“I sure did, Carter,” my mom says, her voice mimicking Bill’s cheerfulness.
“Here, Alice, let me say hello to our boy for a minute.” Bill’s voice is more difficult to hear, but after a brief pause, the phone is passed over.
“Hey, Carter,” he says, his voice thick with concern.
The image of the seventy-six-year-old man talking on the phone and driving is enough to send me to my feet in concern. “Hey, if youneed to focus on driving, I can call you back later,” I offer, pacing back and forth—two steps in one direction, two steps in the other.
“No, that’s all right. I pulled off on the highway so I could talk to you. Your mom did great during the appointment today, but, well, he said we will likely need to keep a closer eye on her soon. He’s recommending we start looking at lining up some full-time support.”
I hear Bill’s voice crack, and I know it’s because of the guilt he carries. He’s so much older than my mom, yet he’s still sharp, still has his mind intact. He told me when my mom was first diagnosed that he always assumed it would be my mom taking care of him and Mildred when they got older. That she’d be the one running the restaurant when they couldn’t do it themselves. Now, he’s taking care of her.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll start looking into it.”
Bill coughs, clearing his throat. “I’d offer that Mildred and I can move in, but I just don’t think we can handle the diner and care.”
I can tell he’s censoring himself, trying to make it feel like we aren’t talking about my mom when she’s sitting right next to him.
“I’m sorry,” he says gruffly, as if he’s letting me down.
“Bill, don’t,” I cut him off. “I know you’re doing everything you can, and I appreciate it more than I could ever express. I will figure out care that isn’t you. I can move in with her and then find an in-home nurse for when I’m at work or see if I can transition to working from home more.”
My brain is spinning, spiraling out of control as I try to process the news. It’s clear the doctor’s diagnosis wasn’t good. Last time we went in for a full checkup, he was thinking at least two years until we would need my mom to be under some sort of care.
“Carter, you need to think long and hard about if that’s the right decision for you. You’ve got a lot of exciting things happening in your life right now. You can’t take the full weight of this on your shoulders.”
I know he has more to say on the subject, but he’s holding himself back to make sure he doesn’t upset my mom.
“Did he say anything about her medication or any other treatment options we could at least try?” I ask, my voice quieter now, as if asking the question will somehow change the answer. The weight of it all presses down on me, the responsibility, the helplessness. Every word feels like it’s dragging me further into an abyss.
Bill’s voice is steady, but I can hear the weariness in his tone. “The doctor says her medication is still helping a little. But, Carter, it’s not going to stop the inevitable.”
I know that. Logically, I do. It’s the hard truth you have to face every day when someone you love is diagnosed with an incurable disease. You can treat the symptoms, maybe slow the progression, but from the time it’s diagnosed—shit, from the time the symptoms hit hard enough to warrant a diagnosis—life will never be the same. There is no getting past it, just through it.
I nod, even though Bill can’t see me. I’ve been dreading this conversation, dreading the moment when I’d have to face the truth—and I thought I had more time than this.
“Okay,” I say softly, trying to gather my thoughts. “I’ll look into options in Wild Bluffs and the surrounding towns. It’s not great timing for me, but I’ll make sure we’re prepared.”
Bill is silent for a moment, and I know he’s thinking the same thing I am. How do you prepare for something like this? How do you wrap your mind around the idea of losing someone slowly, piece by piece, when there’s nothing you can do to stop it?
“You’ve got a lot on your plate right now, Carter,” Bill says finally, his voice softer. “With the tour and everything going on… I just want you to make sure you don’t lose yourself in all this. You’ve been carrying a lot already, and I don’t want you burning out. I want you to have a life outside of this.”
I don’t respond right away. I just stand there, looking out the hotel window, watching the harsh midday light filter through the curtains. His words hit hard. Even with everything going on, this last month has been almost a vacation. Yes, I’m working basically every day, but it’s fun. I come back to the hotel at night and curl up next to the woman I’m crazy about, and I don’t have to worry about money or bills or medication or if my mom’s still going to remember me. And while I was gone, living this life, my mom’s been getting worse. Suffering. Maybe if I’d been home, if I’d— No. I shake my head. I can’t let myself go down that road.
“I don’t have a choice, Bill,” I say, my voice breaking slightly. “I can’t just walk away from this. From her.”
“I know,” Bill replies, his voice steady but full of empathy. “But you don’t have to do it alone, Carter. Mildred and I can help you make sure you get the help you’re going to need—whatever it ends up looking like.”
“I know,” I repeat, but the words feel hollow.
The conversation lingers in the air for a moment longer, but it’s clear there’s nothing more to say right now. There’s no easy fix for this. No magic words that will make it go away. Just the hard reality that we’re—I’m—going to have to make some tough choices.
“Thanks, Bill,” I finally say, my voice rough. “I appreciate you being there. For both of us.”
“We’re happy to help, Carter,” Bill says quietly. “I’ll call you tomorrow around this time, and we can debrief the entire appointment.”
“What appointment?” I hear my mom ask in the background, and I can’t stop the tear that trickles down my face at the question.
I hang up the phone, but the silence that follows feels heavy. The noise of the city outside the window does nothing to fill the void that has replaced my lungs. I run a hand through my hair, trying to push away the tightness in my chest. My mom’s diagnosis, the thought of losing her, is too much.
