Are You Really Sick?

            by Sophie Bridgers

 

When you’re six, the monsters lurking under your bed are the scariest things in the world, and the word cancer is just that: a word.

            The spring of my sixth year began normally, filled with art projects, recess, and story time.  My friends and I tumbled on the playground, happy that winter rains were fading into early summer sun.

            “Tag, you’re it!” I yelled, and squealed with delight as Zoe sped after me across the grass.  I stumbled in my haste and crashed to the ground.

            “You okay?” Zoe asked with a wrinkle of her forehead.

            “Of course!” I stood up proudly, showing off my grass stains.  I couldn’t wait to see my mom’s reaction.

            I rushed out of class at the sound of the bell, eager to share my adventures of the day.  My mom, as always, was waiting by her car, arms out, a huge smile stretched across her face.  I leapt into her embrace and she spun around, encouraged by my giggles.

            “How was school, kiddo?”

            “Great!  I beat Zoe in tag, and look!”  I beamed as she inspected my stains.

“You look like a soldier returning from battle.  What a hero you are.”  She laughed and shook her head. “How am I ever going to keep those clothes clean?!”

As we drove home, I rolled down the window and stuck my head as far out as possible.  I’m flying, I smiled to myself.  Just like Peter Pan.

            We pulled into our driveway and much to my amazement my dad’s car was waiting for us.

            “Daddy’s home, Daddy’s home,” I sang.

            “Yes,” my mom sighed.  “He’s home early.”

            “Where’s my potato head?” my dad called from the couch.  As usual, a football game blared from the TV.  My mom and I both agreed: watching football was one of Dad’s most “boringest” pastimes.

            “Daddy, Daddy guess what?  I’m faster than Zoe and today I learned how to write my name and Michael got this new bubble gum that is soooo good and look how green I am…” As I gushed about my day, my mom slipped upstairs, my dad following her with his eyes.

            “ Hey, Hon,” he called to my mom, interrupting me. “Why don’t you rest; I’ll take care of Soph and dinner?”

            “Thanks,” she smiled and continued up the stairs.

            “Where’s Mommy going?”

            “She needs a nap.”

            “A nap?” I said in disbelief. “But she’s a big girl!”

            “Sometimes big girls need naps too.”

            “Not me!”  My nose shot up defiantly.

            “No, not you.  What you need are some tickles!”

            “Dad-dy, sto-stop it!” I gasped between sobs of laughter.

                                                            ~

            The Friday of Memorial Day Weekend, my dad and I took Rosie, our black lab mix, to the Marina, while my mom was at the doctor’s.  I insisted on holding the leash and spent most of the walk being jerked forward as Rosie inspected one mole hole and then lurched for the next.

            “Why’s Mommy at the doctor’s?”

            “She needs a check-up just like you do sometimes.”

            I winced, thinking of the needles that often accompanied my visits to the doctor’s office.

            “Is she getting a shot?” I asked worriedly.

            “I don’t think so,” he smiled reassuringly. “I think they’re just seeing if she’s healthy.”

            “Oh…” Rosie yanked on the leash, and I went stumbling after her.  Laughing, my dad scooped me up onto his shoulders as he took control of the lead.  His strength minimized the effect of Rosie’s sudden impulses. 

The fresh air of the Marina whipped around us as we looped along the path.  The rays of the sun shimmered among the subtle waves of the water.  I tilted my head back with arms spread wide, closing my eyes as the breeze tickled my face.

                                                            ~

I was snuggled into the couch, watching cartoons, when my dad came in and sat down next to me.  He patted his lap, and I crawled on like a puppy longing for affection.

“Mommy’s sick,” he said to me, and waited to hear my response.

“I have some grape Tylenol,” I offered thoughtfully, referring to the one thing my mom always gave me when I was really sick.  “She can have some, even though the cherry’s better.”

“I’ll tell her that,” he said chuckling. 

“Where is she now?”

“Upstairs resting.  Why don’t you go make her feel better?”

“Yes sir,” I said with a salute, ready to take on the mission.  Playing nurse was going to be fun.  I had a doctor’s kit and everything.

I marched up the stairs, kit in hand, prepared to start my recovery duties.  I peered into my parents’ bedroom.  Mom didn’t look sick.  There was no washcloth draped across her forehead or tissues scattered across the bed or a thermometer poking out from under her tongue.  She was just sitting, reading, enveloped in the folds of her blankets.

             “Hey sweetie, come on in,” she said, looking up.

“Mom?” I asked as I pulled myself onto the bed.  “Are you really sick?”

“Yep,” she nodded.

“Do you feel sick?”

“Mostly just tired.”

“Well don’t worry, I’m here to make you better!”

“I’m sure you will,” she said, tickling my nose with hers in an Eskimo kiss.  She reached for my hand and squeezed it gently.  “I will get better, but…I might be sick for awhile, okay?”  I nodded, slightly confused.

