Broken Glass

Broken Glass, Broken Emotions

​My dad calls for me. I am upstairs. I know what he will say; I predict my parents’ expressions, their dialogue. I walk down the stairs gingerly, as if walking on broken glass. Today is the day they were supposed to go to the doctor’s office to find out whether my mom had cancer or not. Again.
​I look down at the rough carpeted stairs that have some kind of weaving gold vines and weird flower patterns against a black background. I realize that I have never looked very closely at the rug design. It seems so important at that moment that I know what the rug looks like but my parents are waiting for me just in the kitchen, so I know I cannot halt in my descent to peer at the floor.
While I look down, I notice that I still have on my clothes from school and my black jeans have faded and worn out. I would give anything at this moment to be somewhere else, anywhere else, instead of at home. I would even rather be at school in the middle of a really hard history test, staring at the same pants while straining my brain for those elusive historical facts that I did not think applied to me at all. I dislike talking about my feelings or hearing bad news or talking about how I feel about said bad news; of course, I would have to do just that.
I sigh quietly as my foot reaches the cool hardwood floor at the bottom of the stairs. Showtime. My socks make a soft pat-pat-pat as I walk through the foyer into the kitchen, unwilling to face my parents and their obvious bad news. Nevertheless, my feet carry me into the kitchen, bringing me to the edge of the hard black granite countertop. I lean my arms on the cold, polished surface and look up at my dad. He stands by the three bar stools at the edge of the counter as if he feels too anxious to sit down. My mom, however, sits in the middle stool, a tissue already in her fists clenched tightly in her lap. Smudging around her eyes, her mascara betrays her broken emotions, and I know immediately that I am right, that she really does have breast cancer again.
At that point, all coherent thought just shuts off; I cease to be an expressive, thinking being. My brain goes into lockdown mode. I will not really hear their words, but I know I will remember what will be said. Right now, though, I will not let myself be expressive and have a mental breakdown over this. I will save the breaking down part for another time, when I can think it all over and process it all.
I expect my dad says something along the lines of “your mom has breast cancer” in way more words than those five simple words. I wonder, why must he drag it out so? It does not seem necessary to try to soften it with promises of “it’ll be okay” or “the doctor says the treatment won’t be as harsh as last time”. I know that cancer is bad. I know that she will go through treatment that will make her sick and sore and tired and bald.
I try to tune into the conversation a little, to try and understand and show that I feel sorry or supportive for my mom, but I do not know how. I am not good at this mushy emotional stuff. So my face remains closed and unanimated, impassive, expressionless. I focus on not looking cold and aloof. I am not sure I succeed.
My mom starts crying a little again. Something my dad said, or maybe something in my face, must have triggered it. One of them asks how I feel about it, about my mom having cancer, and I say that I do not know, that I do not really feel anything about it. In my head I know that must make me sound like a heartless jerk, and that I should say that I feel bad and that it is an awful thing to happen, but the opportunity passes and I remain silent.
Quietly, I wait for my mom to compose herself. Finally she calms down and goes back into normal mom mode, and I think, “oh good. I can deal with normal mom mode.” She crumples her damp tissue in her hands and looks up at me.
“Do you have a lot of homework tonight?” she asks.
I nod. “Yeah, I do,” I reply, glad to be out of dangerous waters. Emotions are way too complicated for me to handle. “Can I go do that now?” I look from my mom to my dad, hoping I have not offended either with my blunt question and obvious escape strategy. My dad looks at me funny but nods. My mom agrees and smiles a little for me. Without another word, I turn and walk out of the kitchen, back up the stairs, and into my room. Even though I took forever getting down to the kitchen, going back up feels like forever and a day. I can feel their gazes on my back even after I sit down alone.
I think back on what just happened and know I handled it poorly. I think that if I could somehow rewind time and do it all over again, I could do it better, be a loving and caring daughter. However, I will not get a chance to do it over. I know I probably would not have done it any differently even if I had a chance to. That is how I cope with things, by keeping it all locked inside and analyzing it all when I am not on the spot like that. I decide then to try and do small gestures, little things, to show that I really do care despite my inability to tell my parents that. I know it will be a hard road ahead of us, struggling through cancer treatment. It is the kind of thing where you never think it will happen to you, or someone close to you, but it can and it does. I come to the conclusion that I am not invincible and neither is my mom. But I also know that will make it through, together.