frustrated now that I have to be responsible for everything because she’s recuperating and he’s not here. She’s lying on the sofa in the family room resting and watching TV while I study in the kitchen and try to figure out what to make for dinner. It’s such a pain having to think about dinner, much less make it. I don’t know how Mom does it all the time. If it were up to me, I’d order takeout, although even that gets to be a pain because you have to get everyone to agree on the restaurant, not to mention that it costs a lot. Now that I’m in charge of ordering and paying, I’m realizing how it all adds up.
I’m wondering if I can get away with calling Dad for permission to put tonight’s meal on the emergency credit card when the doorbell rings.
Scruffles barks but maintains his position by Mom’s side.
“It’s okay, Scruffs, go do your job,” Mom tells him, giving him a gentle push with her hand.
He licks her hand and stays where he is, while I get up and head for the front hall.
I open the door and I’m floored when I see Rosa standing there, holding a bag of takeout from Mr. Nosh.
“Hey,” she says, hesitating. “Mom and I … Well, we thought maybe you might want some dinner. You know, so you don’t have to cook.”
It’s the first time she’s said more than a curt hi to me in almost a month. Part of me wants to slam the door in her face for the way she’s treated me.
At the same time, I’ve missed her like crazy.
In Case You Missed It Page 16