What Speaks to Me

The story of a mother losing her son

It's hard to remember how my story starts, really. I mean, I'm a forty seven year old woman. It's not like I can just skip over most of that. You can never really tell when a story started when you're a part of it. What was important to it, what wasn't. I don't even know why I'm writing this. That's a lie, of course I know. Maybe I should start when my son was born, seven years ago. This is his story, really... not mine. So it's not like my life matters.

No.

I know when I have to start. I've been stalling for the last paragraph- I've always known exactly the moment the story started. The moment that resonates throughout the alums of my memory, the moment that was the beginning of this whole story, and the moment my life ended.

It was a sunny day- bad things shouldn't happen on sunny days, should they? It's not fair when that happens. It was cruel to him. I was sitting next to my son, Freddy. He wasn't very tall yet, but my ex-husband always said he was going to shoot up any day now. He wasn't nervous, or scared at all, but then again I hadn't done a good job of telling him what he was doing here. We were sitting in a doctors office- Dr. Jones, of the Western Health clinic, if you're interested.

Freddy twiddled with his thumbs quietly, he didn't know what an x-ray was. He didn't know what the doctor thought he had seen inside of him. He didn't know why we had gotten the battery of tests that we had gotten- even I didn't know... not really. I knew he was my son. I knew he was glad that he'd gotten to stay off school today. I knew that, even though I always complained at him for it, I didn't mind doing the dishes for him. I knew... I knew that the glint of light in his silver eyes was all that I had left in the world.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. McCormick, but your son has stage three Lymphoma.” He looked down at his clip bored.

It took me a few moments to come around. I didn't understand; what was Lymphoma? Was that like cancer? What could we do? I asked him all of these questions and -to his credit- he did his best to answer them, but his answers didn't really answer my real question. Would Freddy be alright? It was the only question he couldn't answer.

“Well, typically Lymphoma patients have a survival rate under 60%, but as your son is so young... I really can't say how he'll respond to treatment.”

The news hadn't sunk in for Freddy, either. He just sat there, twiddling his thumbs. Maybe he was too young to understand what was happening inside of his blood, maybe he was too young... I don't think I'd ever had “The talk” with him. Freddy hadn't even gotten around to “Where do baby's come from” much less asking about death... but no. I resolved myself. Whatever it took, I wouldn't let my baby die.

Freddy had his first appointment the next Wednesday... Or Thursday.... I think it was a Wednesday, though. I remember the drive home vividly. “Can I ride shot gun?” He asked as we got back to the car. He was too young to sit in the front seat of course, but maybe I wasn't a very good mother.

“Yeah, babe.” I muttered. He gleefully jumped into the car and strapped up his seat belt. We began to drive home. The hospital was in the next town over from where we lived. I've since sold the house there, actually. I live much closer to the hospital these days.

As we drove home Freddy kept to himself. I tried to talk to him about his diagnosis, but he just smiled and asked if he would get to stay off of school. Of course I told him no. I wouldn't want him to... to fall behind in his classes. He didn't understand the gravity of the situation at all, maybe he didn't know what Lymphoma was. To be fair, I didn't know exactly what it was until our appointment. Now I wish I didn't know... When we got home he asked me if he could play on his “Computer games.” Normally I only let him go on for half an hour, but I could say no to him.

I went into the kitchen and tried to cook dinner, but everything in there made me think of him and how- I didn't want to use his special plate. What if it broke? I didn't want to cook spaghetti- it used to be his favorite, but he'd recently said that he prefers chicken- but we didn't have any chicken. What if this was the last thing he had to eat and it wasn't chicken. What if it was pork, or lettuce or- or- or-

I ordered take out. Chicken Fettuccine from the local Italian sports bar- Ciseroes. We watched TV with dinner. I didn't normally let him do that either. His father was always sitting in front of the TV, a beer in one hand and the remote in the other. He spent most of his life there, and I was determined that he wouldn't grow up to be the same- but it couldn't hurt... for just one night... could it?

I remember I put him down late that night- 11:30. I just sat there for hours, watching him fall asleep. It's something you never think of doing when you're older. When he was just born we used to look for any moment we could have to ourselves, but now- I would give anything to have those moments back.

I was being crazy. The doctor had said 60%. I sat on my bedroom floor with a pair of dice- I kept rolling them. I just wanted to make sure that I never landed on snake eyes, that 40% wasn't that high... I rolled snakes eyes twice and for my sins I didn't get to sleep.

I have a job- for the record. I'm not one of those crazy mothers who spends all of their time turning their home into some kind of domestic temple. Even before Hank left, I had a job. I worked as a secraterry for a landscaping company. I didn't work full time, I couldn't with Freddy around. My boss kept joking with me- saying that when Freddy goes off to collage he'll have me forever... I had never told him, but I hated the job. He was micromanagey -if that's a word- to a new extreme. Everything I did was a little bit wrong, the spread sheets were out of line, or I went off script with the customers or- whatever. The other employees thought so too. No one really liked him, but we didn't dislike him enough to quit.

My son was crying when I picked him up from school that day. One of the teachers was trying to comfort him, but it didn't seem to be working. I ran to embrace him, “Oh, baby- babe. What's wrong?”

“Am I going to die?”

The words echoed for a life time.

When I didn't answer he just kept crying. His teacher looked ashamed at me, what kind of mother are you? She thought. Then she walked away. I guess my boy wasn't her problem.

