There is a chasm. It has been widening all day. As if this is her fault. As if Lauren is the one who’s flung her child down the mountain and slammed her into a flag, snapping her leg in two.
He might say that. It is true, in a sense. Lauren has pushed Mindy. But she wanted to be pushed. She is naturally driven. Naturally talented. She likes the workouts, the running, the weights, the yoga to keep her young body supple and mind clear, the ultra-clean food. And she loves the mountain. It is her favorite place to be, leaning into that hill, feeling the wind whip past, defying gravity, space, time. Truly, Mindy loves it more than she loves them.
Lauren does her best not to be jealous. She doesn’t want to lose Mindy to her life’s joy. She wants to be a part of it, to participate, to support and help. To push, when needed.
The way Mindy describes skiing, it is holy, sacred. A sacrament between her and the gods who created the mountain in the first place. Lauren and Jasper love to ski, but the connection Mindy has with the snow and ice is corporeal. Anyone who watches her knows this. She’s meant to be a skier.
Lauren can’t help the thought: What are we going to do if this ends her career?
She watches Jasper, wondering how he can be so cheerful. She knows he’s trying to keep her spirits up—he’s naturally a happy kind of guy—an eternal optimist. They’ve been married for a long time now, almost eighteen years of ups and downs, of Mindy’s crazy training schedules, late nights and early mornings, homeschooling, tutors, days spent cold and frozen at the bottom of too many mountains, sleeping rough on transatlantic flights, and through it all, he has been a wonderful father and husband.
She resents his forced cheer, which is completely unfair. The stress of the day is catching up to her. There’s only so much coffee can do. They need real food, real rest.
Her Apple watch shows she’s paced two miles before the doctor finally comes out, his face drawn and tired. He is a large man, balding, with small round glasses like a schoolteacher of old. He radiates intelligence and warmth. She trusts him immediately.
But when he says, “Mom, Dad,” Lauren can’t help being annoyed. Why won’t they use their names? Why must they be reduced to the roles of parents instead of being acknowledged as people, living, breathing human beings?
Regardless, they gather at his feet, supplicants.
“We’ve put her back together, and she’s going to be just fine. We’ll have to watch carefully for infection, but we’ve loaded her up with all the best antibiotics. One concern is I don’t know that she’s done growing, so there may be some surgeries in the future to lengthen this bone to match her right side, but that’s something we’ll know more about later on.”
“This is good, though, right? She’ll heal and be able to ski again?” Jasper’s face lights up with hope. Lauren still feels no relief. There is something else. Something is coming.
“Sure thing. It looked pretty bad, but once I got in there and cleaned things up, turns out it was a good break, no splintering, no leftover shards of bone. Her leg’s in a halo, which looks pretty gruesome, but that’s only to keep things stable while the wound heals. Crutches for six weeks, minimum, and lots of rehab, but she’ll come out of it okay.” The frown deepens, the lines of his forehead collapsing in on themselves so he looks like a Shar-Pei puppy. “There is one complication.”
When he says this, another doctor enters the room, as if he’s been waiting in the wings for his cue. Spotlight, stage right, please, and follow.
Lauren resists that urge to say, I told you so. Instead, her muscles tighten.
“This is Dr. Oliver. He’s with oncology.”
“Oncology? What?” Jasper grabs Lauren’s hand. He is crushing her bones, and she wants to pull away, but she clings as hard as he, and at the doctor’s next words, the world bottoms out around them.
3
There are so many words Lauren doesn’t understand. But somewhere in them, a bone-deep terror starts. She ignores the terminology, the foreign, frightening words, and focuses on the face of the doctor as he explains their new normal.
Their daughter has cancer.
Leukemia.
She needs immediate treatment.
Jasper asks all the right questions. He is still holding on to Lauren’s hand, but she gets the sense she is the one holding him upright.
She lets them talk until she can’t stand it anymore.
“How could we not have known she was sick?” she blurts.
The doctor smiles kindly, perfectly square Chiclet teeth that are surely veneers shining in the fluorescent light. “A very good question, Mom. We—”
“Lauren.”
“Excuse me?”
“My name is Lauren. Not Mom. His name is Jasper. Not Dad. Please stop it.”
“Yes, ma’am. Of course.” He regroups, then begins again, with a long emphasis on their names that is almost as infuriating to her as the parental nomenclature.
“Lauren. Jasper. Mindy is an athlete, used to pushing herself. If I were to guess, she’s always tired, always sore, and that’s been going on for several months, am I right? My bet is she’s been running ragged competing this winter, and it was easily missed, blamed on her training regime.”
Easily missed. Lauren’s daughter has a disease that might kill her, and it was easily missed by those closest to her.
Dear God. How will they live with themselves if Mindy dies, and they chalked up her symptoms to aggressive training?
The surgeon’s beeper squawks. He reaches down, frowning at his belt. “I need to go, we have another emergency surgery. I’ll leave you in Dr. Oliver’s care, and I’ll see Mindy tomorrow morning during rounds. She’s a tough girl. Don’t worry yourselves too much. The leg will heal.”
And he bustles away, a flurry of blue scrubs and white coat. Lauren senses relief in the lines of his retreating shoulders—his job is finished, and Dr. Oliver’s, and Mindy’s, is just beginning.
Dr. Oliver gestures to the couch.
“Let me tell you where we go from here.”
The names of the tests are lengthy and confusing. He hands over a pamphlet with a smiling bald blue-eyed wraith on it—Dealing with Your Child’s Cancer Diagnosis. Lauren’s stomach flips. She wants to see Mindy, right now, wants to see her so badly it’s like a hole is being seared into her heart.
But she sits still as the grave, and pretends to listen, to comprehend; holds Jasper’s hand and leans into his warm body and prays they aren’t already at the end, when this morning, she’d awakened thinking they were at the beginning.
There is a plan, a “protocol,” that Dr. Oliver is going to follow. It involves aggressive chemotherapy—the induction period—followed by more treatment. Mindy will be moved from the surgical floor to oncology for more testing.
She cannot go home. She cannot pass Go. She cannot collect two hundred dollars. She is going to be stuck in this small hospital for the next few days, and they are welcome to stay with her. Many parents do, especially the first night.
Dr. Oliver is still talking, but Lauren tunes him out. She watches his mouth move. She watches Jasper’s eyes track over the man’s face, looking desperately for something positive to take away from this speech.
There is nothing more to glean, and Jasper is shivering when they stand and allow themselves to be escorted to a room two floors up. It is small but sunny, with the same oddly industrial yellow walls. Lauren does her best not to see any of the other patients as they pass rooms bedecked in personal items, afghans and photographs, ignores the small, bald children in wheelchairs staring into the hallways, ignores the chills creeping down her spine.
Dr. Oliver’s nurse gets them settled. Her name is Hazel, and she seems very kind—they are all so very kind, so kind it sets Lauren’s teeth on edge.
“Is there someone we can call, any family you’d like us to reach out to?”
Who would she call?