Vicariously.

Abstract

They sat side by side, feet not quite reaching the floor, with strawberry-blond hair and rounded noses. This is one of the bad ones, the neurologist said, and the grandmother nodded and said, Yes, I'm a nurse. I know how this goes. I knew it was bad when the surgeon said the chemo hadn't worked, that my breast looked like someone had flicked a paintbrush and speckled tumors all over. The granddaughter kicked her feet impatiently, and the grandmother stroked her back. I knew it was bad when the headaches started, when they hurt so much that half my body broke out in a sweat. I knew it was bad when the symphonies started to drift in through my left ear and play only for me. I knew it was bad when the seizures came. The granddaughter made faces until the grandmother told her to knock it off, and they looked at each other with the same stern expression until the granddaughter turned away. But there is more than one way to know what you know. Her questions were all about a future she knew would never come about—When can I come off the seizure medications? When will I get strong again? When can I get back to work? When will I get my balance back, because my granddaughter runs around holding my butt, yelling “Granny, don't fall over.” The granddaughter wrapped her arms around the grandmother and buried her face in the flattened chest. At first I was confused that the neurologist gave such equivocal answers. She has 5 months, I kept thinking, 5 months to finish everything she should have had another 20 years for. As the medical student in the room, I decided not to interject. However, I realized that I needed to hold my judgment, because it has been weeks since I saw her, and I cannot bring myself to look at her chart—I do not want to see her decline described in a clinician's sterile terms. Although I have no illusions that she will regain her youth, I like to imagine that her life will continue, although in what form I cannot say. I let myself hope that reality will not hit too hard, that maybe the cancer spreads in such a way that there are more symphonies and fewer seizures. I find myself imagining that the granddaughter will be old enough to catch her grandmother's spirit but still too young to hurt. I like to think that when the granddaughter's day comes, and she gets unsteady on her feet, she'll have a child running after her, trying to catch her when she falls. However, mostly I pretend that the future will never come, and that they will stay forever the way they are in my memory—sitting side by side, with strawberry-blond hair and feet that do not quite reach the floor. Conflict of Interest: I have no conflicts of interest or funding sources to disclose. Author Contributions: MH is the sole author of this paper. Sponsor's Role: None.