Cancer

 Quote: "The thing about family disasters is that you never have to wait long before the next one puts the previous in perspective." -Robert Brault

I’d woken up in a friend’s apartment, laughing as we recounted a drunken night. We casually lounge around, watching Boy Meets World reruns. I don’t have any plans that day. Maybe we’ll go to a movie. My phone rings and my father’s name comes up on the caller ID.

I’m rushing after we get off the phone. Throwing on clothes. Casually mentioned that he said I needed to come home. He was crying. My aunt is in the hospital. My cousin Leanne will need me.

He will reveal nothing else. I catch myself driving 90 miles per hour on the parkway.

My house is empty when I arrive, throwing me for a loop. I’ve barely entered but the phone is already pressed hard against my ear. My voice is cracking as I attempt to speak. Tears blur my vision as soon as I croak out a word. My father is telling me I need to be strong but I’m spinning. 

Hours go by and I’m entering a hospital room, where my mom has been since early morning. I’m remembering the way my aunt had stopped talking, mid sentence earlier in the week. She’d forgotten what she was saying. "You’re scaring me Dor," I’d said, laughing. Then there was the time she’d asked what time my sister was going to program. I’d known she meant practice. Then I’m remembering the awkward silence, one we’d never had before. She was looking at me, but not saying anything. In 22 years, that’s never happened. 

I’d laughed it off, chalked it up to age. Except, mid fifties is still young isn’t it? Much too young for a brain tumor.

I cry as soon as I walk in the room. The tumor is putting pressure on the brain, making it hard for her to put words together. She can’t remember the name of the president. My eyes are filled with water for the next 8 hours.

There has to be surgery. There’s a spot on the lung. Primary. Secondary. Pressure. A brain tumor the size of an orange.

I want to wake up.

4 days later I arrive at the hospital, the time at 6am. I sit with Dor and Leanne in the hospital room. The surgery has been postponed a few hours. We’re making small talk. Steroids are helping the swelling go down, it’s almost normal again. Except we’re in a hospital room and I’ve never seen any of us in this setting. She’s surrounded by nieces and nephews, some of whom have come out of state, other’s from out of the country to be here. To support her before the surgery. I’m happy to have them here, I wanted us all together again. I missed them and the truth is there’s as much laughter as there are tears.

A nurse enters and tells us its time to prep for surgery. Earlier than we’d expected. The blood pressure monitor begins to beep, adding a sense of urgency to the movements of the doctor’s and nurses. Leanne turns away from her mother, to collect herself. Grace under pressure. "I’m fine, I’m ready." My aunt says, laying back after giving me a hug. I catch Leanne’s eyes as I leave, tears falling. I mouth "it will be ok" and I give her a thumbs up, except I’m crying too. She nods and I leave the room, the monitor beeping, scared and sad.

There are so many of us the nurses give us our own waiting room. Hours go by and Leanne and her father are ushered off to speak with the doctor. When they return, there are 17 of us standing in the hall, desperate for news. I cry again when we find out that 99% of the tumor was removed and he doesn’t predict complications from surgery. At this point, I’m amazed my body can still produce tears.

2 days later she is home. But there are rules. For now we have to talk one at a time, if there are multiple people in the room. She can’t be alone. We can’t overwhelm the brain. Be careful on stairs. But there are miraculously no complications. 

I find Leanne crying in the living room, a few hours before she’s supposed to go back to being a regular college student in Philadelphia. My arm instinctively goes around her and she sobs. I stare at a picture of her from high school, she’s wearing a cheerleading uniform and smiling big. I want her college experience to be like mine. I want her to have a normal 21st birthday. I want her to not be scared everytime the phone rings. I want us to wake up.

There is a long road ahead. That’s what they tell me. Radiation and chemo and prayers. But it will be done. Cancer’s ass will be kicked. There is no other option.