The Cookie Cure Page 3

  I’d be lying if I didn’t say that I was proud of myself as I walked onto the empty football field the day of the event to begin setting up. I was proud to be a part of something good. Did I think about the connection between Relay For Life and my testing? Not really. But maybe Mom did—she kept trying to get me to skip the event and stay home for the weekend.

  Once the other committee members arrived, we began setting up the stage, sound system, welcome tent, concession stand, and all the other thousand details I had been working on for months. My last task before the event started was to put the luminarias together. The final tally was in, and I had hundreds of names to write on white paper bags; my family and Randy arrived just in time to help. Mom and I wrote on the bags, Dad and Randy dropped sand and a candle into each one, and then volunteers placed them evenly about every ten inches around the perimeter of the track.

  With the sun nearly down, the sky was filled with stars. Fireflies flickered in the trees, and a positive, lively energy arose from the students gathered on the field amid this stunning display of lights. In order to get a better view, I moved up high in the bleachers. For all the times I’d jogged around that track, I had never paid attention like I did standing there that evening. I appreciated being there in a different way. The scene played out in slow motion as I looked down to see my classmates laughing and smiling. I’d been keeping the details of my medical testing to myself, not even sharing them with my closest friends, and for a moment I longed for their innocence.

  The stadium lights dimmed and the head of the event announced, “Please make your way to the track, as we’re about to begin the luminaria ceremony.” Students began quietly walking to the soft music floating from the speakers, and I made my way to the stage in the center of the field.

  By then it was dark, apart from the glow from the flickering candles, and a single spotlight beamed down on me. Someone handed me a microphone and a clipboard. Along with selling and preparing the luminarias, it was my responsibility to read out the names of the people to whom they had been dedicated. My heart was thumping. I didn’t usually get nervous in front of crowds, but as I held the list of names, reality sank in. The names on that paper were not merely names. They were grandfathers and grandmothers, moms and dads, brothers and sisters, aunts, uncles, and friends—the names of people who had mattered to my classmates—some of whom had survived cancer, and some of whom had not.

  I began. “In memory of… In honor of…” The stadium fell silent as I read hundreds of names, focusing on one at a time, and then, before I had registered the words on the page in front of me, I read aloud, “In honor of Ken Stachler.” I looked up to find Dad and was surprised to see my parents standing alone, off to the side of the stage, watching me. I smiled.

  I put my head back down to find my place on the list, opening my mouth to keep reading—but nothing came out. Come on, Susan, just read. I couldn’t. The next name on the list jumped off the page. It was my aunt’s name…but my name too. I had known Aunt Sue would be on this list. Granny and Grandpa had sent me their donation form, and it certainly wasn’t like I was just learning for the first time Aunt Sue had died from cancer. But my heart was racing, tears were pooling in my eyes, and I knew if I spoke I’d have a quiver in my voice. Next year, is some college kid going to be up here reading my name? For the first time since the nurse practitioner had discovered the lump on my throat, I was afraid. Do I have cancer?

  Standing on the platform trying to do my part for a fund-raiser was not the time to be thinking of myself, but I couldn’t help it. Just read the name. I stood there fumbling for what was probably all of a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity. If I looked up, I knew Mom would rush to my side. If I had given her the slightest hint that I was in trouble, she would have run up there, taken me off that stage, put her arms around me, and made someone else finish reading. But I didn’t want to crumble. I wanted to be strong. And then it was out, reverberating over the football field and into the night.

  “In memory of Susan Carver Smith.”

  Dear Sue,

  I sure didn’t want Susan to go back to school during her testing. I was already feeling protective of her—it was hard to see her leave. I think I felt that if she stayed at home with me, everything would be okay. Nothing bad would happen. It was right, though, for her to go. You made doctors wait for you sometimes when you had other plans. Susan was so determined to go back, they would wait for her too. At least for a few days.

