No one told me how pathetic worry tasted. No one told me that salt could taste so bad—particularly when it drips tediously down your cheek, making its way to the corners of your mouth.
I found out when I was nine. I was lanky, awkward, and fascinated solely by novels and their ability to transcend me. I never really knew how to talk to people; my love for books seemed to derive from my complete lack of social skills. That day, Mom had told us to meet her at the bookstore. My sister Zuzi was six at the time, meaning she had a tendency to be cranky. Nevertheless, we scavenged out in our snug Mazda to meet her.
When we got there, I saw mom in the corner near the cash registers. She looked different, but she was still my mom. Her shoulders were still draped in her black hair, and her cheeks still had that same pink tint. But still, something was wrong. I’m not saying intuition is strongest in children, but for me, it seemed that way.
Zuzi and I were asked to go “browse,” as my dad says. I remember the pit in my stomach and knowing that something wasn’t right. I remember listening to the poor noise quality pouring out from the Chapters sound system. I remember they were playing “The River” by Bruce Springsteen, and it was funny how amazingly it seemed to blend in with the atmosphere.
They told me that night. Zuzi had already been tucked in. I was asked to stay up and talk. The word “talk” never seemed to connote anything but severity in my house.
Before they told me, I noticed how she was looking at me. She kept looking at me funny. She kept staring at my hair. Finally, Dad told me.
The cancer was Stage Two, aggressive—and yes, she was going to lose her hair.
I wish I could remember a more selfless response, but at the time, I kept thinking about what my friends would say. What teachers and neighbours would do when they saw that Mommy was bald. That’s when it came. The dreaded salt. It gradually eased its way into my tear ducts, waiting impatiently to be released. It’s as if the tears were mocking me, laughing in my ear. I could hear them. I could hear their vindictiveness. The mockery that accompanied that salt.
I remember the look on my dad’s face. He’s a teacher, and he’s always been very convincing, assuring. In that moment, he looked scared. He was scared. She was scared. I was too, but Zuzi couldn’t know yet and I wanted to protect her.
That night, after I’d kissed them both goodnight, I went downstairs to get a glass of water. After shutting off the tap, I listened to the drips it made. I used to find that sound melodious but, in that moment, it seemed to echo something more. The silence seemed to hint at all that was to come.
I Googled “breast cancer” on my mom’s laptop. Instead of being comforted, I was bombarded with images of sickly women. Women with no breasts. Being nine, the thought was appalling. Thinking that someone would cut Mommy’s breasts off scared the shit out of me. I was scared for her. I thought she was going to die, and although death can’t be personified, I was prepared to fight for her.
I remember closing her laptop and feeling a fiery sensation in my throat. My eyes were itchy, and they were bulging and they wanted so badly to release it. To strip me of my dignity. I felt robbed and alone. The truth was, the salt was there, and I knew it wasn’t going anywhere.
So instead of fighting it, I let it drift me off to sleep.
