Page 8 of Doctor One Night

The memory of our conversation about that is still fresh—her voice tight but trying to sound casual as she told me the news, the immediate cold dread that settled in my gut. I jumped into action mode, of course, because that is what I do.

I rattled off the tests she needed to have done, the scans, the blood work, but made a conscious decision to stay out of it beyond that. But there’s this part of me that’s been on edge ever since I got the news, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I know I could reach out to her doctor directly, consult on her care, and make sure every step is being handled exactly the way I think it should be. But that’s a line I won’t cross. Not with my mother. If I get too involved, if I take on that responsibility, and something goes wrong… I’ll get blamed again, just like with my father.

But I also can’t ignore it. I need to stay on top of what’s going on, and I need to make sure she’s getting the best care possible, even if I have to do it in a way that keeps me at a safe distance.

With a deep breath, I press her name in the missed calls list and listen as the phone rings. Each ring is like a gut punch. She picks up after the third one.

“Hunter, darling,” she says, her voice warm but tinged with her familiar evening slur. It's probably her second gin and tonic.

“Mom, it’s late,” I reply, trying to keep my voice neutral, even though irritation is bubbling just beneath the surface. “Is everything okay? Did you need something?”

There’s a pause on the other end, and I can hear her take a breath. “I’m sorry, I realized after I called how late it is. I just got the results back from the tests you told me to get.”

My heart skips a beat. I’m surprised she was listening and even more that she passed my suggestions on. Suddenly, the exhaustion I’ve been carrying all day evaporates, and is replaced by a desire to know more. “And? What did they say?”

“They’re not terrible,” she says slowly, like she’s weighing each word before saying it. “But they’re not great either. The doctor said we need to discuss alternative treatment options.”

I close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. Of course it’s not straightforward. Of course it’s more complicated than I’d hoped, requiring me to analyze them. “Did he mention what kind of treatment? Chemotherapy? Radiation?”

“He mentioned both, and something about a possible clinical trial. I’m supposed to go back in a couple of days to talk it over with him.”

I’m already calculating in my head, thinking about what I know and the options that might be on the table. “Send me what he gave you. I’ll do some research on the trial. Make sure it’s worth considering.”

Fuck. Why am I doing this? I told myself to stay out of it.

“Hunter,” she trails off, and there’s that tone again, that hesitant, almost vulnerable tone that I’m not used to hearing from her. “You don’t have to do that. I trust my doctor. You don’t need to get involved.”

Lies. All passive-aggressive lies. Take her up on it, Hunter!

“I’m not getting involved,” I say, my voice sharper than I intended. “But you’re right, your doctor knows what’s best. I’m going to stay out of it so he doesn’t think I’m interfering. I just thought you’d want me to look at them. Just let me know if anything changes.”

I haven’t said a word about my concerns to her or the possibility of a more aggressive strain. Hopefully her doctor is worth a shit and will explore all avenues.

Another pause. “I appreciate that, Hunter. Really, I do. But… you don’t need to carry this, too. I’m going to be fine. My understanding is that this type of cancer is very treatable.”

She says it like she’s trying to convince both of us. But she doesn’t know what I’ve recently learned about HL.

“Did the results come back on the specific strain?” I say, softer this time. I don't want to alarm her, but I want to know the answer, even if it is to quiet the chatter in my own mind.

“He didn't say specifically, but I'll call the office tomorrow and find out,” she promises, and for a moment, it’s almost like we have a normal relationship. Like we’re just a mother and son talking about mundane things instead of life and death.

We exchange a few more words, but they’re empty, just filler to avoid the silence that neither of us knows how to deal with. When the call finally ends, I let out a long breath. As much as tell myself to keep my distance, I’m worried. The stress of it settles back onto my shoulders, where it’s lived for the last month, ever since she first told me.

I toss the phone onto the bed and stare out the window at the city below. A rage rises inside of me as I try to balance the need to protect my mother with the fear of getting too close.

And it’s tearing me apart.

THREE

Frankie

Saturday, April 20

Frankie’s House

2620 11th Ave S, Birmingham

---