Today is my mom's 57th birthday. She is again in the hospital, as she has not recovered from her original surgery (10.14.11) the way the doctors had hoped. This is a piece I wrote soon after the original surgery, in hopes to express the final remnants of how vague her cancer seemed to me over the summer, before the operation to finally remove the tumor in her throat.
I reheated some day-old coffee, toasted a cinnamon raisin bagel and watched the previous night’s Community on Hulu. I took a shower. I put on blue jeans, a plaid shirt, grey hoodie and black blazer. Before I knew the significance of this day, I had made plans with a friend visiting from out of town. Yes, this was surely an important enough matter to reschedule, but throughout the past year, through doctor’s appointments, chemo and radiation treatments, my mom, time and time again, never wanted to consider herself a burden and make me change my plans. Besides, she was under and in a closed off room. What could I do? I walked a half mile to Fullerton, racing against the bus tracker: I had left late enough as it was.
We met outside her friend’s apartment on Sunnyside Ave, probably the most optimistic street name in the city and one that can easily be symbolized (although I’ll avoid that temptation here). It was a particularly windy day in Uptown. On the walk north up Broadway towards the French/Vietnamese banh mi shop, I fixed my hair a few times from the strong gusts. We walked past the Riv and scoffed at the fans that were already waiting for the Smashing Pumpkins show that night (it was 1 PM). We mocked the washed up local superstar that is Billy Corgan, one of my friends comparing him physically to one of the more phallic members of the male anatomy.
I ordered a lemongrass pork sandwich and a Stewart’s dark cherry soda. The three of us ate and talked and hung out. We catch up, talk about friends from college. It’s a bit gossipy but I don’t mind. I wonder if they can tell my mind’s wandering. My dad calls; I excuse myself. He tells me things are going alright. The tumor is out and the plastic surgeons are about to operate an incredibly intricate procedure of which I’m still not sure I entirely understand. Immediately after we hang up, a friend calls and asks about the beer situation for the show we’re supposed to go to that night.
We end up going to Dunkin Donuts/Baskin Robbins after lunch to talk some more. I get a French Vanilla coffee, even though I don’t really like Dunkin Donuts. I impatiently wait for it to cool so I can get drinking that awful thing out of the way. I realize I’m leaving later than I originally had planned and feel guilty. My dad has been at the hospital all day, and even though he said he didn’t mind me coming later on, I knew that I should have been there. We finally leave DDBR and we head to the train. I hug my one friend goodbye and high five the other. I never told them the circumstances of that day. On the Red Line I ignored a teenager passing out a flyer to donate to their “football” team, just as I had a beggar outside the Wilson stop earlier. I think of my distrust and simultaneous embrace of humans and how conflicted my feelings are. The creature that is fixing my mom right now is the same one that has ripped me off in the past and made me cynical.
Throughout the day (and even the week leading up to), I inexorably couldn’t help but think of the worst case scenario. I anticipated my reaction, if it would be similar to those in similar situations in books I’ve read and movies I’ve watched. Would I move to another state and start a new life? Would I want to fuck my ex-girlfriend in a car while it’s raining? Would I put cream and sugar in my coffee? After about 45 minutes, one transfer and a confusing array of thoughts later, I finally reach the medical district. I walk along Harrison St and analyze the architecture: classical columns contrasted with contemporary curves and angles. Medical technology, like architecture, is always advancing and changing, and I am filled with hope.
‘Her Name is Yoshimi’ plays in the Au Bon Pain connected to the hospital lobby as I walk in. I wonder if ‘Do You Realize?’ is on their playlist here and hope their PR people are smart enough not to include it. I’m waiting for about five minutes, catching up with my dad before he is paged that the surgery is complete and my mom is being moved to the Intensive Care Unit. We get visitor’s passes and take an elevator up one story.
I hear multiple languages in the 5th floor ICU waiting room. Spanish, Polish…all waiting to hear good news and be able to see their loved ones, but there is a general aroma of fear and anxiety that permeates all language. I meet the head surgeon; I shake his hand, the strong grip of his hand that performed surgery on my mother. So much is said and sometimes with a vocabulary I am not familiar with that it is hard to understand the entire meaning of what he says. I hear him clearly, and they are words I mostly know, or can be explained with words I know. I just either don’t, can’t or willn’t hear the second-to-worst case scenarios, not appreciating enough the fact that my mom is officially cancer free. The doctor nonchalantly leaves; he’s done this before. We wait in the cramped room a little bit longer before a nurse calls out my father’s and my last name.
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