  I have to tell you, it was extraordinary to see Susan stand on the platform at the Relay For Life event. It was a peaceful night. Ken and I stood in the distance. All I could see was Susan glowing under one spotlight. Then I heard her voice—slowly, distinctly, reading out the names. And, in my head, I heard my silent, pleading prayer, begging God, “Please let what I fear most pass over Susan.” I heard Ken’s name echo through the stadium. Then, Susan said your name.

  3

  Going, Going, Gone

  Monday morning came quickly, and I found myself sitting in the outpatient surgery lobby at Saint Joseph’s Hospital with my parents and Randy. It was time for this thing at the base of my neck, which I refused to call a tumor, to go. As much as I hated waking up so early, I was ready to get this done.

  Dad broke the uncomfortable silence. “What kind of polish do they use on these floors? I wonder what they use to get them so shiny. Hey, Randy, did you know I have a commercial floor buffer?”

  I was grateful for the mindless chatter, especially when the conversation turned to food. As soon as Mom asked, “Anyone want a sandwich from East Forty-Eighth Street Market?” we began discussing what we would eat later. In between determining whether I’d have the club sandwich or roast beef and waiting for my name to be called, I jumped a little every time the double doors to our right swung open.

  I felt edgy, even though I knew I had no need to worry. I was in good hands with Dr. Jackson. As soon I met him, I liked him—he was friendly, low-key, calm, talked in terms I understood, and still had a level of cockiness I appreciated. When he assured me, “I’ll make a nice, clean incision. It’ll be flawless,” I believed him. Besides, he’d been Dad’s doctor too, so I’d seen his work. With one slice on his neck, another on his shoulder, two to the chest, and one across the stomach, Dad vouched for Dr. Jackson’s workmanship.

  When a nurse finally came out to the waiting room and called, “Susan? Susan Stachler?” I leaped out of my seat. I thought I would be doing this alone, but I turned around to see Mom one step behind me.

  “Okay if I come along?” she asked.

  So the two of us walked briskly behind the nurse down the corridor. Finally, she stopped and pulled back a curtain blocking the entrance to a small cubicle, indicating we’d reached our station. Mom sat in the side chair, and I took a seat on the hospital bed. The nurse took my vitals while she carefully went over what was about to take place. I thought the nurse was making the surgery sound rather routine, but Mom was obviously not feeling that way—she had slid her rosary out from her purse and hidden it in her palm.

  I wondered, Are her prayers for me? I hoped not. I felt fine. Maybe they were for the surgeon. Better yet, I hoped they were for herself. Between the two of us, I felt Mom was the one who could use some backup. She didn’t say much, but I knew she was concerned.

  Then the nurse asked me a strange question: “Where are you having surgery?” After I pointed to the center of my collarbone, she marked my skin with a black X and said, “This is to ensure that no mistakes are made and that we all understand what surgery is being performed and where.” Apparently, this was standard procedure, but it made me laugh a little.

  With this new “X marks the spot” on my skin, I couldn’t help but smile, thinking about the night before. The seven of us—my family plus Randy—had gathered around the kitchen table for a delicious meal Mom made for me. Home-cooked food is how Mom shows love. She made this dinner as her w
ay of saying, We are a family, we care about each other, and tomorrow it’s all about Susan.

  Near the end of the meal, Dad addressed the elephant in the room. “By tomorrow night, Susan will have a permanent smiley face across her neck.”

  “Ken!” called Mom from the counter where she was dishing up dessert.

  “Dad! A little sympathy?” I said. I gestured to my neck. “You better take a good look at my beautiful neck now. Last chance!”

  My brothers, catching on that it was acceptable to crack a few jokes, joined in, and while Mom attempted to shut them up, that only provoked them to keep going. We’re not a mushy, sensitive group, so I reveled in the teasing.

  Now, in less than an hour, I’d have a permanent line along my neck. In the grand scheme of things, I knew this scar was nothing to complain about, but I can’t say I was pumped about it.