            As my mom drifted off, I cuddled against her, rocking to the rhythm of her breath.  Sick for awhile? How long is that?

                                                            ~

            Sunlight snuck in through the windows, dancing with the shadows on the floor.  I sat surrounded by a moat of toys, lost in a world of make-believe.  My Barbies stared at me, frozen in the scene I had created for them.  Ken leaned precariously against my dresser, disappointed that Barbie couldn’t go out tonight.  She was sick and would be for awhile.

            A suitcase stood waiting for me in the doorway.  It was red with thick seams running around the sides.  Large silver clasps and a sturdy handle adorned its top as well as two letter “N’s” (the “A” had been lost on one of my mother’s childhood adventures).  Holding my mom’s old suitcase was like holding her hand; a part of her surged through it.  But now as I glanced at it, my stomach fluttered, and I had to swallow hard in order to keep my nerves from jumping out.

            I was about to embark on my first trip without my parents.  Grandma and Grandpa were taking me to my cousins’ house in Grass Valley.  I loved their house.  It was full of squishy couches, beds to jump on till you hit the ceiling, and numerous places where only I could fit during a game of hide-‘n-seek.  However, going without my parents was frightening; what would happen to me at night when the lights were turned off?

            Mom couldn’t go because she had a special appointment at the hospital.  She was sick with something my parents called “cancer” and was always at the doctor’s.  I didn’t know much about cancer, but I did know that hospitals were bad news.  They were where you went if you broke your arm or got something stuck up your nose.  You didn’t go to the hospital unless something was very wrong.

            As we pulled away from the house, my parents waved from the porch.  My dad’s teddy-bear arm wrapped itself securely around my mom as she blew kisses to me in the backseat.  I caught every one and relief breathed through me.  My dad would protect her; she wouldn’t have to go to the hospital alone.

“Cheer up Hon,” my grandma smiled from the front seat.  “This trip’s gonna be fun, and guess what?  I brought Disney tunes!”

                                                            ~

            The bed was huge.  I found it waiting for me when I returned home.  If I stood on the very tips of my toes, I could just barely peer over the side.  Metal bars lined its edges.  They looked like the red, plastic gates on my bed that kept me from tossing and turning myself onto the floor at night.  The remote was my favorite part.  I spent giggling hours pushing buttons, always amazed as the bed rose up and fell back down.  Up and down, up and down, I never grew bored of its predictable path.  To me that bed was magical.

            “But I want to sleep in it tonight,” I whined.

            “Sophie, it’s Mommy’s bed, and she needs it for one more night.  You can sleep in it tomorrow before it goes back to the hospital.”

            “But why does Mommy get it for hundreds of nights, and I only get it for one?”

            “Because Mommy’s sick, remember?”

            “I know,” I said staring at my feet.  She’s always sick.

“Why don’t you go downstairs and read her a bedtime story?”

            “Daddy,” I laughed, shaking my head. “You know I can’t read.”

            “Why don’t you go tell her a story then?  But no ghost stories; we don’t want to give her nightmares.”  I nodded, shivering at the thought of the tiger that had chased me in my dreams the night before.

                                                            ~

            The following night, I lay awake in the magical bed.  My parents’ snores drifted down from the second floor.  The wind sang as it blew through the leaves, and I jumped at the sound of its eerie whistle.  Visions of ghosts and faces at the window swirled in my head.  My heartbeat pounded in my ears as I used the metal bars to help me slide off of the bed.  My feet hit the ground, and I sprinted across the room, up the stairs, and into the safety of my sheets.  Mommy’s brave, I thought to myself.  She can sleep downstairs all by herself.  The monsters under the bed were still too much for me to handle alone.

                                                            ~

            I heard the retching first, followed by the gasps.  Then I smelled it.  The thick, heavy stench of indigested food hit me like a wall, and I braced myself, as the familiar taste of vomit seemed to fill my mouth as well.  I tiptoed hesitantly up the stairs, afraid of the image I would find at the top but unable to force myself to turn around.  I found my mom on her knees, heaving over the toilet.  She shook with each breath.  Exhaustion and disgust hung in the air.  Trembling, I backed into a corner and slid down into a squat.  She’s sick.  She’s really, really sick.

            “Daddy?”  I whispered, beginning to cry.  “Daddy?”  I whimpered a little louder as the tears poured down my cheeks.  Suddenly arms wrapped around me, pulling me into their safety.  My pounding heart beat with the one in my father’s chest.

            “It’s okay, sweetie.  It’s okay.”  My dad’s soothing words surrounded me as he rocked back and fourth.  “Everything’s gonna be okay.”

                                                            ~

            After that night, my mother’s red suitcase and I found ourselves at friends’ houses a lot.  I never again saw my mother slouching limply over the toilet, but that image of her remained hidden in my memory, ready to jump out and say “Boo!” at any moment.

