It's just a check up... it's just a check up. Don't pace yourself. Breathe. Listen to Dr. Clinger...
I look at myself in the mirror. The ill-faced corpse stares back at me in disgust and pettiness. I run my hand through my hair, curling the fingers at the scalp. As I bring my hand closer to my eyes, the lock of hair that once settled in my skin lay desolate in between my finger tips, the part of me that will soon join thousands more like it. Tears cluttered in my eyelids, and I immediately let them drip down. The satisfying touch of heavy droplets, forming at the base of the caruncle, drip down telling a story better than words themselves. "It's okay..." I tell myself a thousand times. I grab the paper towel from the women's bathroom stall, and dry my eyes. I'm not the type of person to release my emotions publicly, much less in front of my mom. Her emotions would set heavier than I could bear... not only is this too much for me to handle, but for her as well. The chemotherapy went as planned, and the doctor hopes to give us some kind of result today. I am praying for hope.
I walk out of the bathroom, and my mother meets me around the corner, swollen eyes smiling back at me. Her voice is jumpy, yet soothing, reminding me that everything is okay...a cliché form of psychological therapy, however, mothers seem to reinvent it every time. I glance around the room, realizing the many patients in the waiting room are curiously staring in our direction. Embarrassed, I pull my mom to the side, and let it out. No guilt, no pain, no humiliation. Only me and my mother, cuddling mid stand, as we slide our backs to the floor. I open my eyes and see her shoulder is soaked with disheartening tears.
