Before I Go (36 page)

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

“You have a big day tomorrow,” she says in a way that makes it sound like I have a prom or my first job interview—not major surgery. “I wanted you to rest.”

“What time is it?”

“Around ten, I think.”

I sit up even straighter and wonder if Jack called while I was sleeping. But I know without checking that he didn’t, and the truth weighs heavy on my heart. I want to lay back down.

“Come here,” Mom says.

And though I haven’t willingly laid on my mom in years, I’m overwhelmed by the urge to wrap myself back in her arms. To be held. To be loved. I’m like a neglected houseplant that’s just been offered water. It’s impossible to resist. I lay my head on her chest and curl my knees up tighter, pushing them against her stomach as if I’m trying to crawl back into her womb.

Be reborn.

Get a mulligan.

Then I wonder, if I knew it would turn out the same, would I want to do it all over again? This life. This body. This Lots of Cancer.

I think of Jack.

And realize I knew the answer before I had fully thought the question: Yes. I would.

Mom squeezes me closer and sighs into my hair. I know she’s crying again. And normally I would stiffen, or ignore it, or make a joke, but I’m just too tired to do any of those things. So I squeeze her back and let her cry.

DR . NELSON BRAUNSTEIN is a diminutive man with a large nose and intelligent eyes. And he makes removing my tumor sound as easy as plucking a splinter out of my thumb.

“It’s really in an ideal position,” he says, pointing to the black-and-white film of my brain hanging on a wall-mounted light box. And I wonder if I should say thank you. If I should take responsibility for this portion of my cancer being so considerate in its placement.

He says I’ll need to have one more MRI that afternoon and fill out
some paperwork and then be at the hospital bright and early the next morning to get checked in and prepped and then he shakes my hand, as if we’ve just struck a bargain, but I’m not sure what my end of the deal is. “Get your rest tonight,” he says with a grin. “See you tomorrow.”

“Well,” Mom says after he leaves. “He was efficient.”

Then we sit in the sterile room in silence until a woman named Sheila enters with a stack of papers and I sign my name and address and social security number and insurance information on a thousand different papers while she drones on about what each one means.

“And this,” she says, holding up the final paper while I massage a cramp out of my hand, “is your medical directive, which just states your preferences about end-of-life care in the event of cardiac death or a coma during or as a result of the surgery.”

I stare at her. My preferences?

I force a chuckle. “Um . . . I
prefer
not to have cardiac death or coma be a result of the surgery.”

She offers a courtesy laugh in return and then holds out the paper for me to take
.

I shy away from it, the word “death” growing bolder and larger until it threatens to overtake every other word on the page, like a beauty queen who refuses to share the spotlight.

I could die. I mean, I knew I could die—
know
I’m dying—but this surgery could actually be the thing that kills me. Tomorrow.

I feel my lungs tighten, panic gripping them with its steely fist, and I suddenly understand what Jack meant when he said, “This is
brain
surgery.”

It’s the complete opposite of what people mean when they say
It’s not brain surgery.

Because this actually is. Brain. Surgery.

And I could die.

THE NEXT MORNING, I’m surprisingly calm as I lay in a hospital bed hooked up to an IV, clad in nothing but a hospital gown and my Jockey briefs. Which is probably because of the Xanax I’ve been eating like jelly beans since Sheila gave me one shortly following my panic attack while signing the medical directive yesterday, and then sent me home with five more to “take as needed.”

“You’re OK?” Mom asks me for what feels like the thirty-fifth time.

“Never better,” I say. And then I laugh. And I know I sound a little crazy, which makes me laugh some more.

Then Sheila comes in and announces that it’s time to “take a ride,” which I gather means she’s going to wheel me to surgery. “Are you ready?” she says with a bright smile.

I look from her face to my mom and then back to Sheila, because I swear she asked if I was ready
to die
, and I’m wondering why no one else thinks that was an entirely inappropriate question.

“No,” I say, the effects of the Xanax suddenly dissipating. “No, I’m not.”

Shelia’s smile turns into a frown and Mom steps forward.

“Daisy?”

“Mom,” I say, desperately studying her familiar face—the lines that I’ve watched emerge over the years; the kind, sad eyes; the mole on her cheek that she’s always called her “supermodel mark”—just in case I don’t ever see it again. But as much as I love my mom, I know it’s not her face I want to see. And even though I told Jack not to come, all but forced him to stay home, I have the sudden hope that he’ll come bursting through the door like a hero in a romantic comedy, to hold me one last time in his long arms.

“Jack,” I say. “I need Jack.” And I know in that instant that it’s true.

Mom nods and digs into her jeans for her tiny cell phone. She takes her glasses from their perch on her head and slides them over
her eyes, squinting at the buttons to dial my husband’s number. Then she hands it to me.

I put it up to my ear and it’s already ringing.

Please pick up.

