Chapter 4
FOUR
DANI
Ignaw at my fingernails, fidgeting with restless energy as I try to keep my hands busy and my mind occupied, preventing me from unraveling in front of my mother.
The waiting room smells of antiseptic, covering up the cloying reek of despair that hovers around us.
I look around at the sunken faces with ashen grey complexions, letting you know that they are being destroyed from the inside out by an invisible killer, some more merciless than others.
Now seated beside my mother, her frail hand in mine, I understand that there is nothing to do but hope.
Hope for a cure, news that our loved one is going to pull through, and that the words we will hear soon won’t break us.
My mother underwent an endoscopic ultrasound to biopsy a suspicious mass that they saw on a scan.
As the needle slipped adjacent to the probe and through the layers of tissue into the looming mass on the screen, cells were gathered onto a slide and sent to the pathology department.
Now the hard part begins. We wait. I pray to a God I barely believe in, still close my eyes, hoping whoever is listening will give us good news.
Yet the truth grips tightly around me like a crushing weight.
“Mrs. Andrade?” My head whips up, taking in the nurse standing before us with a clipboard in her hand.
She holds open the office door, allowing us entry, a gesture that will determine my mother’s path forward.
I nod and rise from the chair. Extending a hand to assist my mom up from her seat, her fingers feel so light in mine.
It reminds me of all the times she held my hand to help me up when I was a child.
Now, the roles are reversed, and I am the one helping her.
After my parents’ divorce, she used to walk with such strength.
Her head held high, knowing she had bettered her life, despite having to start over.
But illness has a way of stripping pride away so easily, reminding us that life is fragile and that life is inevitably terminal.
She has become so weak over the last few months.
She insisted that she was fine, and told me this over and over until one day she wasn’t.
Together we walk slowly to the door, one heavy foot in front of the other.
“Take your time,” the nurse says kindly as she patiently waits for us, propping the door open.
Her eyes flick briefly over to the wheelchair, folded neatly against the wall.
I catch the movement and shake my head no.
She nods, saying nothing, but I can see that she understands.
My mom already feels like her independence is being stolen from her, so she continues this slow, relentless walk.
Making her way across the short distance means more to her than the action because it’s a declaration that she's still alive and still fighting.
The nurse places us in a small, sterile room, impersonal and devoid of color.
The white walls and muted grey trim provide little comfort, and I wish that I could change the vibe.
If I was delivering test results to patients, I’d want the room to be comfortable, with a warm tone and soft light.
The temperature in here is too cold for patients who lack muscle mass and are in various states of fragility.
I place my mom’s cardigan around her shoulders as she smiles up at me with gratitude in her eyes.
I return her smile, but inside, I just want to scream at the cruelty of it all, how illness strips your dignity and hope is the only thing that’s left.
The doctor walks in with a chart in his hand, and his expression tells me everything I don’t want to know.
He is accustomed to giving this type of news, and I can tell it weighs heavily on him.
His kind but tired eyes gauge our emotions as he provides a well-practiced speech.
We leave the office without a word said between us.
Even on the way home, no music or conversation ensues.
Our silence persists, and when we get home, my mom quietly announces that she is tired and is going to bed.
We don’t talk about what we heard. But the doctor's words keep echoing in my mind—she is terminal. He couldn’t give me a timeline of how long we have, just a vague estimate of the borrowed time left and options to prolong the inevitable.
Some treatments that could extend her life are available, but they are costly.
The only thing left to do is help my mom.
I’ll be there for her, just as she has always been there for me.
I walk down the steps, glancing across the yard over to Vic’s house.
It's still quiet, and that’s not surprising, since I left his bed around three a.m., careful not to wake him.
I had to be up early this morning to take my mother to her doctor's appointment.
The air is humid, and I can feel my shirt sticking to me as I make my way to the mailbox.
I grab the small stack of mail and head back to the house.
Inside, I begin sorting through the envelopes, placing the bills in the woven basket my mom has set aside for them.
And that’s when I see it. My breath catches in my throat when I see one stamped with the Dartmouth College crest. Vic and I both applied there, hoping to get into school together.
We knew it was a slim chance we would both get in, but since both of our grades met the requirement, Vic encouraged me to apply.
I look at the letter before me, tracing the emblem with my fingertip.
For a brief moment, I forget everything else.
I open it with a large rip along the fold and remove the contents.
My mouth curves into a stunned smile. I did it.
As I read the acceptance letter, I feel the joy I haven’t felt in months since having to care for my mom and dismissing her illness as just a virus.
But then it hits me, like a shot through the heart.
I can’t go. My dream school with my amazing boyfriend is just that—a dream, because I can’t leave my mom.
She needs me, so it’s no longer an option.
Now the paper that I’m holding in my hands means nothing anymore. It’s just a paper.
I grab the lighter and the ceramic tray, turning the lighter over in my hand.
Without another thought, I hold onto the corner of my acceptance letter and hold it to the flame.
It catches quickly, and I set it onto the tray, watching it burn along with my future.
The paper blackens and curls inward as the flame consumes it.
My dreams go up in smoke with a quiet finality.
I light the envelope next, and the flames take hold, slowly devouring the paper.
Half of it is gone, and the flame is almost out.
I grab the other end, just about to relight it, when there is a knock on my door, so I let it burn out.
The room smells of smoke and the end of my life as I know it.
I walk to the door with a heavy heart, knowing what I have to do.