  With my long blond hair tucked into a surgical hairnet and a hospital gown tied around me, I was enveloped from head to toe in a lovely shade of medical blue. Dressed and ready, I climbed into the bed and pulled the blankets over me. Mom still looked unsettled, and I think she would have liked to hop on the gurney and lie down next to me if she could have.

  “Mom, the best news of the day?” I said to break the uneasy silence. “I get to keep my underwear on.”

  With a laugh she said, “That’s what you’re thinking about?”

  “Yes! Mom, you have to agree. Don’t you think it’s weird for the doctors to make you take your underwear off? Especially if the surgery is on your neck. I was talking with Steph about this last night.”

  Mom was cracking up, so I recounted the conversation with my best friend. “Steph told me she asked her doctor once why you have to take everything off when you have surgery, and he said it’s in case something goes wrong, they won’t have to cut your clothes off. Can you believe it?”

  Mom was still laughing.

  “Let me just tell you,” I added. “If something goes so wrong that they have to cut my clothes off, I think I’ll have a lot more to worry about than a ruined outfit!”

  Our laughter ended as another nurse entered and started hooking me up to a few machines and prepping my arm for the IV. Mom slipped out to get Dad and brought him back to wait with me. Soon enough, the meds were dripping into my veins. The nurse unlocked the brakes on the bed, popped the side rails up, and said to my parents, “Give your daughter a kiss. We’ll take good care of her.”

  I started to feel loopy. Mom leaned in, kissed the top of my head, then casually slid a saint’s relic into my sock. She’d waited until the drugs had kicked in because she knew I would protest. But I figured, If it’s going to make her feel better, then why not? Seeing Mom’s eyes gloss over with tears, I assured my parents, “I’ll see you soon. Tell Randy I’ll be right out.”

  My parents disappeared, and the nurse’s face loomed over me. “Susan, count backward from ten.”

  • • •

  I woke up crying—my usual reaction to general anesthetic. It had happened with my wisdom teeth and my tonsils, so I knew it would happen after this surgery too. The nurse hovering over me said, “Susan, you’re out of surgery. It went well.”

  But my uncontrollable tears kept coming, even as he begged, “You have to stop crying. You’re going to upset your family. They’re already worried, since your surgery took longer than expected.”

  I had no idea what he was talking about.

  As he wheeled me back to my original room, he asked, “Do you think you can give a big wave when you see your parents?”

  Mom, Dad, and Randy were already waiting for me. Mom filled the air. “Honey, you’re all done! You did great.” I thought that was a funny thing to say, considering all I had to do was lie on a table. But it was reassuring to hear her continue, “We just saw Dr. Jackson, and he is very pleased with his work. He said it looks great, and he kept the incision as small as he could.”

  I wasn’t sure how fantastic it could look, because it felt like an entire roll of toilet paper had been taped around the middle of my collarbone to cover up a huge gash. It was great the surgery was over and everyone was happy about how I apparently did well and how the doctor left an amazingly perfect mark on me, but I wanted to know what he thought about the lump. “Mom, what is it? What did Dr. Jackson say?”

  “He won’t know for a few days. He’ll call us once the results are in. But you did great. Really, really great. Dad and I are so proud of you.”

  • • •

  Finding out that it could take up to ten days to get the results back was devastating—it might as well have been a year. The doctor had taken the lump out, and now the tissue had to cultivate in some lab before it could be diagnosed. How gross!

  Even though people kept telling me there was a problem with my lymph nodes, no one, I mean no one—not even the doctors—ever mentioned the possibility of cancer or anything to do with lymphoma. It was odd no one came right out and said they were testing for cancer, but under the circumstances, with Dad still going through chemo and Aunt Sue’s history, everyone was being extra sensitive.

