Chapter 55 That’s What Hearts Do
that’s what hearts do
Rowan
Me
I need to talk to Lydia. How can I make that happen?
Kristen
Umm…
Have you asked HER DAUGHTER?
Me
Hannah can’t know.
Kristen
I see.
Me
Don’t ask questions.
Be honest with me. How bad is it?
Kristen
She’s on hospice, Rowan. She can barely speak most days.
Me
Dammit! I really need to talk to her.
Kristen
Maybe Richard can help. Let me touch base with him and I’ll let you know ASAP.
My knee bounces as I slide my phone in my pocket.
A few days ago, Hannah told me her mom was nearing the end, but she failed to specify the hospice part. Perhaps it’s a matter of semantics, but one sounds way more ominous than the other.
“Sweetheart, what’s got you worked up?” Mom asks.
“Lydia’s on hospice.”
Mom gasps from the chair opposite me in the waiting room. She sets her magazine aside. “Oh no! How’s Hannah doing?”
Averting my gaze, the shake of my head is answer enough. Mom reaches for her cane like she’s about to change seats to be closer to me—to press for information I’m not emotionally equipped to navigate at the moment.
Thankfully, we’re interrupted by a nurse calling us back to the doctor’s office.
Mom’s neuro and orthopedic surgeons sit across from us. They carry the same air of optimism they’ve always had. Today, more than ever, I find myself clinging to it in hopes it will rub off on me.
“Tess, you’ve made excellent progress in your physical therapy,” Dr. Ward, Mom’s neurosurgeon begins. “We have your latest scans and want to discuss your next procedure.”
Mom gives a tentative smile, hand clutching her cane. I curl my palm over hers as the doctors outline what comes next.
A damaged spinal disc her orthopedic surgeon has been watching for months—he believes it’s time to replace it with an artificial one to help restore some of the last bits of motion she’s been unable to regain through therapy.
And some compression issues her neurosurgeon says is the culprit of her chronic nerve pain—he plans to perform a spinal cord decompression procedure to resolve it.
“Recovery time?” I interject.
“Not much different from your past surgeries,” Dr. Ward replies to Mom directly. “We’ll prescribe pain meds for the discomfort during—”
“No need. I won’t take any opioids.”
My eyes drift closed for a beat and I bite my tongue. I respect her reasons even if I do think she’s taking things further than necessary.
“Ahh, yes. I recall,” one surgeon chimes in. “Well, just know we won’t hesitate to prescribe them should you change your mind. Recovery from any kind of spinal surgery can be quite uncomfortable in the immediate weeks post-op.”
Mom answers resolutely, hits them with a flat stare. “I’m aware. Anyway, you were saying?”
The two doctors exchange an amused look which…same, boys, same. Stubborn woman.
“You’ll be able to go home in a matter of days.
Light activity will likely be possible in the first few weeks with more strenuous activity down the road, I’d say in four to five months depending on the results we see in physical therapy.
Much like you’re already accustomed to, we’ll plan on two to three PT sessions per week for the first two, maybe three months or so with added exercises at home.
You’ll need to continue using the walker or the cane as your pain level requires.
” He looks at me then, and I nod in understanding.
“At that point, we’ll gauge your progress and determine any necessary course of action from there. ”
With that, they move on to calendar planning and we settle on a surgery date four weeks from now, while I mentally log the timeline in my brain.
Surgery in September. Intense physical therapy through the holidays that will roll into what we hope will be a lighter therapy protocol in the new year. What comes next is unknown until then.
As we leave the medical building and I help Mom into the passenger seat, she picks up our conversation from the waiting room like it never stopped.
I’ve barely gotten myself buckled in when she says, “Now tell me what’s going on, Son.”
My chuckle is forced. When my answer doesn’t come right away, she adds, “You wish you could be there with her.” Guilt has me reaching for her hand.
Hannah’s tearful plea before I left flashes forefront in my mind. Don’t have one foot out the door. Easier said than done when your heart longs to be two places at once.
“I’m sorry, Mom.” It’s honest, if not raw. Too raw.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for, honey.
” I come to a stop in the line to exit the parking garage and meet her gaze.
“That’s not why I brought it up. It’s just that…
I see what she means to you.” I clear my throat and look away.
“It’s the same you know when you know kind of thing I felt with your dad. ”
My eyes flick back to her. She must sense something in my expression because her mouth tips up at the corners. No use denying it.
Turning onto the main road, I ask, “How soon did you know with Dad?”
She smiles wistfully. “One date.”
The love story of Michael and Teresa Shaw is the kind that sticks with you. Two people meet, exchange vows on an altar the following month, and welcome their first (and only) child less than a year later—it’s a whirlwind romance if you’ve ever heard one.
“Was it like that with you and Doug?”
