Today my mother and father go to the oncologist at 8 a.m. to see whether her bilirubin numbers have decreased enough to allow some attempt at treatment. I fear the numbers will have either increased or remain elevated. If then this were to be true, I fear my mother will ask what this means, what options are available, and the doctor puzzled by this question will have to explain that ignorance does not deter death. The doctor may explain that cancer can destroy faith as easily it does the body; that prayers may not work; that modern medicine does not perform miracles; that you, dear woman, should not be so foolish.
I’m at work checking the clock, subtracting the time difference between central and pacific. They would be up by now, they are driving, they are at the hospital, they are waiting, they are seen by the doctor, and they are eviscerated by the horrible news.
My hands are folded, while I pray at my desk. I don’t even know what to ask for: is it a painless death, is it recovery? I apologize to the ether for not having done more. Whether it’s the caffeine or my fear, I’m unsure, but my heart pounds as each second blinks past.
Since my return to MN, I’ve called daily to check on her condition. Some days good, others bad. I tell her that she’ll recover because I’ve thrown my fantasies behind reckless hope rather than dwelling on absence. The truth is her passing will hurt whether I prepare for it or not. There is no solace in preparation.
--
Update
My parents met a different doctor, so an MRI is scheduled for April 14. I can feel my heart start to ramp up. Dear cosmic being of untold power...let everything be okay. The truth of it is the inevitable horrible news will be a devastating blow. We'll have a visual representation of her ravaged liver, the constellation of chaos inside her. I'm thinking something not unlike tea leaves, where the organs and the ridges of tumors will auspice the unfortunate.
