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My throat and eyes burn a blazing fire that I can’t put out. But I fight it as best I can, not wanting to break apart in here, in front of her.
My ears seem to be working again as I hear the doctor say, “There we go. Slow exhale and repeat.”
I focus on my breathing, trying to block everything else out. I exhale, counting in my mind for eight seconds, then expelling it.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.
Although I’m still quivering, I can feel my breathing beginning to even out. But the second I shift my focus back to the doctor, I feel like all progress I made goes out of the door.
“Fuck!” I whisper-shout, needing a release before I explode. I can’t do this. My head snaps up to the doctor, and I immediately apologize, slightly embarrassed at my outburst. “I’m sorry.”
She smiles kindly with pity in her eyes, which stings more than I’d like. “Don’t apologize, please. I understand.”
“I’m guessing this isn’t the part where you say just kidding?” My voice begins to tremble, and a lump forms in my throat. I scoff at how ridiculous that probably sounded.
She sits forward in her chair, smiles softly, and says, “I wish that were the case. But I think that would probably be deemed unethical if I told patients fake test results.”
A haunting chuckle leaves my throat, and I do my best to hold the pooling tears in my eyes from falling down my cheeks. Taking another shaky breath, I exhale, and my body seems to cool. For just a split second, my mind zones out.
The sadness and anguish coursing through me quickly boils into anger, and my fists clench in my lap. This isn’t fair! How is this even real right now?
The audacity of cancer to strike both my mom and me nearly identically is almost humorous, in the darkest of ways. In a fucked-up way, I feel close to her again. But that is the smallest sliver of a silver lining.
I know logically that cancer can be treated. There are options to help eradicate it, options to heal you. But I also know that my mom’s cancer was Stage 2. They caught it fairly early before it spread too far. They did all of the best treatments. But it didn’t matter; it took her anyway. And now, it’s come to take me too.
My doctor’s calm voice pulls me from the spiral of dread building in my chest. “We are going to want to start treatment right away. I know this is a lot to process. It’s overwhelming and scary. But I will walk you through everything every step of the way.”
She attempts to assure me and calm me down. I know it’s not her fault. I know she didn’t give me cancer. She is simply the messenger, but I can’t help but shoot her anyway.
“How soon is right away?” I snap, immediately checking myself back into my lane. “Sorry.”
Take another deep breath.
She glances at the floor and back up, meeting my gaze with another soft and friendly look, saying, “Monday.”
“Monday?!” I shout. “It’s Friday.”
“I know. But the sooner we begin the treatment, the better the chances are at ridding your body of it. You would have your port installed and them immediately begin your first treatment.” She reaches into her desk and pulls out two folders full of papers before continuing, “I have some reading material here for you. Please read through most of this prior to Monday. The nursing staff will help explain more on Monday as you begin your first round of chemotherapy and answer any of your questions. What does your schedule look like on Monday? You are going to want to take about ten days off from work and any activities to rest and recover after your first time.”
Gulping, I try to remember everything she said, but I can still only focus on one word—Monday.
I have three days to tell Laura I am going to need time off of work. Three days to get myself mentally ready to start this. Three days to tell Reed—
Oh God, no … not Reed.
Mustering all my strength, I block everything out. All my worry, grief, and anger.
“What time on Monday?” I force the question out, biting the inside of my cheek hard enough to break the skin.
“Would one in the afternoon work?” she asks, typing into her computer.
“Yes. One p.m. Got it.” The words taste like acid.
I am just going to pretend this is some weird role-play with an oncologist. I don’t have cancer. I’m not sick. I don’t have to tell Laura, or Reed, or anyone. I am in one long role-play.
Eventually, everything will be back to normal. I can do that. I can pretend. Right now, I think that’s the only way I’m going to get through this.
“Okay. Got you down here. Please read through what you can this weekend.” She pulls out another slip of paper and adds it into my pile. “This will give you all the instructions you need to find the treatment center. But if you have any issues or questions, you can call the number in the top-left corner.”
