The Words We Leave Unspoken
L.D. Cedergreen
To my sister, Christina
Of two sisters one is always the watcher, one the dancer.
– Louise Glück
Chapter 1
Gwen
I can almost hear each second tick by from the round clock on the wall that I stare at over Dr. Rand’s shiny bald head. He’s speaking to me, his mouth is moving and yet his words, words like cancer, stage four, and terminal are beating a distant drum in my head, almost in time with the second hand of the clock. Or is that my heart?
“Gwen? Gwen? Do you understand what I’m telling you?” Dr. Rand asks as he stands, leaving his chair and moving around his desk to kneel in front of me.
“Gwen? Are you alright?” he asks again, this time his voice is loud, like a beacon penetrating the dense fog that I am lost in. My eyes venture from the clock to his kind, weathered face that is now only inches from mine.
“What?” I whisper through the knot sitting in the back of my throat.
“Do you understand what I’m telling you? We’re dealing with more then one tumor this time. I’m sorry, but the cancer’s back. Only now it has metastasized.”
“So what’s the plan this time? More surgery? More chemo?” The thought alone of more chemotherapy makes the room spin and I instantly feel queasy. But I’ll do it again, if that’s what it takes.
“Well, we can try an aggressive approach if you want, but I’m not going to lie. It will be hell and the chances of beating this, at this stage, aren’t likely.”
“So what then? What are you saying?”
He stands and leans back on his desk, crossing his ankles. I watch him remove his wire-rim glasses and rub his eyes, waiting for him to tell me the plan, the treatment, the solution.
“I’m saying, Gwen, that there’s not much we can do. We wait. We monitor your condition and, in the meantime, you spend time at home with your family. I’m sorry. We just didn’t catch it in time.”
Time. After the first cancer diagnosis, I told myself that I would never take another day for granted. That I would wake each morning and remember how precious time is, that I would truly live my life to the fullest. And I did just that, for a while, but I realize now as if I’m stuck in a very bad déjà vu moment, that I have once again allowed myself to get swept away in the rat race, relying on the “later” in life, as if my existence had no expiration date. I had underestimated just how fleeting life could be. Time. That word resonates in my head, louder and louder as my mind flashes to Olivia and Max. To John.
Olivia, my sweet girl, is ten years old, but when I think of her, I still picture her round toddler face framed by short wispy strands of blonde hair. Her eyes were so big for her tiny face back then. She was born stubborn and strong-willed, much like me, but with pure tenderness on the inside. She has ruled our world since the day she was born, a princess in her own mind. But she needs me the most, even though she is the oldest and fights me tooth and nail for her independence, hell-bent on doing everything herself. Deep inside she needs me. And Max, my baby boy, just barely turned five. He still has those big, chubby hands and pudgy cheeks, not quite rid of his baby softness. I know that it is only a matter of months before it will be gone, lost to the leanness of boyhood. He is the one who relies on my snuggles, always in demand of a physical closeness, a mama’s boy through and through. John often accuses me of liking Max more, but I deny it. It’s not that I like him more; he’s just easier to love – if that makes any sense. And yet, I have loved Olivia longer and possibly more fiercely, as if she needs me to fight for her affection in order to prove my love for her. In contrast, Max is completely uncomplicated. He is more like his daddy; he even resembles John with his blond curls and big blue eyes. And then there’s John. My one, my only, true love. Not many people are fortunate enough to have what we have. It’s the real deal. He’s the one person, the only person, I want sitting in the empty chair beside me. But he’s also the one person I didn’t want to burden with worry until I knew for sure.
And now I know.
Recently celebrating thirteen years of marriage, I can’t imagine my life without him. And I can’t begin to picture his life without me. On the occasion, thirteen years had seemed like such a big chunk of time, but now, in this moment, it feels like so little. Time. How much time will I have left with them? How much time is enough? Why is this happening to me?
“Of course, the choice is yours. If you want to try an aggressive approach, we can start immediately.”
“Choice? I have a choice? Like what kind of choice? Make myself so sick that I actually want to die or pretend like everything is fine until the cancer eventually kills me? Either way I’m dead, right? Is that what you’re saying?” Tears make their way down my cheeks as I try to keep myself from shouting. I am suddenly so angry. I did everything right the first time around. I survived the lumpectomy, the chemotherapy, the radiation. I went to my follow-up appointments. I ate healthy, I exercised, I even prayed. I’m a good person, a faithful wife, a devoted mother. I think of all the numerous selfless things that I do, ticking them off one-by-one in my mind. I volunteer on the PTA at the kids’ school not because I am desperate to be involved but because I took over from my best friend Lucy when she gave birth to twin boys; her third pregnancy she labeled a “whoopsy” that overwhelmed her to the point of near insanity. I drive carpool nearly every day of the week for my two neighbors who have children in separate schools, feeling grateful to be able to lighten their morning chaos. I coach Max’s soccer team, having no soccer experience myself but mainly because no one would step up to fill this role, not even John with his busy work schedule, and let’s face it, someone has to do it. I bake six extra items each year for the school bake sale, excusing the working moms in Olivia’s class from this annual fundraiser. And I am happy to do it. And yet as I scroll through this do-gooder list in my head, I know that this will not help my case. I know that it will not matter how many cakes I bake or teams I coach or kind gestures I perform; it won’t change the fact that I have cancer and that I am very likely going to die. This isn’t supposed to happen to me. I’m only thirty-six years old.