Page 13 of Let's Pretend I'm Okay

Mama is generally a go-getter, a determined person, but when things don’t go her way—which is rare—she reverts back to a ten-year-old child.

“I just want to talk to you. Can I come in?”

“Why? Did you change your mind? Will you get treatment?”

“Let’s talk about it,” I say.

There’s a long pause, but Mama opens the door. Her eyes are red and watery, and her cheeks look like there’s blush on them even though she doesn’t wear any.

As I slip inside, I turn to the line. “It’ll only be another minute. I swear.”

Some of the expressions are hopeful, but most of them are annoyed and dubious.

“Hurry,” one of them says while tapping their foot.

I close the door behind me and refocus my attention on Mama. She sits in the corner of the bathroom beside the sink. Her head is in her hands.

I bend down next to her. “Mama, talk to me.”

She throws her hands down. “About what? About how you want to give up? There are other doctors. There are clinical trials we could look into. There are so many things we haven’t looked into. I just don’t understand why you don’t want to try.”

I take her hand. “And what happens if I spend all that time and none of it works? You saw the results. I only have a few months left.”

“At least you would’ve tried.”

I shake my head. “I’d be wasting my time. I already don’t feel good. Instead of making my body feel sicker, I’d like to enjoy my time with you. I don’t want you to remember me sick. I want you to remember me happy, playing games, laughing. Doesn’t that sound better?”

She blinks away her tears. “But he said the treatment could at least extend your time by a month or two.”

“Don’t you remember how sick I was last time I had chemo?”

Reluctantly, she nods.

“That’s not how I want to feel. I want to feel like me.”

She cups my cheek. “But you’re my baby. I can’t lose you.”

I put my hand on hers. “I know, Mama. I know, but it’s going to happen either way.”

She pulls her hand back and looks away. “If you came in here to comfort me, that’s not the way to do it. You’re supposed to tell me everything’s going to be okay.”

“You want me to lie to you?”

“No,” she whispers. “But you could at least let me down easy.”

“Mama, look at me.”

Her eyes shift back to me.

“I love you. I want to make you happy, but I can’t go through all of that again. Not when it won’t change anything.”

“But what if it can?”

I sigh. “If you were me, what would you do? Be honest. Would you want to drag it out?”

She doesn’t respond right away, but after a little while, she shakes her head. “No.”

“Then is it fair to ask me to do something you wouldn’t?”

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