Sickly sweet nurses ushered my mom and I down the hall to Dr. Newsom’s office. This had become routine for us. Friday afternoon’s consisted of waking up from a semi-drug induced coma, eating something that could tide me over until seven, and heading to the hospital for blood work and med checks. However, today Newsom wanted me to get an MRI. Anyone with a possibly-terminal disease knows that MRI’s cannot be good signs.
The door to what was not Newsom’s office, but in fact, the MRI room, was opened for us and I had the sudden feeling of impending doom overwhelm me. Mom gripped my shoulder and I wasn’t quite sure who she was trying to comfort more; her or me. Newsom smiled his tight-lipped smile and rose from his leather chair in greeting. Mom shook his hand and I smiled, not making a move to do the same. Clasping his hands behind his back, he said,
“Hello Mrs. Clements, Mara, how are you today?”
Mom ran a hand through her dirty blonde hair and let out an exasperated laugh, saying,
“Oh just curious as to why you could possibly want Mara to get an MRI.”
She stressed the word ‘curious’ as to emphasize that she wasn’t worried about anything, which we all knew was a lie. He nodded, his face going solemnly serious. His eyes darted to a stack of papers on the table beside him. I followed his gaze. He sighed and replied,
“Well, when nurses and I were observing Mara’s blood tests from last Friday we noticed that something was… off, to say the least. We just want the MRI to make sure that her meds are still working et cetera. It’s standard protocol, nothing to worry about.”
I closed my eyes, knowing that nothing good was going to come out of this visit. I swear that I could feel my mother’s heart rate doubling, no, triple with every passing second. A nurse, one who looked rather excited to perform the test. Newsom looked from her to us and exclaimed,
“Oh! This is Eliza. She’s filling in for Patty while she’s on maternity leave.”
I nodded. Great, new people to get adjusted to. Eliza smiled and waved, holding a blanket and pillow for me to use. I took them, sighing against the plush fabric. Mom pulled out headphones and earplugs from her purse, handing them to me as well. I looked at the three of them, who all seemed to forget that I was even here. Voice cracking, I said,
“Let’s get this over with.”
…
Approximately an hour and fifteen minutes later, the scan finished up. I went into the bathroom and changed back into my sweats. When I came out, Mom was looking more anxious than I felt. Knowing these things, we probably wouldn’t get results for another week. That is, unless it required emergency reviewing from the radiologist. Probably didn’t though, I haven’t shown any bad symptoms of anything else. Eliza came up to my mom and I with a sweet smile plastered onto her face. Mom didn’t even bother returning the gesture. Eliza looked to me and directly addressed me in the conversation, which hardly ever happened. Someone needed to give her a few pointers.
“Mara, Dr. Newsom said that the scans should be under review by Tuesday so they will have the results by your next visit.”
I nodded, quietly thanking her. Mom shooed her off, turning to me.
“Are you scared?” she asked. I shook my head. I had given up being scared of my useless brain a while ago. Of course I didn’t want anything to happen, but I really wasn’t scared. Mom cocked her head to the side.
“I don’t think that you understand the severity of this, Mara. You could be dying! We don’t know!”
“Mom, I’m going to die one day. Who cares if it’s sooner than we expected?”
She gaped, her eyes brimming with tears. I looked away, pulling my jacket off of the chair. Standing up, I looked to my feet and muttered,
“I have a Geometry test tomorrow. Let’s go.”
…
I failed my geometry test. Mom didn’t get angry. I think she genuinely believes that I’m dying.
…
Dad took me to an ice cream shop before my appointment Friday. Mom was upset that she couldn’t go because of work. I’m glad she can’t. Dad and I were ushered to Newsom’s office, which was eerily quiet today. That ‘impending doom’ feeling returned. Eliza was in the room too, which made me feel slightly better. I didn’t like her though, she seemed too… optimistic. Don’t get me wrong, optimism is fine, but not in a hospital. Not today.
Newsom gestured to the two sandpaper chairs across from his desk. There was a file folder in front of him with “Marzia Annie Clements” written on it in green Sharpie. My fate lay in that folder. My whole life: past, present, and future, all condensed into statistics and graphs. It was sick.
Newsom opened it hesitantly, seemingly questioning if he should or not. Dad tapped his foot impatiently.
“I have some… bad news.” Newsom said. My breath hitched. I felt Dad squeeze my hand and Eliza looked at me solemnly. Dad nodded for him to go on. Newsom sighed and continued.
“It appears that the, um, tumor has stopped reacting to Mara’s meds and has grown into what appears to be stage three anaplastic astrocytoma.”
What does that mean? I wanted to scream, but said nothing. My body was broken, this I knew, but stage three broken? Seemed drastic, even for my melodramatic mind. Dad gulped and Newsom decided to drop another bomb on us.
“It appears that the tumor has been spreading... it is now in the frontal lobe of her brain as well. We’re surprised to see that she’s made it this long. That being said, we have treatments that we can give, but we cannot stop it from spreading. Only slow it down.”
“How long?” I asked. Everyone turned to me, as if surprised I was in the room. Eliza spoke first.
“I’m sorry?”
I closed my eyes, fists clenched. With a shaky breath, I said,
“Just-Just cut to the chase and tell me how much longer I have until I inevitably die?”
Everyone seemed taken aback, but this didn’t faze me. Newsom brought his hands to rest under his chin. He stared at me, surveying me for any sign of tears. As far as I know, there wasn’t one. He sighed and leaned back in his chair, pulling his glasses off to rub his eyes. In his gravelly voice, he said,
“Based off of how much it has spread in such a short time and how much slower the treatment can make it, I’d give you fifty – sixty days at most. I’m sorry Mara. We all are.”
I dropped my gaze, my fingernails drawing blood from the inside of my palms. Fifty days. Only fifty days until my life inevitably ends and I’m reincarnated into a spider, or worse, nothing at all.
