ask.
“She doesn't want to lose the house,” Dr. Purcella says. “I don’t know what's going to happen, but I can make you one promise. If you don’t make her go through with this treatment, she is going to die. I tried to explain this to her already. I tried to tell her that her life is more important than a house, but she doesn't seem to understand that.”
“I wish I’d known about this earlier," I say.
Dr. Purcella shrugs.
“I wish I could have reached out to you, but I'm her doctor and our conversations are privileged. However, now that she is unconscious and you are her next of kin, I am telling you this because I hope that you can help me save her life.”
After Dr. Purcella leaves, I wander around the waiting room for a long time.
It looks as if I'm trying to decide something but in reality, I'm just trying to figure out a way to convince my mother to let me help her.
I realize the risks with the treatment.
Nothing is guaranteed.
But when I look up Dr. Purcella online and research the treatment that she recommended I have hope.
Unfortunately, it is very expensive and experimental. Insurance companies don't want to cover it because there are no guarantees.
But there's no guarantees with radiation and chemotherapy either.
Apparently, my mother has known about this for weeks and did not bother to tell me. We have talked on the phone many times and still she kept this from me.
Now, I realize why she looked so tired and worn out when I finally saw her in person after all this time. The cancer is eating away at her and she's doing nothing to help herself.
A few hours later, the nurses tell me that I can go in and talk to her. I'm supposed to stay calm and not excite her but all I wanna do is wrap my hands around her shoulders and shake her as hard as I can.
“How are you doing?” I ask, walking into her room cautiously.
She opens her eyes a little bit, looks at me, and closes them again. I just sit down next to her and place her hand in mine. The room smells like antiseptic.
Everything is clean and sterile, which is a good thing, but it's also lacking humanity. My mother is attached to machines that are helping her breathe and taking away her pain, and I just hope that science is enough to keep her with me for years to come.
I sit with her for a few hours until she finally comes back to me. Her skin is sallow and her eyes look vacant.
Her mouth is dry and her lips are chapped. I bring her a cup of water, and she sits up a little to take it in.
I want to ask her how she's feeling, but I am afraid of the answer.
“I'm sorry I didn't tell you,” she says, shaking her head. “I'm so embarrassed.”
These words are difficult for her to say so I tap her hand to tell her to stop, but she keeps going.
“It’s fine,” I say quietly. Of course, it’s not but now is not the right time to talk about it. “You need to get treatment.”
“No, I can't. I'm going to lose the house. It's too expensive.”
“I don't care, it's just money.”
"Money is everything," she says.
“No," I say sternly, looking straight into her eyes. “Money is a way to get something. I'm not going to lose you over something as stupid as a house.”
She starts to say something else, but I press my finger to her lips and stop her.
“I know that you have worked really hard for that house and it means everything to you. But to me, it's nothing but a house. I'd rather have my mother in my life than that piece of property.”
“And what will happen after we lose the house?" she asks.
23
Henry
I don’t know what my mom is talking about and stare, waiting for her to explain.
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
“I only have the house,” she says quietly. “I don't have anything beyond that. If I start this treatment, then I won't be able to work. I won't have an income coming in. What's going to happen then?”
"I don't want you to worry about any of that,” I say, squeezing her hand. “You have taken care of enough, now it's my turn."
“But you can’t afford it,” she says, shaking her head.
I swallow hard.
She's right. I don't make very much money. I mean, I make enough