can’t even finish the words. Jeffrey places his hand on my shoulder as I’m reduced to tears again.
“If she can’t . . . play with that ball anymore, then I don’t know what kind of life there is left for her.”
The doctor turns to me. She’s not unmoved, but she’s seen people wrestle with this decision before and there’s nothing so special about me.
I continue through gasps and swallows of oxygen. “I don’t want you to think I’m a horrible person. That I would let money even become a part of this decision. It’s just I
don’t know what her life would be if she can’t play with that ball.”
I plead with my eyes.
Fix her! Save her!
One nod is all that I need, and she studies me before giving it. She has heard me, and she’s trying to communicate something.
“I’ll be outside in the hall.”
It’s not even necessary for her to go. “Will you be the one performing the surgery?”
“Yes.” Another nod. She’s telling me Lily will walk again. She’s telling me she knows this, but legally can’t say it because of ridiculous reasons like malpractice
insurance. So she’s telling me without words, in the way that hostages blink secret messages in videotapes that evade detection by their captors.
I look at Jeffrey, who once again says, “I can’t make this decision.” At least this time he adds, “But I will stand by yours.”
I look back at the doctor. My heartbeat is in my ears. The room is hot and smells like medicine. The fluorescents blink angrily, asking to be replaced. My head is spinning, but with adrenaline,
not with dizzying thoughts. Now is when I have to start making decisions. Now is my time.
I stand tall with my hands by my sides and now I’m the one who speaks with authoritative command.
“Do it.”
We’ll Take a Cup of Kindness Yet for Auld Lang Syne
W e leave the animal hospital as soon as I agree to the surgery. They almost insist on it. Since it’s New Year’s Eve, they are running
with a limited staff and don’t want to assign any of their already sparse resources to oversee a hysterical person in the waiting room. If the surgery goes well, they don’t need me
insisting on seeing her or overseeing her recovery. And I would. I would be like Shirley MacLaine in
Terms of Endearment
: “It’s past ten. My daughter is in pain. I don’t
understand why she has to have this pain. All she has to do is hold out until ten, and IT’S PAST TEN! My daughter is in pain, can’t you understand that! GIVE MY DAUGHTER THE
SHOT!” If the surgery does not go well, I guess they don’t want that scene to play out in their waiting room, either.
So we go home. Jeffrey stops to pick up Chinese for dinner and I stay in the car and call Trent. He is already at some New Year’s party and I can’t communicate the enormity of what
is happening and I get frustrated and just hang up. Alone in the car, and without really thinking, I call my mother. While the phone rings, I think about how every conversation with her feels
incomplete. About how we talk around the perimeter of things, but never about the things themselves. What will this call accomplish? Why do I still need my mother? As soon as I hear her voice I
start crying, and I hate myself for it because if she’s not going to give me what I need, then why bother to call her, being needy.
“Well, of course you’re upset, she’s your baby.”
Huh? I’m not surprised that she offers sympathy, I am just surprised at the “of course.” Growing up, we had four dogs. Not all at once, but over the course of eighteen years.
None of them were my mother’s babies; she had two human children and that was quite enough. The “of course” is all I need, and I no longer feel ashamed.
Of course
I’m
upset.
Of course
I’m feeling lost.
Of course
I have emotions. She’s my baby. Even my mother can see that.
When we finish speaking, I call Meredith. It’s hard when talking to my mother not to spill the secret, not to
“If she can’t . . . play with that ball anymore, then I don’t know what kind of life there is left for her.”
The doctor turns to me. She’s not unmoved, but she’s seen people wrestle with this decision before and there’s nothing so special about me.
I continue through gasps and swallows of oxygen. “I don’t want you to think I’m a horrible person. That I would let money even become a part of this decision. It’s just I
don’t know what her life would be if she can’t play with that ball.”
I plead with my eyes.
Fix her! Save her!
One nod is all that I need, and she studies me before giving it. She has heard me, and she’s trying to communicate something.
“I’ll be outside in the hall.”
It’s not even necessary for her to go. “Will you be the one performing the surgery?”
“Yes.” Another nod. She’s telling me Lily will walk again. She’s telling me she knows this, but legally can’t say it because of ridiculous reasons like malpractice
insurance. So she’s telling me without words, in the way that hostages blink secret messages in videotapes that evade detection by their captors.
I look at Jeffrey, who once again says, “I can’t make this decision.” At least this time he adds, “But I will stand by yours.”
I look back at the doctor. My heartbeat is in my ears. The room is hot and smells like medicine. The fluorescents blink angrily, asking to be replaced. My head is spinning, but with adrenaline,
not with dizzying thoughts. Now is when I have to start making decisions. Now is my time.
I stand tall with my hands by my sides and now I’m the one who speaks with authoritative command.
“Do it.”
We’ll Take a Cup of Kindness Yet for Auld Lang Syne
W e leave the animal hospital as soon as I agree to the surgery. They almost insist on it. Since it’s New Year’s Eve, they are running
with a limited staff and don’t want to assign any of their already sparse resources to oversee a hysterical person in the waiting room. If the surgery goes well, they don’t need me
insisting on seeing her or overseeing her recovery. And I would. I would be like Shirley MacLaine in
Terms of Endearment
: “It’s past ten. My daughter is in pain. I don’t
understand why she has to have this pain. All she has to do is hold out until ten, and IT’S PAST TEN! My daughter is in pain, can’t you understand that! GIVE MY DAUGHTER THE
SHOT!” If the surgery does not go well, I guess they don’t want that scene to play out in their waiting room, either.
So we go home. Jeffrey stops to pick up Chinese for dinner and I stay in the car and call Trent. He is already at some New Year’s party and I can’t communicate the enormity of what
is happening and I get frustrated and just hang up. Alone in the car, and without really thinking, I call my mother. While the phone rings, I think about how every conversation with her feels
incomplete. About how we talk around the perimeter of things, but never about the things themselves. What will this call accomplish? Why do I still need my mother? As soon as I hear her voice I
start crying, and I hate myself for it because if she’s not going to give me what I need, then why bother to call her, being needy.
“Well, of course you’re upset, she’s your baby.”
Huh? I’m not surprised that she offers sympathy, I am just surprised at the “of course.” Growing up, we had four dogs. Not all at once, but over the course of eighteen years.
None of them were my mother’s babies; she had two human children and that was quite enough. The “of course” is all I need, and I no longer feel ashamed.
Of course
I’m
upset.
Of course
I’m feeling lost.
Of course
I have emotions. She’s my baby. Even my mother can see that.
When we finish speaking, I call Meredith. It’s hard when talking to my mother not to spill the secret, not to
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