A Mother's Goodbye

Dr. Stein asks a few more questions about the bandages and my pain management, mentions something about drains that she has inserted into my chest, but which will be taken out at some point. I can barely process what she’s saying. All I’m thinking is that I need more tests, that she saw something inside of me that wasn’t good.

‘Grace.’ Dr. Stein puts her hand over mine. ‘Try not to worry yet.’

Yet. Because there will be some point in the future when I should worry.

They take me down to the MRI in a wheelchair, because I’m not up for that much walking yet. My chest throbs and I am holding onto my composure by a thread. I feel like bursting into tears, like the frightened child I feel I am in this moment.

A sudden memory pierces me, nearly undoes me – my father’s wry smile as he was taken to have a port put in his chest for the chemo drugs and blood transfusions that never worked. I held his hand and tried not to cry, and he made a joke about everyone wanting easy access to him. He smiled through it all, and here I am, struggling not to break down.

Did he have weak moments like this that he didn’t let me see? Did my mother? Both struggling with terminal illness, trying to soldier on… I miss them so much; it feels like I can’t breathe. It feels like the day of my father’s funeral all over again, when I couldn’t see how I was going to get through the next few minutes, never mind the rest of my life.

Except maybe that’s not going to be as long as I once hoped.

It takes all my strength and self-control not to panic when I’m having the MRI; I feel as if I am being electronically entombed. And then to wait and wait and wait until tomorrow for the results… the seconds tick by slowly, never mind the minutes.

I call Heather in the late afternoon, when I trust myself not to cry.

‘Grace.’ Her voice is filled with relief. ‘I’ve been so worried. How are you? How are you feeling?’

‘Okay. Been better, of course.’ My voice wobbles and I take a deep breath. I’m not ready to tell her or anyone about this new, unknown development. ‘How have things been? How’s Isaac?’

‘Good. We went to the zoo after his camp yesterday, and this afternoon we went to that playground by the Met with all the pyramids. Got soaked in the sprinklers.’ Such simple things, and yet they make me ache. They feel as distant as the moon, perfect and pure and wholly innocent.

‘That sounds fun. Can I talk to Isaac?’

‘Of course.’ She calls him over, and I don’t miss the easy familiarity in her voice that wasn’t there before, ever. Then I hear my son.

‘Mom?’ He sounds uncertain, his breathing heavy.

‘Isaac.’ Tears sting my eyes. ‘How are you, bud?’

‘Okay.’

‘Are you having fun with Heather? Sounds like you’ve done some cool stuff.’

‘Yeah.’ He sounds so uncertain, and it makes me ache. ‘When are you coming home?’

‘The doctor hasn’t told me yet, but hopefully tomorrow.’ Although that seems virtually impossible. I can barely walk. But that’s what all the literature said: two to three days for a mastectomy. I’m still believing that’s what it’s going to be like for me.

‘Good.’

‘I love you, Isaac. I miss you.’

‘I miss you, too.’ A pause. ‘Are you feeling better?’

I smile through my tears, wishing it were so simple. ‘Getting there, bud. Getting there.’

We say goodbye and then Heather comes back on the phone, reassuring me that Isaac is doing well, sleeping, eating, bathing and brushing his teeth, all the bases covered. I want to be back in my home so much, curled up on the sofa with my son, that it’s like a physical hunger, eating me from the inside out.

When Dr. Stein comes in the next morning, I feel as if I’ve been waiting forever, and yet as she comes through the door I realize I’d be happy to wait some more. I have a terrible, gut feeling that she is going to give me some really bad news.

I feel that even more when she sits in the chair next to my bed and rests her hand lightly on mine.

‘So, I have the results back from the MRI.’ Her eyes are dark and sad and I try to swallow, but my mouth is so dry, my heart pounding so hard, I just give a convulsive gulp. ‘Grace, I’m so sorry, but the cancer has spread.’

‘To my lymph nodes…’ I try weakly.

‘And to your brain, bones, liver, and kidneys.’ I blink, trying to take that in, but it’s too much. It’s everywhere.