Inevitably, Ending Up Here

The fluorescent lights don’t bother me like they used to, as I wait for Dr. Berg. In the past decade, as they’ve done in so many doctors’ offices, biophilic elements have been added, cheering up the otherwise gray, sterile room. Photos of blooming flowers. Peaceful pastures. Ocean waves, forever half-cresting onto a pebbled shore.

Impatiently, I check my phone again.

He’s still chronically late, it seems.

I tried making a morning appointment, but he was booked for the next four months, and his nurse stressed how urgent this follow-up was, not that he seems to share any sense of urgency at the moment.

I pull up my calendar and click on today’s appointment.

I always note my symptoms and any questions I want to discuss in the description of my doctor’s appointments. A useful habit leftover from caring for Dad at the end.

I could never seem to remember what I wanted to ask once we were in front of Dr. Berg. He wasn’t particularly warm, but he didn’t do anything to warrant getting tongue-tied and dumb. Maybe it was outsized empathy. I could somewhat imagine what it was like to be in his shoes, presenting harsh realities to people who didn’t want to hear it. Not that the work I did at the consulting firm had the same stakes, but the way the senior executives would gnash and gnaw as if it was my fault if the math didn’t favor their client—well, you wouldn’t know these weren’t life or death decisions some days.

Maybe it was because Dr. Berg was so calm, given the horrible circumstances, that scared me.

“Kate, how are you?” He asks when he finally walks through the door into the tiny examination room.

“Good, I mean, I’m fine,” I answer, unsure how to respond. I’m obviously not great, sitting in the specialist's office who treated my father, because now my blood work has the same worryingly high white blood cell count. And the same weird lump on the same vertebrae.

“So I spoke with your GP, and we can schedule the surgery for next week. The sooner we can remove it, the higher your chances are for a full recovery. Whoever drops you off at the hospital will also need to be available to pick you up that afternoon.”

“Ok,” I say, wondering if he remembers me. He’s seen hundreds, if not thousands, of patients in the past decade. It’s doubtful.

He looks mostly the same; a little more salt and pepper around the temples, but otherwise, he’s still got the look of a runner—slim build, the perpetual youthful face of an athlete with lines where men are allowed to have lines; he could be anywhere between 35 and 55.

“You can expect to be sore for about a week after. No exercise or heavy lifting for at least two weeks, to reduce the chances of bleeding complications,” he continues.

“I remember,” I say.

That catches his attention. He looks up from the chart, his eyes squinting behind rimless glasses, widening when he makes the connection.

“That’s right, Kate,” he says, this time with a tone of recognition, “Your father was one of my first patients at this practice. So, yes, you’re familiar with the recovery process.”

I refrain from replying, “Well, not a successful one,” and opt for a short nod.

“Not much has changed on the surgical side in the past ten years, other than insurance won’t let us keep you overnight. So, give us a call if you notice rapid swelling or develop a high fever. Anesthesiology will give you a call later today to discuss what medications you need to stop taking and what your fasting window looks like.” He pauses, perhaps remembering my father’s outcome, and says, “Your post-op will be different than your father’s. You’re a great candidate for a new therapy that has had an 80% survival rate in pre-trial tests. The immediate side effects aren’t great; you’ll still need someone to drop you off and pick you up from oncology on treatment days.”

I nod and force a smile. This is good news, I remind myself. I’m not Dad.

“No shit. And you don’t have Mom,” my mean voice reminds me.

Maybe Dr. Berg is telepathic. Or maybe he just noticed the checkmark by “single.” Or maybe we’ve just reached the point where the patient typically tells him who will be shuttling them back and forth from all of these upcoming appointments.

“Who will look after you during your recovery?” He asks gently.

I know the right answer. The one that will wrap up his afternoon neatly.

And I know the truth.

“I don’t know yet,” I say. “It’s just me and the dog at home. I only moved back here about six months ago, to help care for Mom while she was in hospice. I wasn’t planning on staying long.” My voice sounds eerily calm, like I’m talking about a stranger. “I have a couple of friends from high school who are still in town. I’ll reach out and work something out.” I smile, trying to reassure him that I’m Totally Fine.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Kate.” He says, sounding surprisingly sincere, given how indifferent he initially seemed. Perhaps intuiting that if these high school friends hadn’t been contacted while I was caring for my dying mother, or here with me today, then perhaps I wasn’t actually Totally Fine. “There are services that can help you between appointments. Let me know if you’d like their contact.” He hesitates, as though thinking twice before sharing his honest opinion, “But I would recommend reconnecting with someone while you’re going through treatment. Not as your doctor, but as someone who knows what you’ve been through—really, Kate, don’t go through this alone.”

Part of me is offended at his assumption that just because I don’t know off the top of my head who will be driving my loopy ass home from the hospital it must mean that I’m all alone. How does he know I don’t have a rich boyfriend, ready to fly back and forth from the city until I’m fully recovered?

Because if you could be treated in the city, by the best doctors in the best facilities in the world, you would be treated there, idiot.

I nod. “Thanks,” I say.

Driving back home to Mom and Dad’s house, passing the same old buildings downtown with new restaurants and shops in them, I wonder if hermit crabs recognize their neighbors when they switch shells. Like Dr. Berg, it all pretty much looks the same, just with a little more salt and pepper.

I park in front of what used to be a fussy sandwich shop, turned indie bookstore. I’ve found some reason to put off coming here for half a year, but Dr. Berg’s cautious voice still rings in my ears. I take a deep breath.

