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“Yeah,” I say automatically, but at the same time I feel a little itchy and squirm on the sofa.
“You never wanted to leave Whispering Creek?”
“I kind of did,” I answer with a little more defensiveness than is maybe warranted. “I have a business in Austin. I spend time there. And no…I mean, I know my five acres is nothing compared to the Duke ranch, but I love this land.” There are so many memories, and I’m close to my dad out here.
“You and Ollie. Love that land.”
“And you don’t?”
“Too many mosquitoes.” That has me snickering. The mosquitoes really do seem to love Ian’s blood type.
After saying goodnight, I open my stickered laptop to do some research. I’d meant what I said to Ian. A woman doesn’t need a man. And, as I close in on forty, the one regret I hold about my choices so far in life is that I didn’t have a child. Maybe it’s Dad’s voice speaking to me in my head, or maybe it’s the pang of missing Henry, or maybe it’s the knowledge my other child out in the pasture might leave me soon, but as I click through Aunt Nora’s article and related links, a different possible path for my future crystallizes.
ChapterSix
Ian
March Last Year
Burning eyes, sore muscles, neck pain, a dull headache, and an omnipresent bone-deep weariness plague me. The intense exhaustion weighs more heavily after eight hours of surgery. A surgery I argued against performing.
My phone rings as the powdered electrolytes float to the top of the glass of water. Mom’s face in a photo from ten years earlier flashes on the screen. Patty Duke possesses a sixth sense. All her sons swear to it.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Lots of surgeries today?”
“Why do you ask?” With one hand, I pop the Tylenol lid and shake out three tablets.
“You sound it.”
“One surgery. Eight hours.”
“Oh, my. What was it?”
“Hemipelvectomy. Cancer patient. Seventeen. Female.”
“Oh, dear. Were there complications?”
A sigh I’ve been holding on to escapes, and I rub my forehead, hoping to ease the ache.
Mom was a nurse before she had kids. She continued working after she had Sam, but by the time she had me, she worked full-time as a mother of three boys. My older brothers more or less followed in Dad’s footsteps, but Mom gave me her love of medicine. Throughout my career, she has been my sounding board. The one I go to when frustrated or defeated.
“In theory, the surgery was a success. But god, Mom. What that poor girl is going to go through? I advised against the surgery. She has an aggressive form of cancer. Less than five percent survival rate after five years. Why the fuck we did this to her…” I grind my molars, remembering my disagreement with the oncology team.
“You advised against it, but she chose to fight for her life?” Mom’s words oversimplify the case.
“I removed half her pelvic bone, Mom. Plus a leg. Think about that. Think about her rehab. She could have had maybe another year of a good life. Now, she’s got a year in hell.” Mom can complete the equation.
“But she chose it.”
It’s not that simple. “Her parents did. Based on her oncology team's advice.”Fuckers.
“Oncologists are at war. They attack cancer, especially aggressive cancer, with nuclear options. You know that.”
I exhale heavily. Mom is right. I couldn’t be an oncologist. They lose too many battles. I chose a specialty that allows me to go in, see the problem, and fix it. Almost always, I deliver a better quality of life. As a general rule, I don’t decimate lives right before death.
“But it is possible to lose sight of the big picture.” My goal isn’t to argue with my mother. I was raised better than that. But I can’t shake the vision of her mutilated body. My hands mutilated her.
