Hope and Other Punch Lines(61)

Tumor. Tumor. Tumor.

Say that five times fast and it still doesn’t lose meaning. Believe me, I’ve tried.

A surgeon will slice off a piece of my lung and then send it to a lab for analysis. Even if it’s malignant, the doctor, a middle-aged woman with gray-streaked hair and a cruel brisk efficiency, has promised there are options. That’s the word she chose—options. Not one sounded even slightly appealing. Other drugs, chemo, more surgery. She talked about stages, which made me think of that time Cat went on a baby food diet and she’d stare at the little labels and restrict herself to only jars stamped with the number 1 or 2.

“It feels like the worst thing I can possibly imagine—you, sick—is actually happening, and I don’t know what to do. I’m so ashamed of how I keep failing to protect you. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. You are a child.”

My mother starts crying again, and I reach out my hand for her to grab.

“None of this is your fault. That’s one of the reasons I didn’t want to tell you. I knew you’d blame yourself,” I say.

“I think that makes me feel even worse.”

“Mom.”

“I have an idea,” she says, and clears her throat. “Tonight, let’s think happy thoughts. It doesn’t have to be about tomorrow. Or all the ways I’ve failed you, because oh, man, have I screwed this all up. I’m going to close my eyes and just for tonight feel all the best things. How proud I am to be your mother. How you’re the best thing that ever happened to me, even though I’ve never deserved you. How much I love you.”

“I love you too.” I decide denial has worked pretty well so far. Right now, while I still can, I will dwell on the good stuff. That which cannot be taken away, at least not yet. My parents again, still, together, always there for me. Swinging on the porch with my grandmother. Noah and Jack grabbing my hands in friendship. A waiting room full of people I had no idea cared. A stolen moment illuminated in pink.



* * *



—

In the morning, on top of my hospital gown, I put on a pair of oversized sweatpants and a too-small gray long-sleeve T-shirt with a shiny unicorn—what my dad picked out from my closet to bring me from home. I dab on some ChapStick. My unruly hair is pulled back into what I hope looks like an intentionally messy ponytail. The nurse refuses to unhook my IV, so there’s nothing I can do about the creepy slow drip into my bruised arm or the blue under my eyes from not sleeping.

No doubt I smell like hospital and fear.

No doubt I look as terrible as I feel.

Even though Noah’s exactly on time, I jump when he knocks on the door. My parents, who are slumped in the corner, greet him with the same kind of apologetic kiss-ass grins they used when they met with my guidance counselor about my college prospects. Fortunately, they quickly excuse themselves to get coffee.

“Why didn’t you mention you were an expert at musical chairs?” Noah asks, and though his tone is jokey, there’s a rehearsed air to the line, as if on the way over, he decided how he was going to break the ice.

“Hi,” I say, and ignore his question. Instead, I smile. Noah being here changes the balance in the air, tips me back over toward gratitude.

“Hi yourself,” he says back, and returns my smile. “So I have a speech prepared. I practiced on Jack last night, and it killed. Do you want to hear it?”

“Sure.” I don’t really want to hear a speech. I want him to sit down next to me on the non-IV side of my bed and lace his fingers with mine. I want him to tell me that if he could survive open-heart surgery as a baby, I can handle a lung biopsy.

I want him to tell me that I will not be assigned a stage. That I have been mistaken. This whole thing has all along been a comedy, not a drama. A silly adventure like Harold and Kumar, and just as nonsensical. I’ll get another fairy-tale happily-ever-after.

For the first time since I coughed up blood and recognized deep in the hollows of my bones what sort of story I was living, I allow myself to think of the possibility of an alternative.

But I know life isn’t a Choose Your Own Adventure book. The sort of hope swirling in my brain is dangerous.

“Can I sit?” Noah asks as he takes the chair most recently occupied by my mom. Then he stands up again and decides instead to move to the end of my bed.

“You don’t have to give a speech,” I say. “We’re good. Listen, you made it to the Abs stage. That’s a pretty impressive accomplishment.”

“Am I squashing your feet?” he asks.

“No.”

“Good. I brought you gummy bears instead of flowers. Figured they were a more practical choice.” Noah puts the candy on the rolling cart and then fidgets with the string of his hoodie.

“I hate hospitals. Look at that blue thing over there. That’s for medical waste. I spent the whole night wondering what gross stuff has been in there and what’s in there right now and I pictured it, like, oozing together, and climbing out and attacking me while I slept.” I realize I should stop talking, let Noah say whatever it is he came here to say. That we could do better than discussing medical waste. But alas, I am me, and I am nervous.

“You have a vivid imagination,” Noah says.

“I do.”

“Well, so do I. Which is sort of what I came here to talk about.”