Dr. Atkins nods to Kasia and continues. “And the scans show a number of fuzzy, whitish areas, which means that a large part of your brain is very swollen.”
“Mum, I love you,” Kasia says in Polish.
“But these steroids will stop the swelling! I’m already feeling better!” I say, my smile broadening.
I look to Mirek, who is staring at me. I look at the nurses, all of whom are tearing up again.
Why are they all so pessimistic? They’re overreacting. This doom-and-gloom is so unnecessary.
“I’m sorry the immunotherapy didn’t work,” Dr. Atkins says once more. “I was so hopeful that it would.”
No one else speaks. A heaviness pervades the room. But I will not give up.
“Well, okay, what’s next?” I ask. “What do we do?”
“We’ll do radiation therapy of the tumors,” he says. “Our radiation oncologist, Dr. Sean Collins, will contact you shortly.”
But we all know radiation is no cure.
“And then?” I ask. “What if that doesn’t work?”
Dr. Atkins hesitates.
“Please, just tell me,” I say. “What comes next for me?”
I feel detached from my question, like a scientist asking about a specimen in a jar, as if what we’re discussing has absolutely nothing to do with my own mortality.
“As the swelling increases and places more pressure on your brain, you will likely fall into a coma,” Dr. Atkins says.
A coma? A coma doesn’t scare me. It sounds comforting, like sleep.
“And then?” I ask.
“And then—you will eventually die,” he says quietly.
“Okay,” I say. “In the meantime, what should I do? How should I prepare?” I ask this as matter-of-factly as if I’m seeking advice on weatherproofing the patio.
He seems unsure how to respond. Finally, he says, “It’s time to get ready for the worst. You should get your affairs in order.”
Everyone else in the room is choking back tears.
I don’t feel like crying at all.
“Okay.” I nod. “I like a plan of action. I will get my affairs in order.” Then I immediately realize that I don’t need to, actually—I straightened out my affairs months ago, when I got the brain cancer diagnosis. The fact that I’m fully prepared gives me a renewed sense of calm and satisfaction.
Everyone else looks devastated.
They’re all so upset. But I’m fine. They’ll see, I’m fine.
We don’t speak another word about death. On the car ride home, Kasia, Mirek, and I don’t talk much at all.
I sit in the passenger seat, going over in my mind what I’ve read in the scientific literature about immunotherapy. I’m convinced that this swelling in my brain, these new tumors, are a temporary stage in what will end up being a successful treatment. I recall what the research describes about some cases—the tumors swell, then they shrink and disappear. My ability to remember what I’ve read about my treatment isn’t failing at all, and it’s keeping me optimistic.
From my long experience studying schizophrenia, I know that brain problems lead to poor judgment and an inability to recognize one’s own mental deficits. But at this moment, all my years of professional expertise aren’t helping me see things as they really are: I’m losing my mind—and my life.
Several days later, on Sunday, June 28, Kasia and I stand in the local Home Depot.
Blue. Orange. Pink. Red. White.
Impatiens of every color are arrayed before us under the awning in the garden section.
“Mom, we’ve been here fifteen minutes,” Kasia says. “Just pick some.”
I cannot make up my mind. How many do we need? What colors do I want? I like coral but none of the choices are close to that hue as far as I can tell. Is this coral? I’m not sure. Maybe. But these plants don’t look fresh. Kind of wilted. Okay, then maybe not coral after all. Maybe red.
Kasia sighs in frustration.
I can’t decide. I give up. After half an hour of closely inspecting flowers, I settle on something purplish, or reddish—I’m not sure. We get in my car and Kasia drives us to an Asian restaurant in a nearby strip mall for a special treat: sushi takeout for Mirek’s birthday.
Forty-five minutes after we left Home Depot, I’m sitting alone at the counter in the restaurant. All around me, people rush about speaking loudly in languages I don’t understand. It’s lunch hour, a busy time for this casual place. It’s filled with people from all over the world, particularly Korea, the country of origin of the most recent wave of immigrants to these northern Virginia suburbs. For some reason, right now I find the commotion entertaining.
It’s a pleasant distraction, because I’m stuck. I’m trying to think about something, but I’m really struggling. It’s hot outside, and hot and stuffy inside the restaurant. The air is filled with exotic aromas—kimchi and steaming plates of noodle soups, marinated meats such as bulgogi grilled right on the tables around me, garlic, ginger, and soy sauces. Such a far cry from our bland Polish cuisine of pie-rogis and cabbage and meats stewed for hours with onions and wild mushrooms until they resemble a brownish, mushy pulp. Our family mostly did away with those foods years ago. In honor of our Polish tradition, we eat them during the holidays, when we savor them for the nostalgia they bring.
Mirek chose sushi for his birthday dinner; it’s his favorite. I’d almost forgotten that tomorrow, June 29, is his special day. When I called my eighty-seven-year-old mother in Poland this morning for our weekly talk, she’d asked, “Is Mirek’s birthday tomorrow?” I couldn’t remember. I knew this time of year was important in our family because we celebrate two birthdays, Mirek’s and Ryszard’s, my brother-in-law. But whose birthday was coming up? I didn’t know. “I think so,” I’d answered vaguely.
To be sure, I had to check with Kasia. “Is tomorrow Ryszard’s birthday? Or Mirek’s? I can’t remember.”
“Tomorrow is Mirek’s birthday,” she’d said.
