Seventy-Two Hours (23 page)

Once I put my ire away, I started with
homework papers, and then I began grading the unit tests I’d brought home with
me. Normally tasks I would do during my prep period. Only I’d used it to
research breast cancer.

I’d just finished writing the 14
^th
dismal grade on the top corner of a test when I realized how harshly I was
grading my essay questions. They were 8
^th
graders. Not graduate
students for Christ’s sake. I put my Red Pen of Doom down and gathered the
tests up. They’d wait another day.

I sat there as numbness consumed me. A
negative attitude about my health wasn’t going to help matters. Instead, I returned
to focusing all of my fear into anger. Anger at my husband and his outward
detachment.

“Mom?”

I startled and spun in my seat to find Carson
staring at me with worry creasing his young, handsome face. “You scared the
bejeezus out of me, Car.”

“I blame my ninja-like moves,” he teased as I
saw him relax a little. “What’s going on? Are you the only one up?”

“Up?” I asked as I looked at the microwave
clock. “Is that the time?!? I didn’t realize it was that late.”

“I even went to Jamie’s after work. You didn’t
realize I wasn’t home yet? I’m crushed,” he said dramatically. “I wondered
why Fire and Rescue wasn’t out in force checking on my whereabouts. Do my
safety and wellbeing mean so little to you, woman?”

“Sorry,” I said with a half smile. “I got
caught up grading tests.”

“You do realize the Great Depression is an
era of poverty in American History and not something you’re supposed to succumb
to while grading tests, right?”

“You don’t say? Where do you get that wit of
yours from, Carson?”

As he opened a bottle of water he sang, “I
got it from my momma. I got it from my momma,” singing a Will.I.Am song while
doing a pretty good booty-shaking dance to it.

Carson was now taller than his older brother
just not nearly as broad shouldered. I didn’t think he ever would be. Hudson
took after my father and Carson favored Chris in build. Both wore their russet
hair short, but Jamie added gold highlights to Carson’s. Hudson was ruggedly
handsome and Carson was a pretty boy.

“Your momma’s wit is spent for the day,” I finally
said as I got up. “Time for me to turn in. You should, too. Even a gorgeous
creature like you needs your beauty sleep.”

“Holla! Ain’t that the truth,” he replied
with relish.

“Why do I get the feeling you’re getting your
second wind?” I asked as I looked in my son’s eyes as we stood toe to toe.

“I drank so many espressos at work tonight I
probably won’t be able to sleep for a month. Jamie actually kicked me out of
her room so she could go to sleep or I’d still probably be at her house. Her
parents weren’t even up by the time I left.”

Any other mother would have suffered a jolt
of parental anxiety when her nearly 18 year-old son made a statement like
that. But not me. Not with Carson. He and Jamie had been connected at the
hip since 10
^th
grade. Purely plutonic. They were best “girlfriends”
as Carson called it. Something he only shared with me.

“Is something the matter?” he asked with
narrowed eyes as he studied me closely.

“What? No. I’m just tired is all.”

He put his hand on my shoulder to stop my
escape. “You are such a bad liar. What’s wrong?”

“The past few days have been pretty rough. I
need the weekend to get here so I can unwind a little.”

“I’m not buying it. I know that look. It’s
the same look you had when Grandpa Gardner had his quadruple bypass surgery.
You’re worried about something,” he accused. “Did Clinton do something again?”

I gave him a pleading look. “No and you
shouldn’t automatically jump to that conclusion. Your brother tries his best.
He’s just wired differently than you and Hudson.”

“If it isn’t Clinton, what is it then?”

I put my head back and looked heavenward.
Closed my eyes and took a deep breath. “I’m scared, Carson,” I surprised
myself by saying.

My son pulled me into his strong embrace as I
broke down. Too distraught to explain right away. However, what a sense of
relief I felt when I finally did.

Even though I had initially put up a fight, I
would be forever grateful to Carson for insisting he join me for my
appointment. I hated that he was missing school, but just knowing I had
someone in the waiting room made me feel so much better. The doctor performed
a core needle biopsy in less time than I’d expected and then told me the
pathology report would be in the early part of the following week. I had an
entire weekend (and then some) to wait. It would be torture.

Carson was my driver for the day so I wasn’t surprised
when he turned into one of the restaurants near the clinic and announced he was
treating me to breakfast. He knew I was too nervous to eat before we left
home. We were seated in a booth in the old section. It was a smaller, more
intimate dining room and relatively empty at 10AM.

After our server filled our coffee mugs and
left us to peruse our menus, Carson said, “You have to tell Dad what’s going
on.”

“I don’t want to right now.”

“If you’re worried he won’t be able to take
off work to be with you for your appointments, you shouldn’t be. They’ll let
him have as much time as he needs.”

“I’d rather wait and see what the biopsy
reveals,” I remained steadfast while holding back from adding what I really
wanted to say which was, “They’d definitely give him time off, but would he
take it?”

I could see my son was wrestling with his
conscience. He sipped his black coffee in between a troubled frown. I knew he
wouldn’t betray my confidence so I wasn’t worried about that. However, I
didn’t like myself very much for putting him in the position of lying to the
rest of the family. What kind of mother asked her son to keep important
secrets from his father?

It took five days for the results to come
back. Five agonizingly long days. Even after they were in, my doctor
requested an office appointment versus discussing my results over the phone.
Which meant only one thing.

I’d had one “coming out of my own skin”
moment in my life. That was when we lost Spencer. While I knew it was
inevitable, I’d prayed over and over again throughout my life that I’d never
have to experience one of those moments again. At 42, I was being dealt
another one. Some would argue that I’d been lucky to have so few of those
moments in my life. And, I suppose, in the grand scheme of things, they were
right. Only I wasn’t feeling so lucky.

