What's Left of Me
Page 79
“No!” I snap. “This conversation is over.”
“Aundrea!” My mom’s voice is loud and firm. “What has gotten into you? Sit down.” Her eyes are red and swollen. Her hands are shaking as she brings a crumpled tissue up to wipe the tears that keep falling down her cheeks.
I bend down so that I’m kneeling directly in front of her. “Mom, I’m so tired of all this. So damn tired. How much more can I take? How much more can my body take? I don’t think I—or my body—can possibly take any more. I don’t want to spend what time I do have left in hospitals or running from clinic to clinic doing tests. Having to worry about taking a pill every day is already enough to think about. I’m tired of feeling numb. I just want to be done with it all. I can’t do it anymore. My body can’t do it anymore.”
I didn’t expect the word “done” to come out of my mouth, but now that I have I feel liberated.
I’m done. I’m done. I’m done.
Before my mom can catch her breath between sobs, Dr. James cuts in softly, “Aundrea, if you do nothing your heart will eventually slow down until it is done. I can’t guarantee you won’t go into heart failure. But I can guarantee that getting started on medication will prevent you from going into heart failure now. Listen, you’re young. I don’t want to see you in six months discussing a heart transplant.”
“As opposed to what? Seeing me in three years for it?”
“My medical advice is that we get you on medication. It’s four pills, once daily. You’ve come this far. Don’t give up now. The cancer hasn’t killed you. Don’t let this.”
Is that what I’m doing? Giving up? I just see it as trying to get all the information. Processing it without anyone pressuring me.
My mom is making choking sounds and she lets out a loud cry of pain. Clutching her hands to her chest, she lowers her head between her legs, trying to control her rapid breathing. I wrap my arms around her, whispering in her ear over and over again that everything will be okay, and rocking us back and forth to comfort her until the tears ease.
She looks up at me and all I see is pain. “Aundrea, you’re our miracle baby. I won’t give you up, and I sure as hell won’t let you give up.”
“If I’m your miracle child then why is God still trying to take me away from you? Why does he continually find ways to break me? I don’t understand, Mom. Why does he want to take me away?” I whisper.
“Honey, he doesn’t want to take you away.”
“No? Then what do you call this? I am so mad at Him right now. So mad!” I swallow the lump in my throat before finding my voice again. “He wouldn’t be trying to take my heart, too.”
Tears slide down my face and I don’t wipe them away. “When is it time for me to live my life? I don’t want to live in fear anymore. I don’t want to come to the doctor afraid of what the next scan will show. I don’t want to be afraid if my medication isn’t working properly. I don’t want to constantly wonder if I’m going to get bad news or good. I just want to live my life in peace. Really live it. I want to be free from all this.”
Looking up from my position on the floor, I add quietly, “I’m done with this conversation.” I turn my attention back to my mom, rubbing small circles on her back. My heart clenches for her. Seeing her in pain only causes me to hurt more, but I can’t think in the state of mind I’m in. I need to be away from all the eyes looking at me.
The drive back to my sister’s house is quiet; the keys hanging from the ignition clink against one another with each turn. My mom doesn’t say a word to me the entire drive, and I don’t dare speak to her. My entire body feels numb. My fingers are tingling and my heart is pounding so hard I’m almost certain it’s trying to break free. The lump is still stuck in my throat, and I know that the second I open my mouth to speak I will break down.
I’m in shock. I have come to learn how to fight against cancer, but I don’t know how to fight against the news of knowing that I’ll have to live with a heart condition for the rest of my life. I don’t know what’s worse. Dying of cancer, or dying of a broken heart?
When we pull into my sister’s driveway, her car is in front of the garage. The clock on the radio says it’s 4:23pm. Parker said he’d be over after work, which means I have roughly thirty minutes to let it all out and compose myself.
My mom turns off the car but doesn’t move. Looking out her window, she tells me to go inside without her.
The lump begins to get tighter, and I can feel my throat closing. I only nod and make my way to the door. When I’m almost to the front door, I turn and look back at my mom. I watch as she sits with her face in her hands. Through the window, I can see her shoulders and I know she’s crying. I want so badly to wrap my arms around her and tell her how much I love her, but I can’t. I can’t force myself to tell her it will be okay when I’m not sure I believe it myself.
I don’t bother taking off my shoes when I enter the house. I close the door and make my way through the living room and down the small hallway to my bedroom.
Genna calls my name and I stop. She comes out of my room holding an empty laundry basket. Her smile instantly fades when she sees me.
“Aundrea! What happened?”
She looks concerned as she sets the laundry basket down on the floor and rushes over to me. I can’t deal with her right now. I hold up a finger, indicating that I need a minute. Dodging to the left, I make my way into the bathroom.