  Two days later, I was still sore, but I insisted I was good to go back to school. My professors had agreed I could end the year with the grades I’d already earned, but I was determined to finish out the year. One afternoon after class, I left the business building, plodding along with only the necessary books under my arm. I had tried putting on my backpack, but it felt like my incision was going to rip wide open. I probably looked weird, slouched over and hobbling along, but I didn’t care. I liked being on campus, even if I was exhausted and felt strangely removed from my surroundings, as if I were stuck in my own little world of worry. It just didn’t make sense. Why is any of this happening? The timing is stupid. This whole thing is kind of stupid. And then I wondered, Did I do something wrong?

  I was uneasy, waiting for the phone call that could come in at any minute. The plan was for the doctor to call Mom, and then she would call me. Since I was over eighteen, I had to sign a waiver allowing the doctors to talk to my parents about my medical issues. It was a no-brainer. I figured, If there’s something wrong, call Mom. That’s what she’s there for.

  Arriving back at my apartment, I was hoping to open the door and see a message from my mom waiting for me. But there was nothing. So I called her.

  As soon as she said hello, I dove right in. “Hi, Mom, have you heard anything?”

  “Not yet,” she said calmly. “I promise, I will call you when I know something.”

  “Why don’t they know yet?”

  “Honey, please try not to think about it until we hear something.”

  Frustrated and slightly troubled, I kept pushing. “What are they looking for? What do you think it is? If you were to guess, what would you guess it is?”

  “I can’t guess because we haven’t heard anything,” said Mom.

  “Has Dad said anything? What does Dad think it is? Maybe they forgot to call us.”

  “Sweetie, they didn’t forget you. How are your classes? Did you come up with a topic for your research paper?”

  “Mom, maybe you should call and see.”

  She sighed. “Let’s give it another day.”

  I tried one more time, even though I knew I would just have to wait. “So, Dr. Jackson has no clue? No idea? He seriously doesn’t know?”

  I knew I was pestering, but I couldn’t help it. I wanted her to say out loud what I had started to think, but she was barely saying anything. Her calmness was driving me bananas.

  After hanging up, I felt guilty, so I called back. “Hi, Mom. It’s me. I’m sorry I’m bothering you.”

  “It’s fine. You call as much as you want.”

  “I’m sorry about all of this. And I hung up before I even asked you how things are going with the shop.”

  Earlier in the year, Mom had decided to move ahead with turning ou
r garage into a bakery, naming her new business Laura’s Divine Desserts. Maybe I should have thought it was a crazy idea, but I didn’t. I was excited for her. Our garage was a detached building with a basement. Mom explained the kitchen would be on the main level, where she would bake and people could pick up orders, and the office would be set up below.

  For the next forty-five minutes, Mom and I were back to having one of our usual phone calls, discussing cheesecake flavors, the details of her recent big order from our orthodontist, and how she had already burned out her mixer.

  Toward the end of the week, Mom apparently got very “busy,” since she had Dad calling me every day before I could call home. And Dad, well, he didn’t leave much room for asking questions.

  My emotions had been brewing for weeks, and they finally boiled over one night while I was trying to study. I sat cross-legged on my bed, staring down at my open three-ring binder. I needed to learn the information and I couldn’t. I tried to keep my focus on the notes and test-prep papers laid out in front of me, but I could not concentrate. Tears pooled in my eyes, and the words on the page turned blurry. I was consumed by my thoughts, fears, and worries, which had gone wild. I can’t take this, I thought. Randy was sitting in the other room, and I could hear the rumble of the TV. In a frenzy, I burst out of my room, crying out, “I did this to myself. I did this!”

  Randy turned the TV down, looking stunned. “What?”

  “I think I willed this to happen to me,” I said, almost yelling. “I think I willed myself to get cancer.” Randy’s look went from puzzled to alarmed. Through my tears, I explained, “I always wanted to know what it was like to be my aunt Sue. I wanted to know how she felt, what it was like to live with her disease. And now it’s happening to me.”

  Randy didn’t say anything. By then I was trembling. “If this is cancer, if I have cancer, it will not stop me. I’m not changing. I’m not going to sit around and be sick.”