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“You just said you’re done,” I bite out, getting angry.
“I’m done with chemo, radiation, and getting poked and prodded like some kindofscience experiment, honey.”
“Tell her that she has to keep trying.” I look at Dr. Howards, pleading with my eyes. “Tell her we can do other things and have other options.”
“I don’t want to do this anymore,” Mom repeats, and when I meet her gaze, the mask she’s worn for years has slipped. The pain I see in her eyes is so overwhelming my chest constricts while my knees turn to Jell-O. If I weren’t sitting, I know I would fall over.
“But what about me?” The question is whispered.
“You’ll be okay.”
Will I? She’s been my whole life, my entire life, and now I’m just supposed to start figuring out how I’ll survive without her? I can’t do that. She’s my best friend.
“Mom.”
“We still have time.”
“But how long?” Tears clog my throat, and she looks at Dr. Howards.
“You know I don’t like putting a timelineonthese things,” he says gently, and my hand balls into a fist so tight my nails dig into my skin. “But without treatment, I’d say a year. Maybe a little less, maybe a little more.”
“One year.” Oh God, I’m going to pass out or throw up all over his fancy desk.
“Then we’ll make it the best year we’ve ever had,” Mom inserts, squeezing my fingers, and I wonder what the hell is wrong with her and how she can think this is okay. This is the furthest thing from okay. And the best year we’ve ever had? This will be the worst time in my life, not the best.
“Can we talk about pain management going forward?” she asks Dr. Howards. “I’m not in pain now, but I’d like to know what happens when I am.”
“Absolutely,” he agrees. I try to listen to the twoofthem discuss drugs and what she will be facing over the next few months, but I don’t hear a word they say because it feels like I’m sitting underwater, watching the world explode above me like someillusion.
When it’s time to leave, I walk outofDr. Howards’s office, feeling the complete oppositeofwhat I did on our first visit. That glimmerofhope he planted in my chest during our first appointment has been replaced by fear and inevitability.
“Sit with me for a minute,” Mom says, taking my hand in hers, I let her lead me into the atrium set up in the middleofthe hospital. As we take a seat on a memorial bench someone’s family donated, she looks around. “It’s so beautiful in here.”
“It is,” I agree, not really seeing the flowers, trees, and plants that have been tended to with love over the years and overflow the space. Each one was planted in memoryofsomeone who didn’t make it and probably some who did.
“I know you’re upset.”
Upset? I’m not upset. I'm devastated.
“This wasn’t an easy choice for me to make.” Her hand squeezes mine. “Please look at me, Elora.”
Slowly, I turn my head her way, and my chin wobbles when our eyes meet.
“I love you more than anything in this whole world. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.” Her smile is soft. “Me getting sick has been so hard on you, and I wish I could take your hurt away. I never want to hurt you.”
“Mom.” My throat constricts.
“I want to see you happy again. I want to be happy again, even if it’s just for a little while.” Tears fill her eyes. “I’m sorry I’m hurting you.”
“You’re not doing it on purpose.” And I know she’s not. Logically, I know this isn’t even about me. It’s about her. Even if I’ve brought her to eachofher appointments, I’m not the one being filled with drugs that make me so sick I can’t get outofbed for days and days. I’m not the one suffering from radiation burns that blister and bruise.
I drag in a breath and close my eyes. She’s given me so much and never asked me for anything but this.
I can give this to her.
I can put my own feelings aside and pretend this is okay.
“All right.” I open my eyes and lean into her. “Let’s make this the best year ever.”
