Page 6 of Tell Me I'm Enough

“It’s okay, baby,” she says, placing her cold hand on my cheek. “Don’t be scared. I’m okay.”

“You’re not okay,” I tell her, almost crying now. “I need to call—”

“Call 9-1-1…they’ll know what to do. I don’t think…that I can drive.”

I nod fast and dial 9-1-1.

I don’t even know what to tell them. I just know I need her to be okay.

2

Mason

I keep the cartoon coloring book the nurse handed me on my lap, untouched.

I’m eleven, not five.

I just stare down at my shoes instead.

The doctor’s office feels too small for the amount of people in here, and it’s freezing. I wish I had worn a jacket this morning. We had to come straight here after I got out of school, so we didn’t have time to stop by the house to pick one up—or for Dad and me to stay at home, like I’m sure he would have preferred.

The paper on the table crinkles every time Mom moves, and I can tell she’s nervous, even when she won’t say it.

She smiles a lot less lately, and I hate it. She’s so weak and has had a hard time doing normal things, like cooking, cleaning, or playing like we normally do. I wish someone could fix it for her, but they still haven’t told her what’s wrong.

I hope they will today. I hopesomeonewill tell ussomethingso they can make it better.

Dad sits next to me in one of the chairs with his phone on his lap. It’s not on, but he’s staring at it so hard you’d think he was waiting for the most important call of his life to come through. He won’t look at her…or me.

When the doctor comes in, my mom perks up, ready to talk to him. My dad doesn’t even budge; he just keeps his head down, even as the doctor tries to shake his hand and introduce himself.

I don’t understand why he has to be so mean to people.

After he asks my mom a couple more questions to get to know what she’s been dealing with since the last time he saw her, he starts saying words that sound really big and medical, and I don’t know what any of them mean—“Neuromuscular.” “Motor neuron.” “Progressive.”

When he says ALS, my mom almost doubles over, crying. I instantly get up and go to her side, putting my hand on her back. She just pulls me into a hug, and I can feel the tears soaking through my shirt.

I turn my head to look at my dad, and he’s just sitting there, staring at us. I don’t know if he’s just as confused as I am, or if he just doesn’t care. Maybe both.

ALS? I’ve never heard of that before. It doesn’t…sound scary? Cancer is the big bad word, right? That’s the one that means you’re gonna die.

The doctor tries to explain more as my mom sits back up, and I don’t leave her side. I keep holding one of her hands while her other hand grips the paper under her. The doctor draws a simple picture as he explains everything—the brain, the spine, and the muscles—then shows how the signals get lost. He compares it to wires messing up, like the lights that go from her brain to her body are starting not to work anymore.

When he starts talking about how it will affect her breathing, swallowing, and all the normal things she should be able to do, I start to realize this might be serious…like the C-word serious. But it doesn’t fully hit me until I hear my dad finally speak.

“How long?” he asks without even raising his head.

The doctor hesitates before turning back to my mom, taking her hand, and apologizing before saying, “Everyone is different. Two to five years is most common, though. We’ll build you a care team. We’ll also talk about support and therapy and comfort.”

My mom goes quiet, like she ran out of questions…or like there are no questions she can ask to make any of this better.

I feel tears run down my cheeks and try to wipe them before my dad sees them and yells at me in front of the doctor. My mom catches them, though. She always does. She runs her fingers down my cheeks and then holds my face in her hands, turning me to look at her as she mouths the wordsI love you. I just nod and try to pull myself together, like I always do…like I’m supposed to.

My mom is going to die?

She’s not even old yet. I don’t understand what any of this means. I’m so confused, and I don’t want any of it to be real. She was fine a couple of months ago. It doesn’t make any sense.

Without thinking, I run out of the room.