Chapter 1 Monique #4
It was a matter of semantics. No evidence of disease technically meant the same as remission. But she couldn’t bring herself to say the word when her body had a history of making her out to be a liar.
“So? You think spending a weekend in Puerto Rico with a sexy stranger is gonna, what? Jinx you?”
Monique pursed her lips. “No. It’s just that I…”
The realities of medical apartheid, of Black women’s health concerns being downplayed or dismissed, was a story Monique knew all too well. She saw it play out with her mother, whose diagnosis came far too late. So, she became vigilant.
Monique had taken every test and scan her insurance would cover and some they didn’t. There were the regular Pap smears and blood work, followed by her poring over each result, but her attention to it didn’t matter. Those abnormal cells they’d been watching for years wrote their own rules.
HPV.
Stage 2 cervical cancer quickly turned into Stage 3.
This diagnosis brought more false starts than real beginnings. Radiation. Surgery. More tests. One breath was a gasp full of all-or-nothing stakes, and another was a yawning wait.
No Evidence of Disease. That declaration had been voided once already.
These past eighteen months had been hell. Jasmine went away to college while Justin stayed home, claiming he wasn’t ready. But Monique knew the kids had decided that one of them would stay back and watch after her.
Now, her hair had grown back into a tightly coiled afro. Her face had become more angular, causing features she’d already been insecure about to become more pronounced. Her body… when was the last time she’d taken a close look just because?
“Cancer sucks,” she said under her breath.
“Yeah, but you’re Monique Renee Moore. You’re tougher than cervical cancer.”
Her baby had always believed she was invincible. Baby…
Tears stung Monique’s eyes, and her throat clogged. She had two perfect kids and hadn’t wanted or needed more than that. Still, the void between her hips ached again, reminding her of a stolen dream she never knew she had.
Arms, slender and warm, enveloped her.
“It’ll be okay, Mama. I promise you’ll be okay.” Jasmine’s soft but unwavering reassurances fought against the torrent of self-doubt and loss trying to drown Monique. “Maybe you wanna reach out to your girls?”
Her Thriving with Cancer group had always felt like a fantasy.
Folks with nonexistent white blood cell counts talking about climbing mountains and having culinary adventures, while she had delivered mail for fifteen years but now could barely go from her garage to the back door without getting winded.
One of her therapists might say it was psychosomatic, but everything was splotchy and gray, like a poorly preserved black-and-white film. Monique wished for a slightly sepia-toned world. At least that would make her past and present seem a little romantic and not so, well, black and white.
Now, here she was, burning an ulcer into her stomach, worrying about spending a weekend in paradise with a…
“Did you say ‘sexy stranger’?”
Jasmine scrambled out of bed and out the door, howling with laughter.
A sexy stranger was the last thing Monique needed.
A knock on the door drew Monique’s attention. “So, you’re not done harassing your invalid mother, is that it? You know, there are laws against this.”
Jasmine and Justin entered the room with identical smirks. Twins.
“What’re y’all plotting?”
Jasmine stepped forward with her hands folded behind her. “Mother, Justin and I have a gift for you.”
“More like a proposal,” Justin corrected.
“Sure. A proposal,” Jasmine continued. “We know this trip means a lot to the family. It’s the first time anyone’s really seen you since your diagnosis. So, consider this your debut.”
“Yeah,” Justin added, “and we think you should leave the old Monique behind.”
Old Monique? Jasmine disappeared into the stairway and emerged with Monique’s suitcase. “Jay and I figured you’d be stressed out, so we put our money together and got you some things for your trip.”
In a flash, the bed was cleared of most of the clothes. In their place lay a well-organized travel ensemble.
Jasmine reached into the suitcase. “So, I’ve marked each day’s outfit.
Here is your flight ’fit. And this here is for the pre-wedding luncheon. Shoes too. And for the night out. Wedding.”
“Peep the shoes, Ma,” Justin said, holding up a pair of silver kitten heels against a pale pink—or as Lanie would say, blush—wrap dress.
“You got your own silver slippers.”
Monique choked out a laugh. When had they decided to be Glinda to her Dorothy? How long had they planned this tornado of thoughtfulness? Jasmine had only been home for a couple of weeks.
“Isn’t the Internet a fantastic invention?” Jasmine said, answering her mother’s unspoken question. “Anyway, there are a few beach looks here and swimsuits. All you have to do is pack your toiletries.”
Justin rested his arm over his mother’s shoulders. “You have taken care of us all these years, Ma. We wanted to do this for you. You deserve to be taken care of too.