I sat on the edge of the arm chair positioned
across the desk from the doctor who’d performed my biopsy. The pencil-thin man
with dark hair and little round glasses sat with his arms resting on his desk,
hands laced together, and a smile meant to be soothing on his face as he
prepared to break the news.

Carson was with me. Chris was away on a
three-day business trip to the Far East and was still oblivious to my current
plight. Although, oblivious seemed too nice a word. Dense seemed more
apropos. Those around me picked up on my unease. Even Hudson noticed
something in the tone of my voice during our phone conversation the two nights
ago. But not my husband. He was too busy to notice. Or didn’t care to
notice.

“Jennifer, your pathology results indicate
you have Ductal Carcinoma in Situ. That means you have a precancerous non
invasive tumor in your breast,” Dr. Wyatt explained in a clinical fashion.

I may have stifled a cry. I couldn’t really
say for certain since I seemed to have suddenly developed tunnel vision.
Focusing only on what Dr. Wyatt was saying to me and not on what I was doing in
reaction to the news he was delivering. At some point, my son had taken my
hand and was squeezing it almost to make sure I was still there with him.

The doctor explained how my cancer was
considered Stage Zero because it was solely confined to my ductal system. The
cells had not invaded my lymph nodes or the surrounding fatty tissue. He told
me it was caught very early and the biopsy also revealed it was the type called
non-comedo.

“Your situation is by no means something that
needs emergency measures taken. It is, however, nothing to take lightly. This
is serious, but you have plenty of time to research it fully, obtain other
opinions—which I encourage, and then you can help decide on what option is best
for you,” he told me.

“Mom?” Carson called as he squeezed my hand a
little harder to get my attention.

“Yes? What?”

“Doctor Wyatt was talking to you about a
second opinion.”

I recalled hearing some of it. “Okay. Yes.
I think I should get one, don’t you?” I asked my son.

“Well, yea. That’s a no-brainer,” he added
with conviction.

“I can facilitate those appointments for
you,” Dr. Wyatt offered as he looked at me with genuine empathy. “I can
recommend someone in Elmira and, depending on how far you want to travel, I
have options for you in Rochester and Syracuse.”

“Rochester’s good,” I managed to tell him.

“I’ll have Beverly call to set up a referral
then.”

During the space of time between Christmas
and New Years, I underwent a lumpectomy. A successful lumpectomy. Dr. Wyatt
removed the tumor and a one centimeter area of breast tissue around it. The
timing worked out perfectly. Chris was away on another business trip. This
time, he was in the Netherlands. Hudson was home on winter break which meant
he was busy spending time with his friends. Carson and Clinton were both off
from school for the week. I told my oldest and youngest I was going away for
two days to visit my college roommate for a holiday get-together. Carson was
by my side the entire time. While he didn’t agree with my decision to exclude
his father from what was going on, he understood where I was coming from.

When I returned home and wasn’t quite myself,
I told everyone I had a touch of the flu. It enabled me to take the week after
New Year’s off from school as well. I’d been upfront with my building
principal, Roselyn Sheetz. I had to be. After giving her my doctor’s note, she
was more than accommodating and tried urging me into taking an additional week
off just so I’d feel more myself before going into radiation therapy. She’d
already been through a similar experience herself. I thanked her for her
kindness and understanding, but I chose to decline her offer. Getting back to
work, to return to a normal routine, seemed to be what I needed to get my mind
off of everything.

I was set to have a radiation treatment each
day, Monday through Friday, over a six-week period of time. When they started,
I’d finish up with my last class of the day and leave at the start of my prep
period. I went alone despite Carson’s protests. I was fortunate and the side
effects were minimal. It seemed to affect my appetite the most. It was
virtually nonexistent during the week. Which was good. My energy level after
my treatments could be described as somewhere near sloth-like. An appetite
during that timeframe would have had me packing on the pounds.

No one at school knew what was going on. I
didn’t even tell my closest friends and colleagues. I figured if my husband
didn’t know, I shouldn’t be sharing it with anyone else either.

While shopping with my mother three weeks
into my treatments, she said, “What do you say we get ice cream for lunch?”

I came to a stop in the middle of the aisle
at Macy’s and said, “Ice cream?”

She huffed and rolled her eyes at me. “It’s
not going to kill you, you know.”

My heart jumped a little over her comment,
but she couldn’t possibly know. A simple figure of speech had new meaning to
me now. I recovered. “What?”

“Eating ice cream. It won’t kill you,” she
repeated. “Besides,” she continued as we started walking through the cosmetics
department side by side, “Chris loves you exactly the way you are. I don’t
understand what you’re trying to prove by dieting. You’re already attractive.
The way you’re beginning to look now is bordering between waif-like and eating
disorder victim.”

“Good thing my self-confidence is strong,
mother.” I was starting to think her invitation for shopping was one big ploy
to get me alone so she could harp on me. Swell.

We entered the mall common area. It was
pretty busy with other Saturday afternoon shoppers. No doubt they were trying
to overcome a bout of cabin fever due to the recent cold temperatures forcing
everyone to stay indoors. February could be brutal in the Twin Tiers.

“I know things have been strained between you
and Chris—“

I stopped short and interrupted her with,
“Are we really going to discuss this in a very public place? Really, Mother?”

“It’s not like I’m shouting, Jennifer. And
they’re strangers to boot. If they overhear a word or two, it’s really not a
big deal.”

“Maybe not to you,” I said softly. “But I do
work in a public school and I’m always running into students and their
parents. I really don’t want my personal life discussed in a shopping mall.”