He shakes his head and frowns. “She’s never going to be able to make it up a flight of stairs, let alone five flights, after her chemo treatments. You really need to do something about your living arrangements.”
I laugh but it’s a hollow, ugly sound because nothing about today is funny. “I’ll get right on that.”
“I know times are tough for you and Sophie, but I’m serious.” He shifts on his feet and clicks his pen a couple of times. “Maybe you can talk to public housing assistance. I don’t know how that works but perhaps there’s some kind of exigent circumstances clause. I’m giving you a handicapped worksheet for Sophie. Use it.”
There’s no point in telling Dr. Chen we’re broke. From the look of his Hermes tie and his hand stitched Italian loafers, he’d think that meant shopping at Macy’s and carrying your own bags instead of having Barney’s deliver your purchases to Ralph, your doorman.
“I’ll go down to the City Housing Authority tomorrow,” I promise and tuck the doctor’s handicapped note into my backpack.
“She’ll beat this,” Dr. Chen says and pats me on the back. “Don’t let her get down. You need to be the voice of optimism at all times. Mental wellbeing is as important as physical wellbeing.”
WE CATCH THE BUS BECAUSE the subway stop is too far away. Mom is swaying and looks exhausted even though she doesn’t start treatment until Monday. The mere thought of IV drips, surgery for ports, and long needles constantly stuck into your most painful places is crushing. I want to pick her up and carry her the short distance to the bus stop, but I know better.
“We should cancel our trip to Vermont,” she says as we ascend the three stairs onto the bus.
“If you want.” I’m not sure if she really doesn’t want to go or is saying that for my sake. Our stilted interaction pains me. It’s as if the cancer is now eroding our ability to communicate as well as killing her healthy cells. Already she is withdrawing. Her arms are folded against her sides, her lips are pressed flat and thin, and tension is visible in every line of her frame.
“It doesn’t make sense to go. We’ll need the money.” Her voice is curt and final.
“I never liked Vermont anyway.”
No one in her right mind is against taking a tour of a world famous ice cream factory. But we aren’t in our right minds any longer. We’re straining hard, trying to keep the tide of disappointment and despair from flooding our minds and bodies. Or at least I am. I sit up straighter because if Mom needs me to be the shield for her, I will. I’d take every last drop of her cancer inside me if I could.
I can’t help but make more comparisons to last time. Three years ago, when we made this same ride after similar news, she was fierce and determined. “I’m going to kick cancer’s ass,” she told me. The only time I saw her cry was when her hair started falling out.
Today she has no pithy fight words nor does her expression show anything but defeat. My heart stutters, and Dr. Chen’s words follow each ragged beat.
Mental wellbeing is as important as physical wellbeing.
“We’ll go when you feel better.” I pull her against me and try to avoid the sharp ache of anxiety at how frail she feels already. “I’ll let you eat all the ice cream you want.”
It’s not a very good joke, but usually she’d give me a little poke in the side to acknowledge my effort.
To my dismay, she turns her face into my shoulder to muffle a big, watery sob. Sunny Sophie has no happy thoughts today. Tears prick my own eyes, and I close them tight in an effort to try to keep all the worry and fear inside me. I get as close as the scooped seats of the bus allow and hold her trembling body for blocks, the cacophony of passengers getting on and off covering the choked sobs of my mother.
Cancer survivor.
Cancer sufferer.
“What did Dr. Chen say to you?” she finally asks, breaking away from my embrace. She wipes her face with a tissue and looks out the window, avoiding my eyes.
“He, ah...” I clear my throat because my feelings are blocking my ability to speak. “He said we needed to move. That you’d have a hard time with the stairs.”
When she says nothing, I continue, “I’m going down to the Housing Authority tomorrow. Dr. Chen wrote me out a note that will help us get into a building with an elevator—exigent circumstances.”
There’s another muffled sob and I can see in the window reflection that she’s pressing her fist against her mouth. The other passengers are beginning to notice and look away, not wanting to catch whatever grief we’re not handling well.