Hell: Take 2

Hell: Take 2


“You don’t understand,” she said. “People die from this.”
I heard a creak as I sat back in the old wooden chair in front of my computer desk. My head was down but out of the corner of my eye I could see my mother standing wide-eyed and somber across the room, the phone still clenched between her trembling fingers. My mind was racing and yet I couldn’t piece together a single thought. Had I heard her right? Was this really happening?
I wanted to comfort her, to run over and hug her and tell her everything would be alright. I wanted to tell her that whatever happened I would be here for her, and that we’d get through this together, but I knew I couldn’t. As awkward as the silence felt, any interaction between me and my mother would only make things worse. Too much had happened. We hadn’t hugged in years. Not since Dad left.
As she lowered the phone from her ear I frantically tried to turn my focus to anything but reality. My nails scratched at my seat, dropping little flakes of white paint onto the grey shag carpet that covered the floor of my family room. I stared at the blank computer screen, wishing for something to grab my attention.

Nothing.

I glanced to my left at the television, silently praying for anything to distract me from this nightmare.

No luck.

I forced myself to look into my mother’s eyes. I could tell she was trying not to cry but despite her greatest efforts the smallest tear rolled down her cheek and fell to the carpet. The tiny sound that came when she placed the phone back on my desk seemed to boom in the silence that had come over the house that was usually thriving with the laughter and screams of my little brothers. Kevin and Anthony were both away for the weekend, and I was glad. At 9 and 13 years old, I knew neither of them would understand. I didn’t even understand.
Cancer is defined as “any of various malignant neoplasms characterized by the proliferation of anaplastic cells that tend to invade surrounding tissue and metastasize to new body sites,” but only one word came to my mind: hell.
“Don’t most people live through this?” I asked, trying to lighten the mood. I noticed my hands shaking slightly and my heart was beating hard enough to jump right out of my chest. “They have treatments, right?”
“Yeah, Kate,” my mother replied, trying to smile through the tears. “They have treatments.”
I sat in shock while she called her boss to say that she wouldn’t be coming into work tomorrow. Her voice was shaky and her teeth chattered as if she were outside in freezing weather without a coat. I had a hard time believing that her boss couldn’t tell something was wrong. As she placed the phone back on the base and sunk into the soft blue sofa, I snapped back to reality. I couldn’t ignore the facts anymore. This was happening. To my family. To me.
Again.
The wrinkling of my mother’s forehead when she cried made her look much older than 44. She stopped trying to hold back now and streams of water poured from her deep-set brown eyes giving the couch little dark spots, like the sidewalk at the beginning of a rainstorm. Her mascara smeared down to her cheekbones and her tears began to run black with her eyeliner. The room felt dark and cold despite the sunlight shining in through the sliding glass door just yards away. I stared silently as my mother clenched her hands into a fist and shook her head rapidly as if doing so would disprove this terrible news.
The date was June, 2004 and just two years had passed since this had happened to our family before. I hadn’t understood then and I didn’t understand now how a little lump could kill someone. Sure, in the lungs is a different story. Besides, Dad smoked…there was a reason for his cancer. And, as much as I hate to admit, a reason for his death.
“Mom, why do people get breast cancer?” I asked, after another long awkward silence. I felt childish asking such a question, but I really didn’t know. Though I was looking into my mother’s eyes, I was speaking not so much to her as to God. Why her? Why me?
“I don’t know,” she replied harshly, no longer trying to smile. She didn’t even turn her head to speak to me. My mother had passed the stages of shock and sadness and moved onto anger. Anger toward me. Anger toward the doctors. Anger toward herself.
In the next five minutes, this anger escalated into arguing and ridiculous accusations.
I was unsure exactly how to react. Should I defend myself? What right did she have to make me feel guilty for her cancer? Why should I sit there quietly while she told me that I was to blame?
Or should I feel sorry for her and let this go?
The walk up the flight of stairs into my bathroom seemed to take hours, though when I looked at the digital clock near the sink less than 2 minutes had passed. I stared at the worn-out, red-faced, tear-drenched image in the mirror. Her dark reddish-brown hair was frizzy and tangled and her eyes watery and bloodshot. I watched silently as she opened the drawer to the left of the sink and reached for the shiny, silver razorblade that had brought her comfort so many times before. It was like this every time—like an out-of-body experience. With the first drop of blood I saw a twisted, miserable half-smile begin to form on the little red-haired girl in the mirror.
I knew that in the back of my mind I’d been waiting for something like this to happen…something that would change her.
“What the hell is the matter with me?” I thought, disgusted in myself but still unable to shake the feeling. Maybe things would be different now. Maybe she’d try to be a better person. They’d told her as little as 6 months…maybe she would try to turn her life around. Turn my life around. Maybe this would be the last time I would need to escape from her like this.
I had never been more wrong.