“Aundrea!” My mom’s voice is loud and firm. “What has gotten into you? Sit down.” Her eyes are red and swollen. Her hands are shaking as she brings a crumpled tissue up to wipe the tears that keep falling down her cheeks.
I bend down so that I’m kneeling directly in front of her. “Mom, I’m so tired of all this. So damn tired. How much more can I take? How much more can my body take? I don’t think I—or my body—can possibly take any more. I don’t want to spend what time I do have left in hospitals or running from clinic to clinic doing tests. Having to worry about taking a pill every day is already enough to think about. I’m tired of feeling numb. I just want to be done with it all. I can’t do it anymore. My body can’t do it anymore.”
I didn’t expect the word “done” to come out of my mouth, but now that I have I feel liberated.
I’m done. I’m done. I’m done.
Before my mom can catch her breath between sobs, Dr. James cuts in softly, “Aundrea, if you do nothing your heart will eventually slow down until it is done. I can’t guarantee you won’t go into heart failure. But I can guarantee that getting started on medication will prevent you from going into heart failure now. Listen, you’re young. I don’t want to see you in six months discussing a heart transplant.”
“As opposed to what? Seeing me in three years for it?”
“My medical advice is that we get you on medication. It’s four pills, once daily. You’ve come this far. Don’t give up now. The cancer hasn’t killed you. Don’t let this.”
Is that what I’m doing? Giving up? I just see it as trying to get all the information. Processing it without anyone pressuring me.
My mom is making choking sounds and she lets out a loud cry of pain. Clutching her hands to her chest, she lowers her head between her legs, trying to control her rapid breathing. I wrap my arms around her, whispering in her ear over and over again that everything will be okay, and rocking us back and forth to comfort her until the tears ease.
She looks up at me and all I see is pain. “Aundrea, you’re our miracle baby. I won’t give you up, and I sure as hell won’t let you give up.”
“If I’m your miracle child then why is God still trying to take me away from you? Why does he continually find ways to break me? I don’t understand, Mom. Why does he want to take me away?” I whisper.
“Honey, he doesn’t want to take you away.”
“No? Then what do you call this? I am so mad at Him right now. So mad!” I swallow the lump in my throat before finding my voice again. “He wouldn’t be trying to take my heart, too.”
Tears slide down my face and I don’t wipe them away. “When is it time for me to live my life? I don’t want to live in fear anymore. I don’t want to come to the doctor afraid of what the next scan will show. I don’t want to be afraid if my medication isn’t working properly. I don’t want to constantly wonder if I’m going to get bad news or good. I just want to live my life in peace. Really live it. I want to be free from all this.”
Looking up from my position on the floor, I add quietly, “I’m done with this conversation.” I turn my attention back to my mom, rubbing small circles on her back. My heart clenches for her. Seeing her in pain only causes me to hurt more, but I can’t think in the state of mind I’m in. I need to be away from all the eyes looking at me.
The drive back to my sister’s house is quiet; the keys hanging from the ignition clink against one another with each turn. My mom doesn’t say a word to me the entire drive, and I don’t dare speak to her. My entire body feels numb. My fingers are tingling and my heart is pounding so hard I’m almost certain it’s trying to break free. The lump is still stuck in my throat, and I know that the second I open my mouth to speak I will break down.
I’m in shock. I have come to learn how to fight against cancer, but I don’t know how to fight against the news of knowing that I’ll have to live with a heart condition for the rest of my life. I don’t know what’s worse. Dying of cancer, or dying of a broken heart?
When we pull into my sister’s driveway, her car is in front of the garage. The clock on the radio says it’s 4:23pm. Parker said he’d be over after work, which means I have roughly thirty minutes to let it all out and compose myself.
My mom turns off the car but doesn’t move. Looking out her window, she tells me to go inside without her.
The lump begins to get tighter, and I can feel my throat closing. I only nod and make my way to the door. When I’m almost to the front door, I turn and look back at my mom. I watch as she sits with her face in her hands. Through the window, I can see her shoulders and I know she’s crying. I want so badly to wrap my arms around her and tell her how much I love her, but I can’t. I can’t force myself to tell her it will be okay when I’m not sure I believe it myself.
I don’t bother taking off my shoes when I enter the house. I close the door and make my way through the living room and down the small hallway to my bedroom.
Genna calls my name and I stop. She comes out of my room holding an empty laundry basket. Her smile instantly fades when she sees me.
“Aundrea! What happened?”
She looks concerned as she sets the laundry basket down on the floor and rushes over to me. I can’t deal with her right now. I hold up a finger, indicating that I need a minute. Dodging to the left, I make my way into the bathroom.
