My mom has been in the hospital for a few days, and I haven’t left her room except to go home and pack some more clothes, come right back. The doctors have told us nothing will happen over the weekend, they’ll just keep her comfortable, and on Monday when the doctors are on their regular schedules, they’ll do an MRI, some more tests, probably make a diagnosis. “Sit tight,” they said. “We’ll know more on Monday.”
My sister-in-law, a nurse, has gently urged me several times to take a break, get some fresh air, go home and rest. She has been monitoring an outbreak of hives on my arms, my body’s anxious and aggressive reaction to the situation. But I had refused to leave. Today, around one o’clock Saturday afternoon, we’re cleaning up our paper wrappers from another hospital cafeteria meal, when my Dad kicks us out. “Go home,” he says. “I need some time alone with her.” Mom is sleeping, now accustomed to our constant chattering voices as she drifts in and out.
“But what if -”
“No,” he says. “Nothing is changing. You heard the doctor. Nothing ‘til Monday. Go spend the afternoon outside, get your minds cleared.” He nods to my brother and his wife, “Go hug your daughters, play with them.” And to me and my husband, John: “Get some air. Take your mind off this. You need to find a way to calm down. Go somewhere.” We all nod as if we are still toddlers and he has sent us to our rooms. We have our orders, he is right, we know. Nothing is changing today.
In the car on the way home, John asks me what I want to do. “I don’t know,” I say. “But I don’t want to sit at home. That won’t do me any good. My dad is right. Where could we go for the afternoon?”
My friend April texts me, checking on my mom, says she’s heading to the Maryland Renaissance Festival for the afternoon. I ask her if we can share her Uber and tag along, explain my dad wanted time alone with Mom, that I am supposed to “get my mind off things.” Of course, she tells us, and an hour later, I’ve covered the bumpy, red skin on my arms with a denim jacket and placed a floral wreath crown atop my head, letting its purple and pink ribbons cascade down my back. I take a quick glance in the mirror before we walk out the front door, and all I see is my mother’s face looking back at me. She looks pretty. She looks like she feels guilty for leaving the hospital. I decide I’ll take the floral wreath to the hospital later tonight, give it to her, brighten up the room a bit. I toss sunglasses on to hide my tired, bleary, guilty eyes and head out.
At the festival, we wander around in the breezy fall air with sunshine peeking through the trees, April in her jingle skirt and me with my flower wreath and ribbons. John and April eat turkey legs, and we sample various things on sticks – mac-n-cheese on a stick, cheesecake on a stick. April and I sip on Bee Stings, drinks that are half cider/half mead, and John has an Oktoberfest beer. There are fall leaves of reds and oranges covering the mulch on the ground, sweet girls are spinning dizzily in their princess dresses, letting themselves topple to the ground in heaps of giggles, while boys duel with toy wooden swords. Families take elephant rides together, and the air is full of bubbles that seem to be made of rainbows. It’s beautiful. Everything feels okay.
We cozy up to a table, sipping our Bee Stings and beers. We sit for a bit and watch a Scottish band play drums and bagpipes, I can barely hear John or April over the sounds of the crowd, but that’s okay, we don’t need to talk. I remember the hives and check my arms – they’re still there, but they’ve stopped spreading, stopped itching. The people watching is the best entertainment here and I’m laughing, my shoulders finally relaxing, as we comment on the outfits or lack thereof, the pushed-up corsets and chain-mail costumes, the shenanigans. I have succeeded, I have taken my mind off things.
My phone rings. It’s my dad. I scoop the phone up off the table, run away from the crowd, our friend, John, the music, the laughter. I answer, press my hand against my left ear, can’t hear what he’s saying. I sprint past a tavern, through a line of people waiting for more Bee Stings, past a group of kids playing a dice game, and a tightrope walker. “Dad? Hang on,” I’m saying as I move through the crowd. Finally I can hear him.