                                                            ~

            My mother searched the house.  She was determined to find all of it.  Her hair had been falling out for almost a week, and she couldn’t stand shedding like a dog.  I thought the search was fun, like an Easter egg hunt without the candy.

            “Why is your hair coming out again?” I asked as I crawled under the table.  My mother followed with the dust-buster.

            “It’s because of the medicine I take.”

            “Are you really going to lose all of it?” I asked skeptically.

            “I’m ‘fraid so,” she sighed and leaned against the table, breathing heavily.

            I squinted and tried to imagine my mother without her golden brown waves.  I remembered the time a boy at school cut off my doll’s hair, and I shuddered at the thought of my mom’s head covered with splotches of prickly hair and bald spots.

            “It’ll grow back, right?” I asked anxiously.

            “I hope so,” she replied.  I sucked in a breath of panic.  “I mean, of course it will,” she added reassuringly.  “Of course it will.  Now why don’t you go upstairs and play.  I can finish cleaning.”

            I shook my head.  I wasn’t going anywhere. 

                                                            ~

            An entire world spread itself across my room, a world sprung from my imagination, full of magic, love, and fantasy.  I sat in the center, breathing life into the toys around me.  A breeze pushed gently through the open window, tickling my face into a smile.  Nobody died in my games.  They always ended happily ever after.

            “Hey sweetie.”  My mother’s voice tugged me back into reality.  She came in cautiously, stepping over toys, careful not to disrupt my world.

            “I did it,” she said triumphantly, kneeling beside me.

            “You cut off your hair?”

            “Hm-hm,” she nodded.  Hesitantly, I slipped the hat she was wearing off of her head.  Sure enough her hair was gone, replaced by a buzz-cut, a boy cut.  I bit my lip.  Why did she have to lose her hair?  Mommies are supposed to have hair.

            “Don’t worry,” she smiled, ruffling my hair with her hand.  “It will grow back just like yours did when you got it cut.”  I nodded doubtfully.  “Go ahead, touch it.  It’s really soft.”

            I reached out and timidly brushed my hand over her head.

            “It feels like a puppy,” I laughed.

            “Like a puppy,” she agreed, smiling.

                                                            ~

            I hid in the folds of  my mom’s friend Rondi's flowing shirt.  This couldn’t be my mother.  This woman had no hair.  The sun painted shadows onto the glossy scalp of the figure standing before me.  My mother has beautiful brown hair.  She isn’t bald.

            “She kind of looks like Uncle Fester from the Adams Family,” Rondi whispered jokingly into my ear, trying to make me laugh.  “You’re not scared of him are you?”  I giggled at the thought and shook my head.

            “Sophie, it’s still me.  It’s still Mommy.”

            I moved away from Rondi, snuggling into the familiar comfort of my mother’s lap.  She still smells like Mommy, I thought, relieved.

            “Sophie, hair grows back,” my mother reassured me.  “Plus, for now I won’t have any bad hair days!”  Rondi chuckled at my mom’s comment.  “You can help me shop for hats if you want.”

            I brightened at the thought.  “Can we get a cowboy’s hat?”

            “Sure, whatever you want.”

            “Really?  What about a sailor’s hat or a wizard’s hat or a princess’s?”

            “Well, maybe not whatever you want,” she answered, laughing.

                                                            ~

            Somehow the cancer disappeared.  I didn’t know why it came or how it left, but it definitely disappeared.  My mom stopped going to the doctor’s all of the time and, much to my relief, her hair began growing back.  Her exhaustion faded and “Mommy naptime” left with it.  My dad laughed more, and my red suitcase lay idly beneath my bed. 

            Clocks ticked and memories of my mother’s illness softened.  Their edges blurred, blending with other images, their details lost within the depths of my mind.

                                                            ~

            “What were you thinking about when your mother was sick?” my dad asks as he pulls onto the freeway.  My hand reaches out the window, soaring with the waves of the wind.  I breathe in sharply, startled by the abruptness of his question.  I think back to that time.  The pain hasn’t left visible scars, but it’s not a period I enjoy remembering.  I look at my father, searching for an answer in the wrinkles of his face.  His eyes remain focused on the road.

            “I was afraid that she was going to die,” I say slowly.  He looks at me anxiously, and then remembers where he is and snaps his head back to the road.

            “I didn’t know…” he fumbles for words unsettled by my response.  “You didn’t tell me.  Why didn’t you tell me?”

            “Dad, there’re some things you just can’t talk about.”  He reaches out and squeezes my hand.

            “I know, but you can always talk to me.”

                                                            ~

            On my desk sits a makeshift photo-album, a small stack of thick and grainy art paper tied together with a fraying gold ribbon.  Inside, pictures fall out with each turn of the page, no longer bound to the paper.  They are pictures of a woman.  They are pictures of a strong woman, a laughing woman, a scared woman.  They are pictures of a bald woman, a glowing woman, a beautiful woman.  They are pictures of my mother.