Chương 9
“I’ve reviewed the CT from last night and the records your previous oncology office sent.”
Mom nodded.
“Okay.”
“There are findings that concern us for recurrent metastatic disease within the abdomen.”
The younger doctor kept his eyes on the laptop.
I watched Mom.
She barely moved.
“Metastatic means stage four,” she said.
Dr. Ruiz answered carefully.
“If we confirm distant spread or peritoneal involvement from the colon cancer, yes.”
“What do you need to confirm it?”
“We can sample the abdominal fluid.”
“Today?”
“Yes.”
Mom’s fingers tightened under the blanket.
“And if it’s positive?”
“Then we talk about systemic treatment.”
“Chemotherapy.”
“Most likely chemotherapy-based treatment, depending on your tumor testing and your overall condition.”
Mom nodded once.
I asked, “Can they still treat it?”
Dr. Ruiz looked at me.
“Yes.”
The word came without false brightness.
“Treatment goals depend on exactly what we find, but there are options.”
“Can it be cured?”
Mom closed her eyes.
Dr. Ruiz did not answer immediately.
“If the cancer has spread throughout the peritoneal lining, cure becomes much less likely.”
My mouth went dry.
“But treatment can sometimes control the disease for meaningful periods and improve symptoms.”
Mom asked, “How long?”
“We can’t responsibly answer that before we know what we’re treating.”
“Months?”
“Abigail.”
Dr. Ruiz leaned forward slightly.
“I know why you’re asking.”
“No, you know what I’m asking.”
Mom’s voice sharpened.
“I have a granddaughter who thinks receipts are food, and I would like to know whether I should be worrying about Christmas or kindergarten.”
The room went silent.
Dr. Ruiz held her gaze.
“I cannot tell you that today.”
Mom looked away.
For once, nobody tried to rescue the moment with reassurance.
I appreciated Dr. Ruiz for that.
Then she said, “But I can tell you we are not at a point where I would tell you there is nothing to do.”
Mom breathed out slowly.
“What happens with the obstruction?”
“We stabilize that first.”
“And the fluid?”
“We can drain some of it and send it for testing.”
“Will that help the swelling?”
“It may help quite a bit.”
Mom nodded.
“Do it.”
Dr. Ruiz looked at her.
“You’re comfortable proceeding?”
“No.”
That made the doctor pause.
Mom continued.
“But do it anyway.”
Dr. Ruiz smiled slightly.
“That’s a more useful answer.”
After the oncology team left, Mom stared at the ceiling.
I waited for her to say something.
She didn’t.
Then my phone rang.
Christopher.
I answered.
“How is she?”
I looked at Mom.
“Oncology just came.”
He went quiet.
“What did they say?”
I hesitated.
Mom turned her head toward me.
“Tell him.”
So I did.
I said recurrent.
I said metastatic.
I said testing.
I said treatment.
I avoided the word cure until Christopher asked directly.
Mom watched my face while I answered.
When the call ended, she said, “He sounded scared.”
“He is.”
“You are too.”
“Yes.”
She looked at the ceiling again.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For bringing this into your house.”
I stood.
“No.”
She frowned.
“Don’t start.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
I moved closer to the bed.
“You did not bring cancer into my house like a wet dog.”
That startled a laugh out of her.
“You brought yourself.”
Her eyes filled again.
“And apparently a deeply irritating belief that suffering privately is a virtue.”
“That sounds like something your father would say.”
“Good.”
“He was also irritating.”
“I know.”
“He would be unbearable right now.”
“Absolutely.”
Mom smiled.
The smile trembled.
Then she reached for my hand.
This time she did not pretend she was doing it because I needed comfort.
She held on because she did.
She kept holding my hand when the transport nurse arrived to take her downstairs for the fluid drainage.
I walked beside the bed until we reached the elevator, where a technician told me I had to wait upstairs.
Mom looked annoyed by the rule.
“You’d think after everything I’ve paid this hospital, they could let me bring one daughter.”
“You haven’t paid them anything yet.”
“They’ll find me.”
“They usually do.”
The elevator doors closed.
I stood there for a few seconds after she disappeared, feeling foolishly abandoned.
Then my phone vibrated.
Christopher had sent a video of Hannah in her high chair slapping both palms into a bowl of oatmeal.
She had somehow gotten oatmeal into her eyebrow.
His message underneath said, Your mother has been replaced by an incompetent substitute.
I watched the video twice.
Then I called him.
He answered with Hannah yelling somewhere nearby.
“She hates me.”
“She loves you.”
“She threw a spoon at my chest.”
“That’s affection.”
“Then she is deeply affectionate.”
I sat near the window at the end of the hallway.
“How’s Mom?”
“They took her for the procedure.”
“You sound tired.”
“I am tired.”
“Come home for a few hours.”
“No.”
“Claire.”
“Don’t start sounding like her.”
“That is the worst thing you’ve ever said to me.”
I smiled.
Then neither of us spoke.
The silence between us had changed since the night before.
It wasn’t angry exactly.
It had weight.
“Chris.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what part?”
I looked down at my shoes.
“For leaving all of this to her.”
He did not rush to disagree.
That was one of the reasons I loved him and one of the reasons he occasionally made me want to throw something at his head.
“We both did,” he said.
“I did more.”
“I’m not keeping score.”
“I was.”
“With your mom?”
“With everybody.”
I rubbed the heel of my hand against my forehead.
“I kept telling myself this project was the thing I had to prove I could handle after having a baby.”
Christopher was quiet.
“I thought if I stepped back, they’d decide I wasn’t serious anymore.”
“Did anyone say that?”
“No.”
“Did anyone imply it?”
“Not directly.”
“But you believed it.”
“Yes.”
He exhaled.
“I get that.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Okay.”
May you like
The lack of defensiveness irritated me.
“I mean, you didn’t have to pump milk in a conference room while somebody from finance kept asking why you were unavailable from twelve-thirty to one.”
