I fill him in on how she usually doesn’t ever want to leave, but also tell him about our dessert date the other night and how I felt like that was a turning point for her. But this fall is definitely a setback.
“I know her last scan didn’t show a lot of promise, but I’m confident in her treatment. I’m hoping this fall is just that—a fall. People who have a weakened system sometimes lose their balance and take a tumble, and it’s nothing to worry about.” He places his hand on my knee and smiles. “I’ll let you know soon.”
With that, he takes his exit, leaving me in a sterile, empty room while the emergency room staff bustles around outside the walls. I don’t want to know what’s going on out there because I’ve been on that side before with the tears falling, my heart breaking, and my world crashing down around me. I hate this place just as much as I hate the cancer that is stealing my mother from me. Even if she’s winning the battle, it’s taking her spirit, and I don’t know if she’ll ever bounce back from it.
The sound of squeaking tires and soft mumbles startles me awake. The orderlies are back and hooking my mother up to the machines. I stretch and close my eyes as my muscles rebel against me. They’re sore and achy, and my neck has a kink it in from falling asleep in the chair.
“How’s my mother?” I ask when the nurse walks in.
“She’s fine but is sleeping. She should wake up soon.”
The nurse doesn’t say anything else before exiting the room. I know Dr. Sanchez will be back in to give me the results, but it’s the waiting that is going to kill me.
Taking my chair, I set it down beside her bed and hold her hand in mine. She’s clammy and probably in need of another blanket, but I can’t move. Since she’s been battling cancer, she has aged, and it hasn’t been gracefully. Her beauty has been eaten away by the amount of chemicals being pumped into her body. Her plump cheeks, full lips, and brilliant eyes no longer exist. Her clothes hang from he
r body as if she can’t afford new ones, and she no longer walks with purpose but shuffles her feet along until she can find a place to sit and rest.
“Ahem.”
I raise my head and wipe my tears when Dr. Sanchez enters the room. He looks somber, and my stomach twists in a knot.
“I’m going to just be blunt.”
“It’s what I expect,” I remind him. There’s no need to sugarcoat anything for me. Even though I would love for him to come out and say she’s perfect, I know better.
“She has a broken ankle.”
“That’s easy to fix, right?” My hopes start to soar.
“It is, but we can’t.”
“Why not?”
He pulls the stupid orange chair close to me and sits down. Tears prickle my eyes, but I fight them back.
“The cancer has spread, Ainsley, and there isn’t anything we can do. It’s everywhere now, lungs, kidneys, and liver.”
“What does that mean?” My voice breaks, and I have to cover my mouth to hold back a sob. Deep inside, I know what it means, but he has to tell me. I have to hear the words come out of his mouth.
“She has weeks, maybe a month or so left. She’s too weak for chemo or radiation, and we can’t do surgery—there’s just too much cancer—and whatever we do try and remove, I have a feeling more clusters will take their place. Her immune system is already compromised, and opening her up will only cause her more harm than good.”
“Is she in pain?”
He shakes his head. “No, we’ve started her on liquid Roxanol and will administer the dosage through her IVs. She’ll be in and out of consciousness for the most part, and some days will be better than others, depending on her pain tolerance.”
“Okay,” I say, looking over at my mother, who seems to be frailer now than she was minutes before he walked in.
“I’m sorry, Ainsley. I wish my news was better.”
I wipe away the tears and turn back toward her, giving her all my attention.
“The nurse will call for hospice care, and they’ll be here to pick her up. It’s two floors above, and I’ll still be able to check on her.”
“Can’t I take her home?” Once the words are out of my mouth, I want to take them back. I already know the answer. My mother will never see the inside of her condo again.
“She needs twenty-four-hour care, and her insurance won’t pay for a live-in nurse. We can send her to hospice or keep her here. It’s your choice.”
I nod, tuning him out. I don’t want to think about what tomorrow, the next day, or even next week will be like.