Page 40 of Paging Dr. Hart
34
Past, Las Vegas, Nevada, Age 16
Sixteen is not sweet for Shelly or me. In fact, it’s the year that both of our lives fall apart.
That winter, Mike leaves Brandi.
The day after Mike and Brandi separate, Shelly and I sit at the ugly green tables in the center of our school. The tables are perforated, a multitude of tiny holes dotting their surface. Shelly has picked up a dry leaf. She shreds it into pieces and feeds it through the holes to watch the fragments drift to the ground.
“What happened with Mike?” I prod her.
She shakes her head mournfully. “He left because of me.”
Images of Mike harassing Shelly are quickly discarded. Even though my mom had worried about it, I had never gotten the impression that Mike viewed us girls as sexual objects. I can’t picture him hitting on Shelly.
She can see what I’m thinking. “No. Not like that. He told my mom he couldn’t stand being tied down anymore. He wanted to explore the country. Mike said he still had feelings for her, but he was rotting away at our place.”
Tiny pieces of leaf fall like rain through the holes. We watch them tumble down. Tears follow and hit the table with a metallic plop-plop. Shelly is crying silently.
“Mom blames me. It’s not like she was crazy about me before this, but now every time she looks at me she sees the person who ruined her marriage. If she didn’t have me, she would have followed Mike. They could have traveled the country together. She would have loved that. Once again, I’ve managedto destroy her life with my very existence. Since he left, all she does is lie around drinking and smoking pot. It’s depressing.”
I gently hug my friend, not sure how else to comfort her. Shelly buries her face in my neck to hide her sobs.
My world unravels in slow motion.
It begins with a cough. Then my mom lets out another cough and another. “It’s just a bad cold. I’ll be fine.” Soon my mom is hacking so hard that it makes her feel faint. “I choked on something. Don’t worry, Kitten.”
She gets short of breath from walking up the stairs to our apartment. “Gotta exercise more. Mom’s getting out of shape.” She falls asleep on the couch every night, too tired to go to bed. “It was a long day at work.”
When the Kleenex turns crimson from the blood she coughs up, we finally go see the doctor.
“I’m sorry,” the doctor says. It’s lung cancer. The less common and more aggressive kind. Small cell lung cancer. After a battery of tests, we find it’s already spread. Tiny metastatic spots appear in her lymph nodes and bones. Like the tumors are alien space invaders intent on colonizing my mother’s body.
The doctors ask my mom repeatedly, “Did you smoke?”
“Never,” answers Mom.
The doctors look suspicious, like she must be lying.
“Could it have been the secondhand smoke from the casinos?” I ask.
The doctors shrug. “Could be. We won’t ever know for sure.”
The treatments start. Chemotherapy. Radiation.
The next year I spend in hospitals, surrounded by vases of red roses and cheerfully colored cards that say, “Get Well Soon.” Mom won’t ever get well. I know that. The constant beeping of the monitors still echoes in my ears on the rare nights I sleep at home alone or at Mr. Chen’s. I become adept at doing my homework in the cafeteria or in my mom’s room, sitting in uncomfortable plastic chairs. I miss so many days of school that the attendance officer automatically marks me as absent unless she hears otherwise.
With Mr. Chen’s help, I learn about the labs and tests the doctors order for my mother. I know to ask about hemoglobin and hematocrit, to see how my mom’s body is responding to blood loss.
The seeds of a desire to practice medicine that were planted deep in my subconscious with Mr. Chen’s anatomy book now start to grow roots. I witness firsthand how important a doctor’s job is, how a good doctor can spark hope even in the darkest times.
35
Past, Las Vegas, Nevada, Age 17
On a rare day when I’m at school, I walk across the quad, glancing over my shoulder. I get this weird feeling sometimes, like I’m being watched. It must be paranoia, though. I don’t see anyone staring at me. Shelly’s sitting at our usual lunch table. It’s a relief to see her familiar face, although, as I rush over to join my friend, I notice that she looks different. It’s like she’s aged in the time that we’ve been apart.
Shelly’s dyed her hair beach blonde with chunky orange streaks. Her dark roots are a skunk’s stripe close to her scalp. Thick black eyeliner and mascara emphasize her large brown eyes and the shadows beneath. A tight black ribbon acts as a choker necklace. Fishnet stockings rise out of black Doc Martens boots.
