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Mom’s gaze is locked on her plate. I notice for the first time that she’s barely touched her food.
“Mom?” I push.
Dad reaches over and covers her hand with his. Something inside my chest tightens. The silence that is usually comfortable suddenly becomes unnerving.
“What is it?” I ask again, more demanding this time.
My parents exchange a glance. That one look is filled with so many unspoken words that I can’t decipher the meaning. The air in the room is weighted and heavy. Finally, eyes that are identical to mine stare back at me from across the table. Hers are filled with sadness.
“Remember when I was so tired at Christmastime?” she begins.
I nod. She wore herself out, cooking day after day to make a huge spread for us for the holiday. She’s done that my entire life. Mom loves Christmas. It’s her favorite time of year. She said she’d been attending a lot of parties, too, with church and work friends and that she was exhausted. She lay down for a nap one afternoon when I was home, which she never did. I found it odd at the time, but didn’t think too hard on it.
Dad squeezes her hand.
“Turns out, it was more than just feeling tired.” She pauses.
I take a drink of tea, my throat suddenly dry.
“I went to see Dr. Conrad. He ran some tests …” She trails off, like it’s too hard to go on.
Dr. Conrad is our family physician. There are tears in her eyes. My dad’s eyes are moist too. In all my years growing up, I don’t think I’ve ever seen my father cry.
My hands fall to my chair, and I grip the armrests—bracing for what, I don’t know. But even before Mom confirms my worst fears, I feel it coming. She hasn’t been feeling well. She visited the doctor. She asked me to come home this weekend. This can’t be good news.
“They found cancer.”
I stare at her in silence for a good minute as the declaration spins around inside my head. I can hear the clock ticking behind me even though it’s like time is now standing still. It’s one of those grandfather clocks passed down in a family—specifically my mother’s side. I’ve never been more aware of an inanimate object before.
I study my mother’s face. It’s slightly pale. Why didn’t I notice that before? She’s always been on the thin side, but when I look at her now, it’s obvious she’s skinnier. When did she lose weight?
“What kind of cancer?” I ask. I’m surprised when my voice sounds steady because, inside, I’m falling apart.
“Breast,” she answers.
I glance over at my dad, and he’s the one studying his plate now. Out of the three of us, Mom has always been the strongest one. I guess even in sickness, that fact remains true.
“I start treatment next week,” she continues.
“Next week,” I say incredulously. “And you’re just now telling me?”
There’s accusation in my words. I’m angry at them for keeping this from me. I’m mad that my mom—the gentlest, most selfless person I know—hasn’t escaped this disease. That my world is being turned upside down. Home has always been a refuge for me. But now, my safe space, my soft place to land, is headed to war.
“We just found out,” Mom replies.
“Well, thanks for keeping me in the loop.” Sarcasm oozes from my voice. I don’t want to react like this, but I can’t stop the words from tumbling out.
“Hey,” Dad says sharply. “Watch your tone!”
Mom places her palm on his forearm, always the pacifist. She starts explaining the details of her treatment plan. They’re going to start chemo to try and shrink the tumor, then surgery, and finally radiation. I can’t focus on what she’s saying. I see her lips moving, but barely hear any sound coming out. All I can picture is the way she’s going to suffer while the treatments that are supposed to prolong her life kill some of the good cells in her body, along with the bad. And I’d give anything to take her pain for her.
But I don’t say any of this.
I can’t.
I can barely breathe at this point.
The tears start spilling down her face at some point as my dad continues to glare at me for my selfish response. I can’t stand to see her cry, but I don’t move. I’m too numb.
