Page 101 of Fierce

It’s What You Do

Brain tumor.When I heard the words on Monday, I thought I’d faint.

I didn’t faint, of course, because I was holding Karen’s hand. The doctor—a Manhattan neurologist whom I would never in a million years have gotten for Karen on my own—pushed the box of tissues across the table, and I didn’t take them.

“Wow,” Karen said. “That sucks.” Being strong, because Karen was strong. But she wasn’t going to have to be strong alone.

“No,” I said. “It doesn’t suck. It means that now we know what’s wrong, and we can fix it. Can’t we?” I pressed her hand harder, looked at the doctor, and willed the answer to be yes, as if my will would have any influence whatever on the outcome.

“I can’t give you any guarantees,” he said. “That’s not how this works, and unfortunately, there’s no way of telling for sure until we’ve gone in there and biopsied it. But it’s showing all the signs of a meningioma, and in about 95% of cases, especially in patients as young as Karen, that’s a benign tumor. And as it happens, it’s in a good spot as these things go. Right here at the crown of Karen’s head.” He pointed to the circle of white on the MRI again, that damning space that shouldn’t have been there. The alien thing that had been pressing on her brain, blurring her vision, making her hurt, and making her sick. Growing for months, or even years, he’d said. “So, best case? We go on in there and take it out, and there’s not even any need for radiation, because we’re done. I’ve got some literature for you here, because I know it’s a lot to take in. You can go on and read these after you leave here. They should help answer some questions, and anything else you want to know, you can call my office and ask.”

He handed me a sheaf of handouts. About Brain Tumors, I read in big, damning black letters at the top, and I had to stop myself from putting a hand over my mouth. The lunch I’d barely been able to eat was threatening to come up again, and I had to swallow hard before I spoke again.

“Thank you,” I said. “We’ll do that.” Trying to make this be normal, even though it was nothing like normal. Trying not to think of our mother, the way I’d been trying not to do all along, and failing completely.

Karen wasn’t our mother, though, and this wasn’t the same thing, because surely that would be too cruel. It wouldn’t be the same. It couldn’t be.

“And to answer your next question, the one I can tell is on the tip of your tongue—” the doctor said. “Yes, there are risks, of course. There are always risks. But I’m referring you to Dr. Feingold, and he’s pretty good. In fact—I’ll go out on a limb here and say that he’s the best.”

“What if it’s...something else?” I managed to ask. I didn’t want Karen to hear it, but at the same time, she had to hear it. She was a very bright girl. She knew what “probably benign” meant, almost as well as I did. “What do we do then? What’s the…”

I wasn’t able to go on, but I didn’t need to.

“If it’s malignant?” he asked. My mind recoiled from the word, but it wasn’t going to help Karen not to address it. “We cross that bridge if we come to it. Right now, we aren’t going there. There’s no point in thinking about it now. Wait until we know something.”

“Right,” I said. “Right.” I looked at Karen, at the pinched, white face, the pain and fear no amount of courage could hide, and spoke straight to her. “Whatever it is? It’s either going to kill you, or it’s an inconvenience. We both know it’s not going to kill you, so it’s going to be an inconvenience. You’re going to be in the hospital, and then you’re going to be out of it again. And then you’re going to be well.”

So, no. I didn’t faint, or cry, or curl up into a ball of fear, because I couldn’t. Not then. And I didn’t do it when I told Hemi, either.

He showed up, as always, when I was at my most vulnerable. The evening we got the news, he appeared with more Thai takeout. He’d remembered that this was the appointment day, because he’d been checking in with me. Because he’d paid for all the tests, had gotten Karen fast-tracked into the neurologist’s office, and had told me he’d be paying whatever wasn’t covered, whatever else she needed. There hadn’t been any argument possible, because there was no other choice. It wasn’t like I could pay it myself. He could get her the best, and there was no amount of pride, no amount of personal unhappiness that was worth sacrificing Karen.

He’d sent Charles with the car to take us to every appointment, had kept the apartment filled with yellow roses for Karen, had sent takeout dinners on the days he hadn’t sent Debra over to stay with Karen so I could go in to work. He’d done everything, and I didn’t know why. I just did my best to keep up with work, knowing that Martine would like to fire me but that Hemi hadn’t allowed it, and tried not to think about what I owed him, and the fact that I’d never, ever be able to pay him back.

Tonight, he set the bag of food on the table and said, “So. What did you find out?”

“It’ll take a little while to tell you,” I said. “Do you want to...would you like to have dinner?”

I wasn’t sure why he’d come tonight, and I wasn’t up to asking. I’d done my best to keep my distance since we’d broken up. I was in such a dependent position already, being that way emotionally as well was more than I could take. To want to count on him and know he wasn’t able to be there for me—it would be one more straw, and the straws were heaped so very high already. It would break me, and I couldn’t afford to be broken.

I didn’t say any of that, and neither did he. “Of course,” he said. “Thanks.” And he went to the cupboard for dishes.

In the end, Karen was the one who spoke, while I was still trying to figure out how to blurt it out in front of her without breaking down. Without showing her how scared I was.

She stirred her chicken-noodle ginger soup, one of the few things she was able to keep down, lifted a spoonful, and let it fall back into the bowl again. “Good news is,” she said, “we know what I’ve got, and they can probably fix it. Bad news is, I bet it’s going to cost you a shitload more money. Well, that’s not the worst news. Worst news is, I could die. But probably not. I’ve got one of the good brain tumors. Well, probably. Right here,” she said, touching the top of her head. “They’re going to saw off the top of my skull and scoop that sucker right out. Pretty dramatic, huh?”

Hemi saw right through her bravado. He didn’t give her sympathy, because he must have known that neither of us could take it.

“Well, bugger,” he said. “And don’t say ‘shit.’”

“Why not?” she said. “You said ‘bugger.’”

“Not the same thing.”

“Sure it is. You’re an authority figure in my life. You’re supposed to be modeling appropriate behavior.” And then she winced, put a hand to her head, set down her spoon, and said, “Yeah. Well. Maybe I’ll go lie down. It’s this brain tumor and all.”

She stood up, staggered, and grabbed the chair back, and I jumped up to help her, but Hemi was there first. His strong arm went around her, and he was supporting her to the bedroom as I followed behind.

He left me to get her settled. and when I came out again, he was standing with that total stillness of his, looking out across the darkness that was the air shaft. He turned at the sound of the door closing and asked, “All right?”

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