even if i am. (13 page)
Authors: Chasity Glass
chapter twenty-seven
in the deep
“I’ve spent the morning on the phone with the hospital and Blue Cross. It looks pretty shitty.”
“How shitty?”
“The surgeon is out of my network plans and won’t be covered. I’m submitting my appeal to Blue Cross via fax this morning, but it looks like I’ll be paying $40,000 out of pocket. Up front? Fuck. Honestly, I kind of expected all of this, so it’s not hitting me as a surprise, just more of a disappointment. I should have handled this whole mess earlier rather than waiting until the week of surgery. I thought I had reformed my procrastinating ways… talked to my mom yesterday and she said she was bringing the home equity checkbook. I should call her again before she gets on the plane to prepare her for what’s coming.”
“I’m so sorry, babe. Is there anything I can do?”
“No. I just need to get this letter out. Dinner with my mom should be fun tonight. Right?”
…
Men worship their mothers. Studying Freud in college convinced me and the rest of the human race of such basics. The Oedipus complex: the desire to possess the parent of the opposite sex. So, it came as no surprise when you raved about your mother. That’s what sons do. They hold in high regard. And when you told me your mother was beautiful, I figured every son says that about his mother.
But your mother was absolutely dazzling. Her hair perfectly straight, thick stunning shades of grey. The top half pulled back to reveal her strong features. High cheekbones, powerful eyes, perfect lips, a soft glow off her skin shimmering twenty years younger than her age. She didn’t need make-up to show off her beauty. Make-up would have only distracted. I couldn’t stop staring at her during dinner. I should have guessed her voice to be persuasive, soothing; she’s a therapist who works with children.
I was nervous. I said very little as the two of you talked about health, strength, surgeon, fees, and procedures. You turned boyish in your mother’s presence. I tried to interrupt, give my opinion when necessary and seem useful. It came across aggressive. Then I complimented the taste of my pork chop just to say something. You looked at me funny. What? It was my first time meeting her, and it was under unusual circumstances. I wondered how many other girlfriends met your mother.
“Mmm, this pork chop is delicious. Would you like to try a bite?” I actually offered her a bite of my pork chop.
From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Sent:
Wednesday, November 16, 9:56 a.m.
Subject:
and so
it is becoming late in the afternoon,
and the sun is setting lower in the sky,
lower than it should for this time of the day,
but i guess that’s the kind of light
and the kind of feeling
this time of year brings.
i know i must be feeling overwhelmed
because all i want to do is fall asleep,
and wake up when everything is as it was
instead of as it is.
at times,
i see this all as a good thing,
as life-saving.
i think about what this could have become
had i gone untreated.
other times,
i can’t help but feel frustrated with myself,
for not catching this sooner,
and think about how i could have prevented
everything that’s happening right now.
i think about the first incision,
and feel like i will be forever altered,
damaged, changed.
people lose limbs.
lose organs.
lose lives.
i am losing a part of my body.
a bad part.
i need to remember that.
this is a beginning,
not an end.
and you.
are you crying yet, reading this?
i don’t know how to describe
the way i feel with/for you right now,
and i know i’ve thanked you
for being as close and strong
as you’ve been with me
through this entire fucking mess,
but i don’t think you really understand.
after covering the entire emotional gamut
over the past nine months,
i don’t quite know how we’ve landed
in the soft and secure place we’re in right now,
but i am so happy that we have.
it feels like we’re fulfilling what we both saw
at the very beginning.
christ, is this melodramatic?
okay, i’ve got a ton to do,
and you just sent me a sweet text…
cuddle.
yes, the thought of it makes me smile.
i will call you soon.
and will see you shortly thereafter.
i love you.
"In The Deep"
The Velvet Hour
…
I was trying to put on a brave face. This stupid, lame thought kept creeping in, wondering if I’d ever see you again. I wasn’t ready to lose you to cancer. The idea was so overwhelming sad. It’s just a simple surgery. I tried convincing myself.
Maybe I wasn’t your mother’s favorite, and maybe I was trying too hard for her to like me, but I was thankful for her presence. “Can I make you some tea?” I asked, because I didn’t know what else to do. She was such a great source of relief, and I felt useless.
From:
[email protected]
To:
friends
Sent:
Wednesday, November 16, 2:01 p.m.
Subject:
real quick
you’re all fucking amazing,
and the support and love i have felt
for the last couple of weeks,
and especially the last couple of days
has quite simply been stunning.
thank you. all.
(especially york and julie for sponsoring saturday night.)
going in tomorrow morning at 9 a.m., surgery at 11 a.m.
and as much as i would love to see you all
while in a delirious, drug-induced state,
i won’t be up for visitors until the weekend.
so save your love until then.
and then bring it.
and give me a sponge bath with it…
yum.
below is the link for the hospital/department,
and if you have any questions about my condition
or are planning to come by to visit,
please call chas’s cellphone.
chapter twenty-eight
what sarah said
Cutting across a lonely patch of the 405 as freeway traffic steered south, Death Cab for Cutie sang “What Sarah Said.” Your mother stared out the passenger seat window. Our thoughts were miles apart but on the same subject: surgery. Sun lit her reflection and cast a mirrored image in the window, as perfect and poised as the original. She was graceful, calm, present. Or at least that’s how she appeared. I resented her for it, and resented her self-control.
