Read Online One True Thing by Anna Quindlen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anna Quindlen
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him?” he asked. “You are a pig, Jonathan,” I said, dumping my ruined manuscript in the basket. “Yeah, but I’m your pig,” he said, crooking his finger at me, and over I went again.
H ospitals are a little like the beach. The next wave comes in, and the footprints of your pain and suffering, your delivery and recovery, are obliterated; the sheets are changed. But transient as it all is, if I went to Montgomery Medical Center today it would be a kind of homecoming, although one of the small desires of my life is that I never ever see the place again, its awkward red-brick bulk, its tiered parking garage and automatic double doors.
For four months it was our sometime world, where my mother saw her doctor and had what she still preferred to call her treatments. Its floors were covered with gray linoleum speckled with white and black so aggressively ordinary as to be offensive; its intercom interruptions and the glass-fronted cabinets filled with pointed things became the backdrop of our life together.
Off one of the corridors that fanned out from the lobby we waited in molded plastic chairs to be ushered into a cubicle where the closest thing my mother had to salvation, before morphine became her saving grace, could flow slowly into her veins and try to kill off the cells run amok. They’d wanted her to check herselfinto the hospital for the chemotherapy but she’d refused, and so I brought her every three weeks and we spent the day amid the sharp smells and clamor of the outpatient unit.
They’d made it pretty, the chemo cubicle, with flowered wallpaper and a bright blue leatherette recliner. Even the chemicals were somehow decorative, the crystalline bags glimmering silver in the overhead light of the windowless room. It took almost the whole day to get it all in, drop by drop by God-please-let-it-work drop.
Oh yes, I prayed in that cubicle and in the hallway outside and in the cafeteria, where I went as much to shake off the feeling of being buried alive that I felt in that tiny room as because I really wanted another cup of coffee. But I prayed to myself, without form, only inchoate feelings, one word: please, please, please, please, please.
My mother made me wait outside when she was examined by her doctor. She was a rather fierce-looking woman, Dr. Cohn, with the strong and handsome face that you see on old coins. She wore simple sheath dresses of slate blue or taupe or dull prints, as though they were bought mainly because they were unobtrusive beneath a white coat. I remember how firm her handshake was, so definite, like everything else about her. I thought she was rather cold, but since then, since I’ve gotten to know more oncologists, I realize that she only had the slight wariness that so many have, faced as they are so often with certain failure.
Certainly Dr. Cohn was kind to my mother. She always came downstairs to visit during her chemotherapy, took her hand, and talked with her quietly about her symptoms as the chemicals did their methodical drip-drip dance.
“There’s platinum in this stuff, Ellen,” my mother said, smiling, during the second round, “just like in my wedding ring. That’s why my mouth tastes like tin.”
“Is it working?” I said.
“I can’t say how well it’s working yet,” Dr. Cohn said. “I’ll be doing some tests and I’d like to hear how well you felt, Kate, after the first time.”
“She threw up the entire next day. Everything. Every bit of food she ate. And when that was gone she had the dry heaves. Plus her hair is starting to come out all over her pillow.”
Dr. Cohn’s smile was so faint that it was little more than a pucker at the corners of her mouth. “Those aren’t unexpected side effects. But I’d like to hear from Kate about how she’s feeling.”
“It’s not too bad. I do hate the tinny taste. I’m losing weight, although I never thought I’d see that as a problem. And my hair looks pretty awful.” My mother ran her
H ospitals are a little like the beach. The next wave comes in, and the footprints of your pain and suffering, your delivery and recovery, are obliterated; the sheets are changed. But transient as it all is, if I went to Montgomery Medical Center today it would be a kind of homecoming, although one of the small desires of my life is that I never ever see the place again, its awkward red-brick bulk, its tiered parking garage and automatic double doors.
For four months it was our sometime world, where my mother saw her doctor and had what she still preferred to call her treatments. Its floors were covered with gray linoleum speckled with white and black so aggressively ordinary as to be offensive; its intercom interruptions and the glass-fronted cabinets filled with pointed things became the backdrop of our life together.
Off one of the corridors that fanned out from the lobby we waited in molded plastic chairs to be ushered into a cubicle where the closest thing my mother had to salvation, before morphine became her saving grace, could flow slowly into her veins and try to kill off the cells run amok. They’d wanted her to check herselfinto the hospital for the chemotherapy but she’d refused, and so I brought her every three weeks and we spent the day amid the sharp smells and clamor of the outpatient unit.
They’d made it pretty, the chemo cubicle, with flowered wallpaper and a bright blue leatherette recliner. Even the chemicals were somehow decorative, the crystalline bags glimmering silver in the overhead light of the windowless room. It took almost the whole day to get it all in, drop by drop by God-please-let-it-work drop.
Oh yes, I prayed in that cubicle and in the hallway outside and in the cafeteria, where I went as much to shake off the feeling of being buried alive that I felt in that tiny room as because I really wanted another cup of coffee. But I prayed to myself, without form, only inchoate feelings, one word: please, please, please, please, please.
My mother made me wait outside when she was examined by her doctor. She was a rather fierce-looking woman, Dr. Cohn, with the strong and handsome face that you see on old coins. She wore simple sheath dresses of slate blue or taupe or dull prints, as though they were bought mainly because they were unobtrusive beneath a white coat. I remember how firm her handshake was, so definite, like everything else about her. I thought she was rather cold, but since then, since I’ve gotten to know more oncologists, I realize that she only had the slight wariness that so many have, faced as they are so often with certain failure.
Certainly Dr. Cohn was kind to my mother. She always came downstairs to visit during her chemotherapy, took her hand, and talked with her quietly about her symptoms as the chemicals did their methodical drip-drip dance.
“There’s platinum in this stuff, Ellen,” my mother said, smiling, during the second round, “just like in my wedding ring. That’s why my mouth tastes like tin.”
“Is it working?” I said.
“I can’t say how well it’s working yet,” Dr. Cohn said. “I’ll be doing some tests and I’d like to hear how well you felt, Kate, after the first time.”
“She threw up the entire next day. Everything. Every bit of food she ate. And when that was gone she had the dry heaves. Plus her hair is starting to come out all over her pillow.”
Dr. Cohn’s smile was so faint that it was little more than a pucker at the corners of her mouth. “Those aren’t unexpected side effects. But I’d like to hear from Kate about how she’s feeling.”
“It’s not too bad. I do hate the tinny taste. I’m losing weight, although I never thought I’d see that as a problem. And my hair looks pretty awful.” My mother ran her
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