“You should come,” he says. I remember him saying something like this twelve years ago, when we got the call about my older brother, over a week into his coma. We should go, he’d said that time; we had all been at the house together. And that night my brother had died. “You should come,” he repeats.
“I’ll come, I’m coming. What’s happening?” He says there is news, a diagnosis, something about decisions that I can’t make out. “What decisions?” I cry out. I can’t hear him. I feel a buzzing in my head, I feel dizzy like the little girls spinning in their dresses. “Dad, did you make a decision? Are you saying you made a decision? Or we have to make a decision? About what?” I can’t hear him, he’s talking but it’s muffled. “I’m coming. I’ll call you in five minutes,” I say.
I run back to the table, grab John’s arm. “We have to go,” I say. “Okay,” he says, doesn’t ask questions. I don’t wait, I turn and I’m walking as fast as I can through the crowds, past the stages and the dress shops, and the axe throwers, the sword swallowers, and the glass blowers. I know John and April are behind me and as soon as we go under the decorative castle gates that mark the entrance/exit, I’m on the phone, calling my dad as we weave in and out through the cars parked in the field, making our way up to the road. John and April have called for an Uber and we’re standing by the main road while I call my dad. He answers on the first ring.
“It’s stage four lung cancer,” he blurts out when he answers. I shouldn’t be surprised, I knew it had to be this bad, but I can’t breathe. It’s real. It’s bad. I don’t know what all the stages of cancer are, but I know four is bad. Is it the highest? Is it the worst? I see John and April watching me, see April wipe tears from her eyes. Although she can’t hear what my dad is saying, she must see it on my face.
He says, “Don’t rush, take your time, get yourself together. Nothing has changed. I just want you to be here, we have to talk.” I ask him what decisions he is talking about. He takes a deep breath, so loud I can hear it, in… and out. “They asked if we want to resuscitate, if it comes to that. I want to talk to you and your brother together, okay?” I nod because if I open my mouth, I don’t know what awful sound might escape my lips. But he can’t see me nodding. I thought we were going to have years, or months, or even days. She hasn’t even had a chance to talk about chemo yet. Isn’t that what should happen next, months or years of treatments, a chance at beating it? Why are we talking about resuscitating now? I was just taking a break for a few hours. She was just blowing kisses. She was just smiling. Nothing was changing. They told us to sit tight.
“I’m coming,” I manage to say to my father. I hang up, April hugs me, and John is rubbing my back. I tell them the diagnosis, relay what my dad said, the decision ahead of us. We have to decide whether to resuscitate. Why would they even ask us that so soon, I ask them, we were just talking to her, she’s okay. She will be okay. I can see from the pained looks on their faces that they don’t want to say it, but maybe it’s not okay. Maybe she won’t be okay. And then I remember how foolish I felt after my older brother died when I’d been telling everyone, well it’s not really a coma. He just hasn’t woken up yet. But he will. He’ll wake up.
The Uber driver arrives and April sits up front, John and I in the back. I scoot down in the seat so the driver can’t see me in his rearview mirror, my arms are around my chest, and I’m sobbing the quietest cry of my life. The driver makes small talk and April and John chat with him to appease him, let me have my time, let me break down. John reaches over to take my hand now and then, rub my leg. But I’m curled up in the corner, trying to make myself invisible. I think the driver knows I’m crying, is just pretending not to notice. He probably thinks I am drunk, that we got in a silly fight.
The ride feels like hours, I just want to be there at the hospital, but I also know I need to let this out, get it together, before I can help my dad make a decision. I take out my phone, and text my younger brother about what my dad has said. When I type the word “resuscitate” I spell it wrong, which I never do, my friends joke how annoying it is that I always spell everything right. My fingers are wet, slippery, smeared with tears I’ve wiped from my face. When I spell it wrong, my phone gives me options and I click to try and replace the typo with the right spelling but instead I have accidentally opened a Thesaurus-like tool, listing alternatives: Save. Bring back to life. Revive. Give artificial respiration to. Resurrect. Renaissance.
