“I can handle it, Mom.” I reach out, gently squeezing her cold hand despite the warmth the fire exudes throughout the house. “I’ve been here since the beginning. I can handle it.”
Another lie.
But she doesn’t need to know that I cry myself to sleep every night.
Her lower lip begins to quiver, and I realize whatever she says next is going to change everything.
“It’s not working,” she says softly, so softly I wonder if I heard her correctly.
“What isn’t? The arrangement? Mom, I don’t care what I have to do. I’d sell a kidney to pay for your treatments. You have to let the guilt go.”
She shakes her head. “It’s not that.”
“Then what is it?”
She seems to hold her breath for so long her neck turns a shade of crimson, and then she’s gasping, “The chemotherapy.”
The silence that follows is deafening.
“Did you…did you have an appointment with your oncologist?”
She nods, silver now lining her gaze.
My throat burns, a boulder forming as the weight of her words settles. It takes three swallows for the lump to be forcefully shoved down, but then my eyes begin to burn and I’m clenching my jaw so tightly I might crack a molar trying not to cry.
I told her I could handle it; the least I can do is be strong when she needs me. I can hold it together until I get home and can break down in the privacy of my bedroom.
“Why didn’t you let me take you?” I ask.
“Because I had a feeling it wasn’t going to be a positive meeting.”
“We can talk about that part later,” I say pointedly before squaring my shoulders. “What did your oncologist say?”
She falls silent, my eyes dipping to her chest to check that it’s still rising and falling after a time.
“Mom?” I probe.
Her eyes lift to mine, full of despair, sadness, and unending helplessness. “My body has stopped reacting to the treatment.”
The words are a physical blow and yet my head is nodding along as if she’s just told me it’s going to rain this weekend. No one would guess that my heart keeps skipping beats as if trying to give my life force to her.
Control, control, control.
My brain is screaming at me to fix this, but this isn’t a marketing plan gone wrong or a simple hiccup on a canvas. This is my mother’slife.
“We knew this was a possibility. Dr Stewart said if and when the time came, he would up the dosage. Do you not want to do that?” I ask slowly—carefully.
Her eyes leave mine, sliding to a point over my shoulder as she lets out a shaky breath. “We’ve already changed the treatment plan to accommodate the issue…twice.”
Numbness and dread spread through my body.
The beehive that was flapping wildly in my chest falls to the bottom of my stomach. I barely feel the pain in my back as I slump in my chair hard enough to rock it.
I’m quiet for a long moment before I ask on a shaky breath, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
She wrings her hands in her lap. “Because I was hoping it would never come to this.”
“And what isthis?”
