Page 38 of Doctor One Night

“Hunter?” Her voice is soft, and I can hear the surprise in it. She's probably been complaining that her surgeon son doesn't care about the fact that she is going through her cancer journey all alone.

“Yeah, Mom. It’s me,” I reply, trying to keep my tone neutral. “Just wanted to check in, see how you’re doing.” God, even I can hear the disdain in my words.

“Oh, I’m getting by,” she says, the usual small talk beginning. I hear the familiar rattle of the ice in her gin and tonic. “Just had a quiet day. Went to see Dr. Malley for a check-up. You know, the usual.”

I nod even though she can’t see me, my professional curiosity already kicking in against my better judgement to stay the hell out of it. “How did that go? Anything new?”

She hesitates for a moment, and I can almost see the gears turning in her head. “Well, he mentioned something about trying a new treatment. Something a bit more aggressive. He said it might be necessary given… given the way things are progressing.”

My heart skips a beat, and a familiar knot of anxiety tightens in my chest. “What kind of treatment?” I ask, my voice a little sharper than I intended.

“Something about a new combination of drugs,” she replies, a hint of uncertainty in her tone. “He explained it, but… you know me, Hunter. I’m not as good with all those medical terms.”

I close my eyes, trying to keep my emotions in check. “Mom, do you remember the names of the drugs? Or did he give you anything in writing?”

She pauses, and I hear her rifling through papers. “Let me see… I think I have it here somewhere… Ah, yes. Here it is. Something called brentuximab and… I can’t pronounce this one… doxorubicin?”

My grip tightens on the phone, my mind immediately going into overdrive. Brentuximab and doxorubicin—of course, they’re talking about more aggressive chemotherapy. I knew it. I knew this was coming, and yet hearing it makes my stomach do a somersault. I try to keep my voice steady, but the frustration is already bubbling up.

“Those are pretty standard for treating HL,” I say, forcing the words out calmly. “It sounds like they’re trying to be more proactive, which is good.”

There’s a silence on the other end of the line, and I can sense her hesitation, the weight of what she’s about to ask.

“Hunter… do you think you could… maybe talk to Dr. Malley? You know, just to make sure we’re on the right track?”

There it is. The very thing I didn’t want to hear. The last thing I wanted to do. I swallow hard, my mind racing. I’ve been trying to keep my distance, to not get sucked into this, but now she’s asking me directly, putting me right in the middle of it.

“I don’t know, Mom,” I say, my voice tight. “You’re already in good hands. Dr. Malley knows what he’s doing. You know how doctors get territorial over their patients and protocols.”

“I know,” she says softly, and I can hear the weariness in her voice. “But I just… I’d feel better if you talked to him. Please, Hunter. I’m scared.”

Her words cut through me like a knife, and my anger threatens to overtake my attempt at goodwill—anger at her for putting me in this position, anger at myself for caring so damn much. I already had it in my head at least a dozen times to call him, but stopped myself. Now that she is asking, I might as well at least touch base with him.

Underneath all that, there’s something else—something I don’t want to acknowledge. Love. As much as I’ve tried to keep her at arm’s length, she’s still my mother. And she’s scared.

“Okay,” I finally say, the word spilling out of me like a reluctant child being pulled away by a parent. “I've got a full schedule but I'll try to reach out at some point over the next few days.”

The relief in her voice is palpable. That twists the knife even further. “Thank you, Hunter. I know it’s asking a lot, but… thank you.” I want to remind her how she felt about my “interference” last time with my father, but that isn’t necessary. We both know how that went down.

I resist the urge to just hang up and claim a bad connection. But I know I can’t do that. “Yeah. Don’t worry about it, Mom.”

We exchange a few more words, the conversation winding down, but the tension doesn’t leave me. When we finally hang up, I drop the phone onto the table and rub my face with both hands, trying to push back the frustration that’s threatening to spill over.

This is not what I want, to be pulled into her care, to be the one who has to make these decisions. But now that she’s asked, I can’t refuse. It’s a phone call. I’ve got this.

I stand up, the restless energy building in my muscles. I need to get out of here, to do something—anything—to clear my head. Without another thought, I throw on some shorts and a t-shirt, grab my running shoes and head for the door.

The evening air is still and warm, but cooler than the hot late spring day we had. The slight breeze against my skin as I start to run is exactly what I needed.

My feet pound against the pavement as the city lights blur around me. I push myself harder, faster, trying to outrun the thoughts that are chasing me. But no matter how fast I go, they’re still there, gnawing at the edges of my mind.

I’m angry—angry at her for asking, angry at myself for caring, angry at the whole damn situation. But more than that, I’m scared. Scared of what it means to be involved, scared of what it will do to me if I let myself get too close.

After my father died a few years ago, I knew that meant I should step up to take care of my mom. But a lifetime of pressure and disappointment from her isn't easy to erase. It's been a delicate balance for me: taking care of a woman that has never made me feel like she took care of me. Providing a roof over my head and food isn't the extent of good parenting.

But I can’t run from it. No matter how fast or how far I go, it’s still there, waiting for me. And I know, deep down, that I won’t be able to stay detached as much as I would like to think I can. Not this time.

As I round the corner, pushing myself to my limits, I finally let the anger out, the frustration spilling over into the pounding of my feet, the burn in my lungs. I run until I can’t think anymore until the only thing that exists is the rhythm of my breath and the beat of my heart.

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