Mom sighs, her earlier joy fading. “No, that was more of a slow burn kind of love. He had Bri, I had you, we were both widowed. It was more complicated, but just as real. Still is.”
The car goes quiet. “You miss him?”
“Every day. But I miss your father, too. Nothing will ever change that.”
The question tumbles out before I can think twice. “How do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Manage your heart existing in two places at once.”
Mom grins. “If you think the heart is capable of existing in less than a thousand places at once, you’ve misunderstood the assignment.
” I flash her a confused look. “That’s what hearts are designed to do, sweetheart.
They’re not bound by time or distance, and the bigger the heart, the more capable it is of being here and there and everywhere at the same time.
And you, Rowan, have the biggest heart of all.
If I did everything else wrong in this life when it came to raising you, at least I got that part right. ”
For the next few miles, I’m silent. Guilt and gratitude swirl inside me so I don’t know which one should mean more. I keep my eyes trained on the road and prop my elbow on the door, rub my jaw.
“Tell me something real,” Mom says.
My heart lurches. Her and me is where it all started—honesty, no holds barred.
I take a deep breath. “I hate not being there to help Hannah through this, but I’m also so thankful to be here with you and that you’re—” My voice breaks, words scraping to a whisper.
“That you’re okay. But then I feel guilty.
I feel guilty for the fact that you’re okay while Lydia isn’t.
Guilty that I’m not there. But I know if I was there, I’d feel guilty for not being here. ”
Mom lets the silence linger while I pull up to our house and shift the car into park.
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
“You keep saying that, but you don’t need to. Never apologize for falling in love and wanting to take care of your person.” I shake my head, but Mom ignores the self-admonishment. “Now ask me.”
I flash her a deadpan look and she responds in kind. Reluctantly, I oblige. “Tell me something real.”
She takes my hand in her lap. “I’m sorry you can’t be there with Han—”
“Mom, please, that’s not—”
“Hey,” she scolds. “It’s my turn to talk.
” Rolling my lips to stifle my grin, I nod.
“I’m sorry you can’t be there with Hannah.
The last thing any parent wants is to burden their children with their own needs—stop shaking your head at me, Son.
Someday when you have your own kids, you’ll understand.
All I could ever want for you is to find someone you love and start a life with them.
” Her fingers nudge my chin until we’re eye to eye.
“And I’m sorry you’ve had to put that on hold because of me. ”
“Stop, please!” I tug her over the console into a hug. “I love you, Mom. And I’m so thankful I don’t have to do this life without you.”
“Me too, sweetheart.”
I take in an unsteady breath, clutching onto my mother like she’s the only one who gets it. And maybe she is. “I’m mad, Mom. Why couldn’t Lydia have been as lucky as you?”
She eases back, and I clear the tears from my cheeks, sniffing hard.
“You’re asking the wrong question,” Mom says. “I only had a couple of conversations with Lydia, but it’s easy to figure out the kind of woman she is. She’s lived life with no regrets. She’s not dwelling on the crappy hand she’s been dealt, calling herself unlucky. So you shouldn’t either.”
I’m taken back to that first night on the dock with Hannah five years ago. If the women in your family are glue, my mom is confetti.
“I’ll tell you what she is thinking though,” Mom goes on. “Lydia is spending her last days, weeks, whatever time she’s got left, celebrating all the amazing things this life has given her. Her daughter being her pride and joy. Don’t pity Lydia. Or Hannah, for that matter. Celebrate them.”
I lean against my seat, thoughts whirling. “How do I do that from here?”
“Let me help you.” My brows lift. “You think I don’t know a thing or two about long-distance relationships? Your father and I were in one for a good chunk of our marriage.”
Deployment after deployment, I huff a sad chuckle at the memory.
“I’m the queen of care packages, Rowan.” She beams lightheartedly. “We’re gonna make sure Hannah feels your support even if you’re not there.”
Later that night, after Mom and I have schemed up our first care package, ordered the supplies, and scheduled the necessary deliveries, I spend an hour on the phone with Hannah.
Her voice is weary when she answers. I resist the urge to ask how she’s sleeping, though the thought of her tossing and turning all night without me there to rub her back until she drifts off makes my throat tight.
Even worse is the possibility of another run-in with Daniel—my stomach recoils at the image of her coming face to face with him again.
But I refrain from talking about any of that. No pity. No guilt.
Instead, I ask her to tell me her favorite memory of Lydia.
When her smile feels like it might leap through the phone, I ask her to tell me about a time her mom embarrassed her in public.
Her laugh through the receiver as she tells the story is the most beautiful, soul-filling sound I’ve ever heard.
For the first time since I left, Hannah doesn’t cry when we talk. The call doesn’t end with me clutching the phone in my fist to keep from launching it out the window. And when we say goodbye, her voice isn’t weak or lifeless.
She sounds content. Steady. Strong.
And so damn hopeful.