All We Can Do Is Wait(62)
When her mother had finally left—disappeared, really—a strange sense of peace had descended on the little house in Dorchester. Beneath all the fear, and sadness, and utter disbelief at how quickly Morgan’s mother had crumbled and blown away, there was a feeling that things could, at least, get better for Morgan and her father, that they’d lost a big fight, and would hurt for a long time, but were still alive, able now to try to pick up and move on as best as they could.
And life hadn’t been all that bad, somehow. Morgan’s father, a retired Boston police officer, had old friends from the force who checked in on Morgan like doting uncles and aunts, occasionally filling the house with laughter and happiness, a warmth it hadn’t known in a long time. Morgan liked to think that her dad and his friends, and what she’d experienced with her mother, made her tough. She saw Dorchester changing, hordes of young people with college degrees moving into her neighborhood, fancy restaurants and stores opening up on corner after corner, so she clung to her scrappy, native Boston roots, wore her hardness with pride. She always felt on the defensive, but she got through most of her days, and indeed even a couple of years, without breaking down or otherwise losing it. Her father, often distant but amiable in a beery fog, stumbled on in his way too, the two of them a weather-beaten little team, pressing on as they slowly healed.
But then, that spring, her father started getting tired, all the time, and had a pain radiating throughout his lower back, one that went from bad to debilitating. Morgan finally convinced her stubborn, doctor-phobic father to get some tests done, and when the results came in and the office told him they’d like to discuss them in person, Morgan insisted on coming with him.
The office, way out in Wellesley by the side of Route 9, was drab and menacing in its attempts to be soothing. Smooth wooden chairs with stiff cushioning, soft-colored paintings of seashores and birch trees hanging forlornly on the walls. Right up until they were brought into the doctor’s little office—Dr. Koskinen telling them to please have a seat, the calm in her voice edged with something hard, like she was bracing the room for a difficult conversation—Morgan had convinced herself that everything was going to be fine. But then she knew. It was bad news.
And indeed it was.
“This here is where you’ve been feeling the most pain, Mr. Boyce,” Dr. Koskinen said, turning the monitor to face Morgan and her dad. She pointed at a dark mass, looking like one of those ink tests for crazy people. “That is your pancreas,” Dr. Koskinen said. “Which I’m afraid is very bad place to get cancer.”
“What does ‘very bad’ mean?” Morgan’s father asked, giving a nervous glance toward his daughter.
“Well, in certain cases we would begin chemotherapy immediately. But I’m afraid that because we found this so late—the cancer is in stage four—there isn’t much we can do.”
Morgan’s throat felt tight. She felt irrationally angry at the doctor, her pointy glasses and her snaggletooth, her tight bun and measured way of talking. She wanted to slap her.
“I see. So, what are we talking about here? Months? Years?” Morgan’s dad asked.
“That’s hard to say,” Dr. Koskinen said, turning the monitor away from Morgan and her father. “Sometimes in cases like this a patient can go a year. Sometimes only a few months. It depends on many factors, including, well, luck.”
He nodded, but said nothing. So, the doctor pressed on.
“The best course of action in these situations is usually some kind of in-patient palliative care. Among other things, we find it takes a great deal of the burden of daily care off the family,” the doctor said, looking sadly in Morgan’s direction.
“You mean like a hospice,” Morgan’s dad said, his tone hollow and faraway.
“Yes, like a hospice. There are many options in the city. Your policy from the BPD will cover a great deal of the cost, I’d imagine. I’d be happy to discuss any and all options with you and, of course, with your daughter,” the doctor said, once again zeroing in on Morgan, who felt small and utterly overwhelmed, like she’d just noticed a tidal wave coming and didn’t have time to flee.
Morgan’s father shook his head, either in resignation or disbelief, Morgan couldn’t quite tell. He grabbed Morgan’s hand and squeezed it. “I’m so sorry,” he said, tears welling in his eyes. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Morgan said nothing, too shocked to cry. They said thank you to the doctor and left, walking out into the parking garage, getting in the car, and driving home.
She watched him fade. Another parent, all over again. He was weak, didn’t leave the house much. The hospice discussion never went beyond the doctor’s office, because even with the department pension a decent place was, in fact, too expensive—“Even dying costs money,” Morgan’s father said to her with a sigh, the two of them sitting at the little table in the kitchen—and because Morgan wanted him there, in the house with her. Even though it was horrible to watch, her once strong father withering and graying.
There was still laughter, sometimes, still a steady enough stream of friends and well-wishers, bringing food (that he couldn’t keep down), sometimes cigarettes (“Can’t hurt you now!” one of Morgan’s father’s friends said, with a gravelly laugh). But many times, summer nights when the house was hot and quiet, it was just the two of them, Morgan’s father dozing in his recliner while something played on the television—a cooking show that he liked, or a Red Sox game, the cheers of the crowd and the announcers’ voices a soft drone as Morgan sat reading on the couch, one eye on her father, sometimes going over and leaning in close to make sure he was still breathing. A relief, mixed with something else, when she determined he was.