Her mother was dead.
That thought kept occurring to her at random moments, and had constantly since that day. It surprised her every time.
My mom is dead. How weird is that?
She’s dead.
Patricia Kent is dead.
But the nurse on the phone had told her: Your ultrasound was normal. You don’t have theBRCAgene. You aren’t at a significantly elevated risk for ovarian cancer.
This call was a follow-up to the exam and internal ultrasound she’d just gotten done while in a fog of sadness and anxiety. Just to see if they could see something, anything, in her own body that she needed to be aware of.
She knew she didn’t have the gene. She’d known it, but it didn’t take the fear away. It didn’t do anything to assuage the grief she felt.
“But what can I do?” she asked.
Because if she didn’t have the gene neither did her mother. She’d gotten cancer anyway so how did Sam keep herself safe?
Her husband was driving. The kids in the back seat were oddly quiet—a side effect of the six-hour flight, she supposed. It was rush hour. She hadn’t thought Hawaii would have a rush hour.
“Dr. Ross anticipated that you would have some questions. She did say that you are a good candidate for a salpingectomy. You get your fallopian tubes out, and then, when you’re actually in menopause, we take the rest. We know now that ninety percent of ovarian cancer starts in the tubes, so…”
“Yes. Schedule me for that.” She wasn’t using her tubes anyway.
She needed to feel like she was taking action. Like she was doing something.
“The surgery center will call with a date for the appointment.”
“Okay.”
“Sam… I’m sorry about your mother.” Did she know the nurse on the phone? Maybe she did. It was a small town. She must have missed it when she’d said her name.
Or she’d heard.
She just didn’t care.
It was so hard to care right now.
“Thanks.”
Suddenly the nurse sounded emotional. “She was just such a lovely woman.”
“She was. She was, but you know, she was very…very at peace.” She did this a lot when confronted with the grief of others. She had to make them feel better.
She hadn’t yet found the person who could make her feel better.
But life was relentless. It kept moving. The boys still had sports and homework and school. She still had all of her volunteer hours at the schools. She had articles to write. Lunches to make, dinners to make.
It was like she’d been shot in the stomach while running on a treadmill, and she couldn’t turn the damn thing off, so she just had to press her hands over the wound and keep on running.
“That’s good to hear.”
Oh good, I’m glad I could make you feel better.
“Yeah. Well. Thank you. I’ll…wait for that phone call. I’m on vacation so…you know, just have them call. Thanks. Bye.” She hung up and looked out the passenger window.
“Who was that?” Will asked.
