Page 29 of Glad You Exist

I listen to Mom, but my eyes are fixed on my best friend. The devastation my mom’s words inflict play out on Liz’s face.

The shock. The horror. The fear. The anger.

I do nothing but helplessly stare as silent tears roll down her cheeks and she shakes from the range of emotions. I yearn to be beside her comforting her but as soon as Mom assured her brother that Liz did not in fact know their mom is dying, Dan’s anger for his sister melted away and he scrambled to sit beside her and hold her. Now they sit side-by-side with their hands clasped together.

I sit back and lean my head on the chair opposite them.

I’m seated next to Summer, Kim, and Kyle, all of us wearing identical expressions of hopelessness and distress. We sit here quietly watching our friends fall apart at the news of their mom’s diagnosis.

I stare at the ceiling and clench my fists on my lap.

All I want to do is take Liz out of here. Away from everything hurting her.

Or at the very least, take her out of her seat and into my arms. I want to hold her and tell her I’ll be there for her. That I will always be there for her.

But time and place. And this isn’t it.

“I don’t understand why Mom would keep this from us.” At some point Liz has found her voice and the heartbreak is so palpable in it. Her grief unmistakable.

I scrub my face with my palms, and my heart shatters for her. With every sniff and quiver in her voice, I’m being sliced open, her pain seeping into me like it’s my own.

I wish there is a way I can spare her from all of this. I’d do it in a heartbeat.

Mom shakes her head, her voice hoarse with grief at the impending loss of her best friend, “Let’s make one thing clear, your mom’s intention was never to hurt you.”

She puts a hand on top of Liz and Dan’s joined ones. There’s a tremor in her voice.

“You two have been through so much in the last few years. All she wanted was to shield you from more pain. She was doing what she could to protect you both while hoping the treatments would work.”

Dan’s head has been bent this whole time, but it snaps up and jerks towards Liz. He kneels in front of her and starts rubbing her arms. I sit up, wondering what I missed.

Then Liz starts…hyperventilating. It takes me a second then it hits me: Liz has cues. I read up on anxiety last night so I could understand and support her better. I read that people who suffered with disorders like she does have cues that signal an impending anxiety or panic attack. Before it even happens, Dan has read her cues and knows what she needs.

Mom’s head turns slightly towards us, a strange expression on her face. She quickly turns away and takes out a bottle of water from her purse. She hands it to Dan.

That’s when another thing hits me. My mom has known this whole time what my best friend has been going through. She’s kept it from me. I have always wondered why she never pushed for me to fix my friendship with Liz like she does most things. It was because she was afraid that she might accidentally let it slip. I don’t know whether to be pissed at her or appreciate how much she loves Liz enough to safeguard her secret.

I choose the latter.

I know and don’t have to guess how much Mom loves Liz. She’s always saying how Liz is the daughter she never had. Usually with a twinkle in her eye and a knowing look in my direction. My stomach starts churning, the acid rising as my own anxious feelings grow. I would be fucked up if it was my mom in here. I can’t believe this is Liz and Dan’s reality.

I still didn’t know all the details, like where Aunt Cat is right now and how she is doing.

Or how Dan managed to find out.

All I know is that she’s dying.

And it will happen soon.

My breath hitches as I watch Nurse Zjan do her routine check on my mom.

Checking her vitals, getting a blood sample and making sure the various bags of fluids and medication that are currently being fed to her through IV are doing their jobs.

I bite the inside of my cheek as I struggle against another cry-fest.

The day nurse, whom I have come to adore, gives me a sad smile as she adjusts the nasal cannula that’s providing my mom with oxygen.

It has been nine days since we first found out about our mom’s cancer.

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