All the times I thought this whole thing through, I never thought I’d be edgy and panicked on the day of surgery. After all, we planned this like a vacation. I thought I’d be as calm as your mother — or even that our roles would be reversed.
Hours felt like months. Being a passenger lulled me as I focused on the back of your head. I could have counted each hair. I needed someone to shake me before I went mad trying to compose myself. I hated the back seat. The back seat felt like rejection. I needed you to engage in conversation, to distract me, love me. The uncertainty of you having surgery held this tragic punch. Why? I don’t know. I’ve never even used the word colorectal until now.
I did the only thing I could. I searched for God. Everywhere. I looked for key words in the patterned fabric of the back seat. I closed my eyes, squinted as if He might appear when I wasn’t looking. I listened for a voice in the hum of traffic. I looked for Him in the SUVs and sedans that passed. I fantasized God (bare chest and crown of thorns) driving a blue Ford pickup, singing along to Bob Dylan, smiling, giving me the thumbs up as we rolled alongside. I looked for Him in every vehicle, even the BMW convertible I knew He’d never drive. I believed. Maybe not in the stories and biblical sense of God, but I believed in the power and love of something greater than good, something greater than us. When I was six I named God. My mother informed me that God “was the grandfather of all people.” I had a friend in Kindergarten who called her grandfather Poppy, and she told me she loved him very much. That Christmas, Santa Claus left me a white teddy bear with a red bow. I named him “Poppy,” after God. Poppy the Bear watched over me. Even at age six I felt safe with God, and I believed Poppy was my guardian. And this very moment, in the backseat, I prayed to Poppy again for help.
I rolled down the window to breathe Him in. I looked for Poppy in the air. Not a blink, not a breath, not a sigh of relief. I looked for Him on the beam of light through the window. He wasn’t sitting on it. I rested my forehead on the back of the driver’s seat, collecting my thoughts, praying as I picked at my cuticles.
Your one arm was steering, and the other grabbed my leg and shook it. “Babe, you want to listen to Death Cab with me?” The simple shake took everything I had. I turned my tears to the passing cars — where the hell is that blue Ford? — as you turned up the radio to let me cry in secret.
…
Valet service?
“It makes patients feel comfortable, gives them one less thing to think about,” the man in black explained as he opened the car door. I lingered. My eyes fixed on the massive structure. I couldn’t define where it began and where it ended. Your hand felt for mine, and drew me forward into the hospital.
We received nametags, badges for parking, and paperwork, and then assembled in the carpeted corner of the waiting room. Plants and fish aquariums, brochures, magazines, even lamps — lest the hospital feel too homey, framing us were an office door marked Admitting and a large window labeled Cashier.
I don’t know who was more thankful, you or I, as your mother filled in the blanks, writing names, social security numbers, and previous health issues. Your hand shook in mine. On the wall across from us was the hospital logo, hands opened with palms facing up. Underneath were the words, “We will raise you up on eagle wings.” A lump formed in my throat. By the time I read “wings” I could hardly swallow. I didn’t know what to say as you squeezed my hand tighter, my knuckles white.
Your mother gave you the pen. You signed your name. She handed over a check from the home equity checkbook. The cashier directed you to level four for anesthesia.
…
When you were six, your mother planned a family hike along the Tacoma River. She packed a picnic lunch with peanut butter and honey sandwiches, carrots and juice boxes. The plan was to hike down to the river, eat lunch, and hike back. Her boys could enjoy the sunny afternoon, investigate animal tracks, and dip their feet in the cool water.
I’ve heard the story a hundred times, and even seen pictures, but the first time I heard the story was in the holding area before surgery. You seemed to be as frightened as a boy lost in the woods, only this time you were wearing a blue gown, hair net, IV, and blankets. Even so, you stayed amused at your mother’s adaptation of the story, and snickered along with her description of being lost with her three boys in the woods. You’d interrupt with details, specifying which brother took the wrong turn. Every time the story is told, the blame gets passed around. Maybe your mother was so relaxed because she worked in a hospital, but in any case, her voice and her expressions remained soft and light.
The nurse came in and asked standard questions; name, birth date, what sort of surgery you were having, your doctor’s name, and then someone from the lab came by to draw blood. Your mother continued the lost woods story until the anesthesia put you to sleep.
…
I paced while your mother read. She and I said very little to each other in the waiting room. The air reeked of Purell, burnt coffee, and nervous sweat. I rationed my breath. I stared at my shoes, unlaced them, and then tied them tighter. I read a mystery that didn’t make any sense — mostly because I kept losing track of the characters and plotline. I stared at words on a page. The same page. Waiting. Waiting.
Two hours passed. I thought, I need a little help here Poppy. Tell me he’s all right. They had free coffee in the waiting room and I loaded up on a little more than healthy. I drank tea and water. The TV entertained itself, an effortless hum, flickering orange light against families waiting. A woman was summoned by a doctor into the hallway for privacy as I scrutinized the clock. Surely we’d be next. Three hours passed. I was driving your mother nuts. I could literally hear her thinking, for God’s sake, woman, would you sit down and relax. I waited for the doctor to enter. I stared at the vending machine imagining the taste of each item within. I planned our future, named children. Prayed. Paced. Picked up my book, put it down.
The doctor came in. There was only your mother and I waiting.
“Mrs. Glass?” We both stood. “Anthony is out of surgery, and everything went well, textbook in fact. There were additional lymph nodes that needed to be removed thus taking a bit longer, but we’re confident we removed the existing tumor…”
