I’m scared out of my mind, though I suppose I shouldn’t be. Cancer is not unexpected. I’ve been waiting for the diagnosis for years. Still, when I felt the tenderness in my breast a month ago I passed it off as a pulled muscle from weightlifting. I tried to ignore it last week too, told myself my breasts were just swollen from my impending period. But my husband felt it too during sex the other night. He moved the lump under my skin with the tips of his fingers, clearly troubled, and I had to stop pretending.
I find out the results from my biopsy tomorrow. A part of me already knows. They said it would feel ‘uncomfortable’ getting a core sample but it hurt like hell. As I sit here in McDonalds, across from my daughter, watching her stuff fries into her angelic face, I think of our limited time together. She runs off to the play structure and I wonder if she’ll remember me when I’m gone. She’s so young. I wonder how long she’ll miss me. I can’t help crying. People will see. I hide my face, stare down at the page.
It’s not death I fear. It’s the process of dying. I watched my mother grasp at every last second with each new experimental treatment while her body and mind withered, and it was horrific. I’ll opt for chemo, even though I don’t want to. I’ll do it for my kids, model not quitting, to never give up. Show them to fight for life against all odds. I’ll lose my hair, my thick auburn waves—my one feature I’ve always been proud of. I’ll be sick and tired all the time and it’ll all be for naught, just like my mom. Six months, a year, even a few, but cancer will kill me. Once it’s manifested in the system there is no stopping it.
It’s getting crowded in here now. Moms and dads with their kids eating Happy Meals celebrating life. I sit in the corner. I can’t stop the tears. My beautiful child comes running back to our table, her cheeks flush, her expression joyful. I’m afraid to look up, look in her eyes. She senses my fear. Her expression darkens. I’ve robbed her her joy. She asks me why I’m sad. I lie and say I’m not, tell her how beautiful she is. She hesitates, then smiles. She’s flattered but it falters as my eyes fill. I’ve never been brave and I suck at pretending. I’ve let her down again.
There’s a woman staring at me. Her infant son sits on her lap trying to suck a shake up his straw. He stares too. They’re wondering what’s wrong with me. It’s more than just cancer. I can’t breathe. I can’t hold it together. I’ve never been able to hold it together.
There’s no line for the slide, I inform my daughter. She hesitates and looks at the play structure then runs off to play, lost to the moment, lost from me. I stare down and write.
I’ve never dared write about things that profoundly scare me. The written word is so concrete, like casting a possibility into reality. I’m writing it down now because it doesn’t matter. The foundation was laid years ago. The result of reckless behavior is inevitable. I knew it then. I know it now. I’m writing it down because my fear is consuming me, and I don’t want to look up.
If I have it I’ll deserve it. It’s just a reprieve if I don’t. The bullet is coming at me. No doubt about it. I’m not being fatalistic. All the years of partying, smoking, six or more Diet Cokes a day, and of course genetics. I’m a realist. Nothing happens in a vacuum. I set this up with my obsession to be thin, and in. There’s no point in pondering if it was worth it. It’s done. Live healthier now? Somewhat. But I still partake in binging and treats and other bad habits. I only know how to go too far (a la Ed Sherran).
I feel her arms around my waist but know it’s my daughter from her embrace. I melt, barely contain sobbing. I gather her hands in mine and bend to kiss them then let go. She comes around the table and sits across from me. She’s staring at me, assessing my mood. I’m afraid to hold eye contact and look past her at the happy family at the table behind her. Don’t be sad, Mom, my daughter says, and I look at her. ’Cuz I’ll love you forever.
My beautiful child, forever is not as far as it used to be, I think to say but don’t of course. I’ll love you forever, too, baby, I assure her but it feels like I’m lying. Can’t love dead. If I hold her gaze another second and I’ll won’t be able to hold it together. You finished? I ask her as I gather the detritus we’ve left on the table.
She dramatically crunches her empty bag into a ball and goes to trash it. We’ll go home tonight, snuggle in bed and read aloud together. Her first—The Magic Tree House, then we’ll listen to her older brother read Harry Potter. They’ll both go to bed tonight, sleep soundly, and tomorrow will be just another day in a long life to come. Tomorrow will change my life forever forward, even if simply a precursor to what I know is coming.
I’m scared out of my fucking mind.
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