By the fourth ring, I’m all but casting spells to entice him to answer.
Pick up the phone, Jack.

And then he does.

“Daisy?” he says, his breath strained, as if he ran to get the phone.

“Jack,” I say, but my husband’s name catches in my throat. And we sit there on opposite ends of the line, listening to each other breathe. Sheila touches me on the shoulder, and I know I have to go, but I don’t want to hang up. To not hear him breathe.

“Do you need me?” he asks.

Yes.

“Do you want me to come down there?” His voice is steady, calm, but it’s underlined with traces of anger. And even though I usually hate when Jack is angry with me, I’m relieved to hear it. It means he still cares. “I’ll leave right now.”

I grip the phone tighter. There’s nothing I’d rather see than his face, but it’s too late. I’m already headed into surgery and it would be pointless for him to miss clinic—to not graduate—just to sit in the hospital when I can’t look at him.

“No,” I say. “No. Stay there. I just wanted to . . .”

The nurse taps me again. My mom steps forward.

“Daisy,” she says as she reaches for the phone.

“I love you,” I say in a rush of words, even though it feels so inadequate. I once heard that Inuits had sixteen words for love, and I suddenly wish that at some point I had memorized them all, just for this moment. “Jack, I
love
you.”

I wait for his response. His automatic return of my affections that used to be as natural as the sun following the moon.

I love you.

I love you, too.

But all I hear is silence.

“Jack?” I ask.

I hear a deep, ragged breath from his end of the phone, and then: “I love you, too.” But his voice is no longer steady and calm. No longer Jack. It’s fractured. Broken. Split. Maybe he, too, has realized the gravity of my situation. That I could die. That this surgery could kill me. That this could be the last time we speak.

Or maybe, just maybe, it’s his emotions that are fractured. Broken. Split.

Not all directed toward me.

I listen to him inhale and exhale one more time, and then hand the phone to my mom. I close my eyes and choose to focus on Jack’s words, and not the way he said them.

He loves me, too.

For now, it’s enough.

I turn to the nurse. “I’m ready.”

twenty-three

I
WAKE UP.

I squint my eyes at a bright light and hear a groan, which I soon realize is coming from me, and I remember that I’m in a hospital and that I had brain surgery.

And I woke up.

As I silently cheer myself for this accomplishment, my mom’s face comes into view. “Honey?”

I open my mouth to speak, but my mouth is dry. She holds a cup of water up to it and I gratefully take a sip.

“How do you feel?”

I try to nod to indicate that I’m OK, but my head feels heavy and I move my hand up to it, gingerly touching the turban of gauze I’m wearing.

And then I remember Jack and his fractured voice, and realize that I’m not OK. I have so much I need to say to him. So much I regret. So much I wish I could do over. And I just hope I’m not too late.

As if reading my mind, Mom speaks again. “I called Jack to let him know it went well. He said to call later if you feel up to it.”

“He did?” I push the words out of my raspy throat.

She nods. “I’ll go get the nurse and let her know that you’re up.”

“OK,” I say, closing my eyes and drifting back to sleep.

I’M NOT SURE what time it is when I wake up again, but my mom’s steady breathing and the shadows that fall across the room indicate that it’s night.

“Mom?” I say, my voice a little stronger. She immediately opens her eyes and is by my side.

“I need my phone.”

She squints at the watch on her wrist. “Daisy, it’s six in the morning.”

“I don’t care,” I say. “I have to talk to him.”

“OK,” she says, and walks over to the counter where my bag sits. She digs inside it, retrieves my cell, and gives it to me.

“I’m going to get a coffee,” she says, stuffing her feet into her Keds.

Jack picks up on the third ring.

“Jack,” I breathe.

“Daisy.” It’s a statement, and I search for an emotion in it, but I can’t find one.

“Did I wake you?”

“No,” he says. “I couldn’t really sleep.”

I hang on to the admission, allowing myself to believe his restlessness was over missing me, worrying about me,
loving
me.

“That’s funny. All I’ve been doing is sleeping,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “Brain surgery is hard work.”

“I’ve heard that,” he says, and I think maybe I detect a smile in his voice. It’s all I need.

“Jack, I’m so sorry,” I say. “I should’ve let you come. I should’ve
asked
you to come. I did need you and I was wrong to tell you I didn’t.”

He doesn’t say anything so I keep talking.

“God, I was so scared. They made me sign all these papers and kept talking about how I could
die
and all I could think about was—”

He cuts me off.

“Daisy.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s OK,” he says, and I hear him exhaling. “Just . . . It’s OK.”

I hold the phone to my ear, waiting for him to say something else, anything else. But he doesn’t.

“OK,” I say. “So, do you—”

I’m about to say
forgive me
, but I hear something on Jack’s end of the phone. It’s not Jack.

Where do you keep your sugar?
the voice that’s not Jack’s says.