I looked him in the eye and asked him what had happened. Apparently some of the other kids new what Lymphoma was, and when he said he'd been off sick with it they all reacted accordingly. With fear. They had made him stand behind the shed so that none of them could catch it. In that time alone Freddy had pondered his own death...

... and it had broken his heart.

I tried my best to console him. I tried to tell him that he would be fine. He would get treatment and then he'd come back to school and he'd show them what for.

“Really?” He looked up at me, his eyes were still watery but he had stopped crying.

I smiled and told him that he had nothing to fear.

His first appointment with the chemo was terrfieing. I wasn't allowed inside, I couldn't hold his hand while they did whatever they did to him. The doctor reminded me that this may not work. “Chemo doesn't always work on adult patients, so there's no way of knowing what it'll do to him.”

I held on to hope. Even though I knew my son was probably more terrified in there than I was, I was still afraid, but when Freddy came out he was fine. He had a lolipop in one hand and a packet full of information in the other.

Over the coming weeks Freddy's condition grew progressively worse. He got quieter and quieter, the little things he said made less sense. His brown hair slowly began to fall out, and his smile got more forced. One day, the last day that I can remember of him at home, Hank showed up on my door step.

He was in a rage, like usual. He demanded for me to show him his son. He said that he'd gotten a good job since the divorce and that he was going to take care of Freddy. All that changed when Freddy peeked his head through the door. I still remember his words exactly. “What the hell have you done to him?! He's dying!”

He didn't get to finish the thought though. I slammed the door in his face. I tried to console Freddy, but I couldn't hold him.

He wouldn't let me touch him.

I woke up early the next morning. I had started waking up early because... because I wanted to make Freddy breakfast. I guess it sounds a little superficial now, but at the time I wanted him to remember that I was the one who made him better. Is there anything wrong with that? 

I went into his bedroom, like I always did, but he wasn't there. His window was open and his bed sheets were scattered. My heart dropped. I threw open the door and began running down the street. Where could he go? I had long since stopped him from going to school, he was humiliated by his lack of hair. I suppose he could have gone over to a friends house, but one of their parents would have called. Then I saw him.

My son.

Standing in the graveyard at the end of our street.

He was just wandering, not doing anything in particular. I ran up to him and put my arms around him. He stepped back. He was standing on someone's grave. “I'm going to be here soon, aren't I?”

I tried to talk him down. I told him what the doctors had told me. Chemo is going to make you more sick before it makes you better. I told him he was only going to get better from here, and that he would go on to live a long and happy life.

“But I'm going to die after, right?”

I didn't know what to say. I began to waffle out some kind of explanation, but I didn't have one. Life and death are something that I don't understand, how do you explain that to a child?

“If I grow old, I'm gonna die... and then I'll end up here.”

I looked him in the eye. He was serious.

“Right?”

I nodded, but I couldn't think of anything else to say. I took him by the hand and led him home.

The next week the Dr Jones commited my son. He told me that Freddy's changes in “emotional awareness” was a sign that the cancer had spread to his brain... and if the cancer was spreading...

I didn't go to work that day... or that week... or- I don't even know how long it was. I just went to the hospital every day. I would sit and watch my son. He seemed fine. He didn't talk anymore, but he still acted like a little boy should. He spent hours working on a colouring book and then he would watch the TV.

The doctors said that they had noticed a pattern. Every day, without any kind of provocation at 8 Freddy would get out of bed and walk around the ward. He would find an older woman, and give her a hug. After that he would go and hug another little boy. Then he would go back to his bed and continue watching the TV. He wouldn't make any other moves for the rest of the day, but the next day he'd do the same thing.

Always the same. An old woman, and then a little boy.

He never hugged me. I sat next to him for hours but he never made a move to hug me... At this point I had stopped lying to myself. My son would die. I knew he was going to die any day now, I'd given up hope on saving him, but maybe there was one thing that I could do... Maybe I could have one more hug.

Just a hug... I was his mother for god's sake and I would hold my little boy for one last time... I would tell him it was alright before... before he passed.

The next morning I showed up early. I wanted to make sure that I was the first woman that he'd see. I walked into the ward at around 7:45. I ran as fast as I could up the stairs- I didn't take the elevator because sometimes those things are unreliable. I ran and I stood in the hallway outside of his room, and then I waited.

Almost on queue Freddy came out of his room. It was almost like he was sleep walking, like he didn't know where he was. But then he stopped in front of me, in front of his mommy. He looked up at me. Then he turned away and hugged a nurse standing next to me. “Oh, um, thanks Freddy.” She smiled down at him.

I didn't get it. I still don't get it. Why didn't he chose me? Why didn't Freddy chose his mommy?

I followed him around the ward for a time. I watched as he found a little boy and gave him a hug. The boy was surprised for a second, but then he went along with it. He put his arms around Freddy and held him for a moment... the way I wished I could... but Freddy wouldn't let me.

He died that night.

I wanted to speak to him one more time, maybe try to hug him again... but I didn't have any more chances. The last time I saw my son he was looking up at me from a pine box. I don't want to talk about the funeral. I don't think it relates to this... It just makes me more sad.

So, there it is. In writing. My story. For the record, Doctor, I don't blame myself for my son's death. I don't plan on killing myself either. I know that's why you're making me do this... You want to know whether I'm a risk to myself or others... but I'm not... I'm completely sane... I just... want a hug.