This is going to be like getting a shot or having blood drawn. The anticipation hurts more than the sting of the needle.

I wonder if uncertainty is this painful for most people.

The door is cherry red, jauntily contrasting with the faded navy facade. A bell jingles as I push it open. Immediately, I recognize her behind the counter.

She doesn’t look the same as she did in high school. Her hair is still blonde, but it swings around her sharp jaw, not at her hips. Her arms and legs don’t look like twigs that could snap in a strong wind; they’re tattooed and strong. But her eyes still see right through me, and when she swivels her head to welcome me into her shop, I’m relieved to see them light up.

Maybe just with shock. But maybe she’s happy to see me, too.

“Annalise?” I ask, my voice sounds an octave too high. “Hi, I’m not sure if you remember, but I’m…”

“Kate!” She exclaims, getting up from the stool at the register, walking over to hug me. “Kate McClusky! Of course, I remember you, Kate. Oh man, how long has it been?”

“Oh, I don’t want to think about that!” I joke, trying to breathe, trying to keep my heart from exploding. She remembers me. She remembers. It feels like proof that I exist.

“What brings you back to town? Is your mom still here?”

I shake my head, “No, she passed recently.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she says, squeezing my arm. “I’m so sorry.”

I nod, “Thanks.”

“So, are you handling the estate? That’s so hard.”

“Yeah, it’s been alright. It’s pretty straightforward, luckily. But um, I’m going to be back in town for a little while. I’m not selling the house, yet, and I was wondering, would you want to grab dinner sometime? I totally understand if you’re too busy with the store, and …” I trail off, not remembering if she had kids. I’m pretty sure the algorithm showed me a wedding at some point.

“Yeah, of course! I’d love that. You know, I’m still playing soccer. You won’t believe it, but I’m actually on the same team as Cara’s daughter! Isn’t that wild? You should join us on Wednesday. We always need subs.”

“I haven’t played in years; I don’t know if I’d even remember how to kick a ball.” I don’t know why I’m demurring. I want to play. I want to see Cara’s daughter. (Cara had a daughter?! Poor thing.) Just because I have cancer doesn’t mean I can’t run and kick and scream. For the moment, at least.

“Eh, it’s like riding a bike. You’ll remember,” she waves away my concern. “And even if you don’t, just being a warm body on the field is all we need some nights. We usually go for beers after at the Ice House, so come for that, if nothing else.”

I nod, my smile widening, “Well, yeah, if you just need a warm body, sure. Thanks.”

“We play at Rengstorff. 7:00 PM. Oh, I should ask, are you looking for a book? No pressure. I’m thrilled if you just popped in to say hi.”

I feel the urge to hug her again. But I shake my head, “I’m not looking for anything in particular, but I’d love a recommendation. I need a happy story.”

I didn’t realize how true it was until the words were out of my mouth.

She buzzes around the store, picking up a memoir from a cave diver, a romance with a cheerful cover, and a cozy fantasy, whatever that means.

“These are as good as Lexapro,” she says, ringing me up. “I mean, I’m still on my meds. It’s not a substitute, but these are really good. See you Wednesday,” and she hands me the receipt.

“Yeah, for sure.” I’m tempted to leave now and put off asking for help later. After we have a chance to become reacquainted again.

But that’s a lie—there are not enough hours between now and the surgery to scaffold the twenty-some year gap in friendship.

“I have a favor to ask, and it’s kind of a big one. You can totally say no.”

“Ok,” she says warily.

“I’m having a tumor removed next week. It’s sort of an emergency, I guess, and I was wondering if you could take me to the hospital? You’d probably have to stay the night, too. When my dad went through this, he couldn’t be left alone for the first 24 hours…”

Tears brim in Annalise’s dark eyes, but she’s laughing. “Oh Kate, that sucks. I don’t mean to laugh, it’s just what I do when I’m nervous, but oh man, I thought you were getting ready to pitch me an MLM, or some other girlboss bullshit. Of course, I can take you to surgery, doll. I can’t remember my last sleepover! Hell, it may have been at your house!”

That makes me laugh. “It definitely was not. My house was never the fun sleepover house.”

“Well, it will be. Just let me know when you need me. I can rearrange stuff here to make it work. I’ll get a meal train going with the soccer club.”

“Oh, don’t bother them! I haven’t even joined the soccer club, yet,” I say, “I’m sorry to be so needy.” Furiously, my cheeks turn red, blushing, and for the first time since Dr. Berg’s office, I feel hot tears rise.

“Pish posh, don’t apologize. Of course, you’re part of the club! I’m glad we can be here for you. You’d do the same.”

She says it so forcefully, I know she means it in the sense that she remembers me. She knows who I am. Now that both of my parents are gone, I didn’t expect to have this experience again—instantly being known, understanding without explanation of how I ended up like this.

And I knew I’d end up here. Not here, at Annalise’s bookshop. Not here, back in town. No—that was a confluence of our high school’s alphabetically ordered lockers and Mom’s genetic lottery.

But I knew that as a carrier of LZ1PH2, that like Dad, odds were I’d end up here. Sick and needy.

The fear of being dependent on someone, the dread of being a burden, had scared me so much, it’s largely why I distanced myself, avoided reconnecting, and avoided new relationships.

I supposed I anticipated that I might feel relief after asking for help—but I never would have imagined that I’d feel…good isn’t the right word. I don’t feel good about being sick. But it doesn’t feel like a failure anymore either.

I feel known. I feel like I belong.

And it’s going to be okay.