Biopsies & Heartache

My leg bounces as I try to steady my breathing. My fingertips tingle and I fight the urge to bring my nails to my mouth. The waiting area is small, filled with silent stares and secret thoughts filled with dread. I peek over at my mom. She looks peaceful, and it annoys me. I shift in my seat and exhale in exasperation.

      “Maria Rodriguez.” Cindy, the balding, corkscrewed haired nurse calls my mother’s name. We push ourselves up out of our seats, not a single word disturbing the silence between us.

      “Como esta? Como se siente?”

      “Ay mija, ahi.” A small, pitiful smile appears at Cindy’s lips. She nods, indicating understanding. We are lead into an office; a large desk flanked by two chairs greets us. A petite, kind faced Asian woman stares back at us, a grim expression upon her face. I notice that every inch of the desk is covered in brochures and textbooks. A pair of model breasts sits perched on a shelf, the muscles and inner workings of its lady bits on display for all to see. To our left, is Cindy. Her arms hang in front of her pudgy midsection, her fingers interlaced and head bowed; She reminds me of Catholics in a church reciting the Our Father.

      “Good morning Mrs. Rodriguez. Thank you for coming. How are you feeling today?”

      “Mm, I’m okay.” Her voice is small and nothing like the voice of my mother. A voice that burns with the power of a thousand fires when she is hurling insults and disciplining us. My jaw clenches, and I focus my gaze on Dr. Ma. She opens one of her many textbooks.

      “Your biopsy results came in. I regret to have to inform you that the mass on your breast is in fact malignant. You have been diagnosed with a rare, rapidly developing cancer; IBC or Inflammatory Breast Cancer.”

      What? What does she mean Cancer?

Dr. Ma’s voice is far away, I feel like I am under water.

      She’s wrong. It’s not Cancer. For sure it was just an abscess. I mean, that’s what it looks like. Besides how could my mom have Cancer? That’s not supposed to happen to me.

My vision blurs and I collapse deeper into my seat. My body is racked with sobs, Cindy hands me a tissue. Next to me, my mother sits. She resembles a Queen on her throne. Her back erect, her chin points towards the ceiling, an unfocused stare on her face. Her eerie calm makes me suspicious of her.

      She knew. She knew all along. She just needed confirmation. How could she betray me?

 I stare at my hands, searching for an answer to a question I don’t yet have. Random words drift by.

      “Stage four…Chemotherapy…We need to schedule a PET scan.”

      How can she be so fucking calm? Doesn’t she get it? Cancer. She has fucking Cancer. Stage four of a rare, rapid Cancer.

Dr. Ma hands us a pamphlet and reminds us to schedule appointments. I look at my mother’s face. Her eyes are cold and distant. Her lips flat. I imagine myself smacking that stupid, “I’m sorry you have Cancer”, smile off of Cindy’s face. Back in the waiting room I make tearful calls to my brothers and sister. My mom fidgets in her seat, her hands make fists and she sighs with exaggeration. I pull myself together.

      My mother has Cancer. I did this.

How many times as a teen, did I wish her dead because she simply just didn't understand me? Because she smacked me for sassing her, or called me a name because I was more focused on boys than on my grades. 

      I take it back. All of it. I don't want her to die. She’s not going to die. People beat Cancer all the time. She’s stubborn. Strong. She’ll get through this. She has to. She’s my mother. She won’t die.

      “Maria Rodriguez.”