All You Could Ask For A Novel - By Mike Greenberg Page 0,65
will come back soon, as soon as he wants, but right now I cannot talk about it anymore. And, to my surprise, he is not judgmental, he does not scold or browbeat me. There is understanding in his face, in his tone, and he calls in a nurse and instructs her to make time for tomorrow, regardless of what else needs to be postponed.
So that was today.
Tomorrow I go back. Tonight I have a babysitter downstairs with the kids. I called and asked her to spend the night, told her I think I have the flu. I wish I did. I never thought I’d wish that, but right now the flu sounds so good, so normal. I feel so far away from normal. I have no idea when I can expect to feel normal again. I want so badly to feel normal. I’ve never wanted anything more. I want yesterday, and most of today.
Can anyone here tell me how to get that?
* * *
Person2Person
From: Samantha R.
To: Brooke B.
BreastCancerForum.org
* * *
Hello Brooke, my name is Samantha.
I’m from Greenwich too. I graduated from Greenwich Academy in 2001, did you go to GA? (Could this be a more awkward introduction? I’m sorry, this is my first person-to-person.)
My situation is a little different from yours. Actually, my whole life is different from yours—I don’t have a husband or children, and I guess it’s no guarantee that I will ever have either one. What I will be having is a double mastectomy next week. My doctor says I can still have kids; the only tangible effect of my surgery will be that I won’t be able to breast-feed, and that seems like a small thing to me now. I imagine it might not seem so small if I ever get there, but right now I’m really not thinking that far ahead. I’m just focused on today, for the time being, maybe tomorrow, not much past that.
I’m not writing to you because of our shared hometown. That may be the reason I was first drawn to your entry yesterday, among the hundreds of others, but it is not the reason I read it over and over, so many times I think I could recite it from memory. It is not the reason I feel I know you, even though we’ve never met. It is not the reason I am reaching out to you now. I am actually writing to say thank you, because you made me realize the refrigerator had stopped humming. And, as it turns out, that was the single most important thing that has happened to me through this whole ordeal.
You see, I am a crier. I mean, pathetic. The way most people behave at the end of the movie Old Yeller is the way I often react to television commercials. I have been known to weep after seeing a Subaru ad. I know it’s pathetic, but I can’t help it.
Which is why it is so interesting that I didn’t even notice that I never cried over my diagnosis. I mean, I bawl over a mom choosing her breakfast cereal, but I did not shed a tear when a doctor said to me: “Samantha, you have cancer.” I didn’t cry that day, and I hadn’t cried since. Not a single, solitary time.
Until last night.
As I said, I first opened your entry because of the hometown. It was probably the fiftieth post I have read since I joined the discussion last week. All of them have moved me, inspired me, made me feel less alone. They have done what I believe we are all here to do. But none of them did for me what yours did. You made me cry, and I thank you for that.
I read John Irving too. I have just about every one of his books, and when you quoted Franny saying she wanted yesterday and most of today, I remembered it. And I remembered her. And I realized that she was exactly right, and so were you. That’s what I want, too. It’s what we all want, to wake up and have it be yesterday, before all the tests and doctors and decisions. I want to remember what I worried about yesterday. Whatever it was, I would so welcome it today.
I got into bed with my laptop and read your words over and over, and I started to cry. And suddenly it was like that moment when the refrigerator stops humming, and you realize you didn’t even know the sound