Saturdays I slept in. During the day I took care of things around the house, did my shopping, took in a movie … that sort of thing.
Sundays I slept in and went to church, then came home, grabbed a book, curled up in my chair, and read until I fell into the best sleep ever—a Sunday afternoon nap.
But routines can be interrupted and so it was that one Thursday morning as I took my shower, life’s minutes slowed to a stop. I sucked in my breath as I glided the loofa sponge over my right breast and felt the abnormality. A lump.
I dropped the sponge, pressed my fingers against the area. Raised my arm and rubbed in circles. Yes … a lump. Small, but it was there.
As soon as I got out of the shower, I found my phone and, while sitting on the edge of the bed, called Michelle and explained what I had felt.
“How big?” she asked me.
“Like a pea?” I said as though unsure.
“Hard or soft?”
“Soft.”
“Painful?”
“No. Not at all. Is that good or bad?”
“Does it move?” she asked, not answering my question.
“No. Michelle?” I said, my radish raised and my voice remarkably strong. “Is all this good or bad?”
“Mom, I can’t say. I mean, my gut tells me that your first step is to call your doctor and get in to see him as soon as you can. When was your last mammo?”
“Six months ago, I think. Wait … yes. Six months. Maybe seven.”
“But within the last year.”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Call and get an appointment. They’ll probably want to do another mammo.”
“I’ll call when I get to the office.”
“Do not get distracted. Call.”
“I will. I promise. But … Michelle, what do you think?”
“It’s probably nothing, Mom.”
Chapter Forty-two
I was right.
Not initially, because life, and its complications, comes in stages.
“The doctor said it’s nothing but that we’ll watch it,” I told Michelle a little over two weeks and a mammogram later.
“Let’s get a second opinion,” she suggested.
But I nixed the idea. “I’m sure it’s nothing, Michelle,” I said, because that’s what I wanted it to be. Nothing.
Over the next year, however, as the world dealt with a pandemic and civil unrest, the lump grew from a pea to a grape. Still unmoving. Still painless. But growing. I spent those months lying to my daughter, telling her everything was okay. That nothing had changed. When I finally admitted the truth, she immediately took time off from work and drove down to be with me through the next round of office visits. The new doctor. The next mammo. The sonogram. The biopsy followed by gene testing. And Michelle sat beside me in the new doctor’s office when she pronounced the diagnosis—invasive ductal carcinoma, Stage II, Type II—and listened while the discussion of lumpectomy versus mastectomy was beat nearly to death.
“I want you to come back to Wilmington with me,” Michelle told me as soon as we’d settled in her car but before she pushed the Start button. “I mean it. I won’t take no for an answer.”
“Michelle,” I said, pulling the safety belt over me and locking it. “I’m sure that—”
“I swear, Mom. I will pack your bags myself and throw you into this car.Hear me?”
“Lord-a-mercy, you sound like your father.”
“Dad would want you to come back to Wilmington with me. Especially these days.” She paused long enough to give me her best I’m-a-doctor-I-know-what-I’m-talking-about smile. “I guess a global pandemic wasn’t enough for you, huh?”
“You know me,” I returned. “I don’t do anything halfway.” I also smiled, but inside my heart squeezed. She had played the “Dad” card. Thing is, I knew she was right—Westley wouldn’t ask me to go, he would demand it.
And so, I went, hopeful I would hear a completely different conclusion to the tests. But the diagnosis was the same. However, this new doctor gave me a third choice: double mastectomy. “To avoid future issues,” he said.
I allowed myself days to decide, finally settling on having both breasts removed. After all, I wasn’t planning to marry again—or date for that matter—and I surely wasn’t going to nurse a baby.
And so the deed was done. Afterward, the doctor placed me on oral chemo along with a clean slate and orders to return for regular checkups.
“Mom,” Michelle said one evening after dinner had been cleared away and Sturgill began the process of putting the twins to bed. “Stu and I want to talk with you about moving in. Permanently.”
I curled my feet under me in the family room chair I’d taken up residency in and breathed out her name. “What? No …” I had already mentally packed my bags and pointed the car toward southwest Georgia.
“Mom, I’m serious,” she said from the sofa. “Our guest suite has everything you need including a private entrance. We can bring some of your things up to make it more like your home and—”
“And, what about my job? I love my work, Michelle.”
“Sell the stores, Mom. I know you love your work, but you don’t need the cash flow and—if you do this—you can enjoy your life a little.”
“But I do enjoy my life,” I protested. “I’ve always worked, you know that. And I’ve always enjoyed it.”
“I know that, but, Mom … Be with us … be with Faith and Charity. I promise we won’t get in your way. We won’t expect you to babysit every time you turn around. You can come and go as you like. Besides your best doctor is here.”
I started to say that I would love nothing more than to babysit my grandchildren, but Michelle interrupted with, “Look.” She leaned toward me. “You’re my mother. I want you here with us.”
For the silliest moment, I delighted in her words. I was her mother. Without Michelle, I would have never heard that declaration. Ever. And without Westley, I would have never had Michelle. Without Westley
