“Rue,” Mom says in a quiet yet firm voice, looking at the same scans of her brain as me. “I’m fine. I’m not having a seizure. This is nothing.”
I have never wanted to shake someone stupid then give them a big hug more.
“Nothing?” I zero in on the scar on her forehead. It holds so much more weight than it ever has before. “Mom, this is the opposite of nothing. You have a brain tumor. That’s making you forget things. Making you impulsive. Making you have headaches. We have no money.”
“We’ll figure out the money,” she says. “And I’ll be fine.”
“Fine?” She’s in denial. I blow the bangs out of my face and look at the doctor. “What do we need to do? What are the options?”
“There’s radiation,” he begins. “It’s less invasive but often not as effective. The neurologist can give you specifics, but it would likely stunt the growth and not shrink it. The only way to remove it is surgery. It’s riskier but has a better chance of getting it all.” He slides another folder to me. “This is everything from the neurologist. He’s out of Duke if you want to talk to him.”
My mom has the nerve to look annoyed.
That she didn’t tell meshehas a brain tumor.
“What happens if we do nothing?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Again, that’s a question for the neurologist, but—” He sighs. “Given the symptoms, I’d expect them to continue if not worsen over time.”
I look from him to my mom, panic licking at my spine. I don’t want her to worsen. I don’t want any of this.
The doctor continues to talk while I study every line of the paperwork.Symptom frequency can range from daily to weekly—that tracks—and will likely increase as the tumor grows. But it’s the line about surgery that stops me:Grade I meningioma tumors have a high surgical success rate and a low recurrence risk rate.
It’s all I need to know.
“How much? With our insurance I mean?”
“That’s a question for Maureen at the front desk. Depends on your deductible.”
I don’t need Maureen—it’s high. I know that because for a small business like ours, insurance is expensive. We chose the coverage we did for emergencies, not because we were harboring secret brain tumors that made us date internet assholes. Our high deductible made sense up until about two hours ago when we were all healthy and our bank account held money.
This is bad.
By the time I’m driving—both of us quiet—my only thought is on her having that surgery. How we’re going to pay for it and how I’ll convince her to do it. I’ll drag her into the operating room kicking and screaming if that’s what it takes. I’ll use a gag and handcuffs. I’ll rob a bank.
At her familiar farmhouse—her doctor assured me multiple times she is still very capable of living alone—I cut the engine.
The house is dark, but I can easily picture the vibrant colored walls covered in our photos and the rag rugs on the wood floors.
The mismatched furniture that fills every room.
Her bookshelves covered in her favorite books.
The smell of her basil plant in the kitchen window and the coolness of the pink satin sash of her robe between my fingers.
I see her in the yard, decades younger, bossing us girls around as we pick dandelions for her to turn into tea. Until this moment, I’ve always thought of her exactly that way: perpetually forty-five and perpetually her. Maybe just ... perpetual.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” I finally ask.
“It was nothing,” she says. “Ed had just died ... it didn’t feel important. Like a mole.”
I scoff. “A mole, Mom?”
She fidgets with her bracelets but says nothing.
“And the surgery?” I sound angrier than I intend. “Why are you fighting it?”
“I don’t see you rushing to have your skull cracked open and brain dissected.” We exchange eye rolls. “And I knew once I told you, this is what would happen. I just ...” She sighs. “Wanted a little more time.”
