Shaved

I was collapsed in that hard hospital chair, my head in my hands. Tears dripped to the floor as I cried until there was nothing left. Hours waiting, hours that dragged on until the clock seemed broken, ending in seconds that managed to seem even longer.

I’m 18 years old. When I was 10, I found out that my mother had a brain tumor, called a brain sarcoma. She had had it for years; officially, it was diagnosed when I was about five. The reason I found out then was because my mother was pregnant. I guess she wanted me and my brother to know in case there were complications during delivery. I'll never forget it. It's always painful to see one of your parents cry, and when you know it's something that can't be controlled or fixed, it's even harder. I remember a few years ago that my mom told me my brother said to her, "I wish you had never told me." I know how he felt. Sometimes I wished that I never knew about it until the last possible moment. I spent countless nights tossing and turning in my bed, unable to chase the feeling that I would wake up and something would have gone wrong while my mother was sleeping. She took medication for seizures, and on nights that went out with her friend, I would stay awake until she got home. I worried that she had forgotten her medication and had had a seizure while driving. I found it difficult to concentrate in school; I would start crying for apparently no reason. In moments of selfishness, I wished that God would have bestowed this curse on someone else’s mother, someone else’s parent. I lost my faith for a time. I felt rage and disbelief that He would do this to me, when I only have one parent capable of taking care of me and my sister. My dad is old, and he couldn’t handle us if my Mom died; in fact, it was decided we would go live with my brother if something happened to her.

When my mother became pregnant, (a surprise to her at the age of 43), her doctor told her to consider abortion, that the risks of having a Down's baby or other birth defects were great because of her age and because of the cancer. My mother refused and decided to take the risk. However, she had to stop taking the seizure meds until my sister was born, and since my mother knew she would eventually have to take a long sick leave for the cancer, she worked up until the day before she went into labor. My little sister, Rebecca, was born perfect except for one thing- a tiny "tag" on her left pinky, which had tried to form into a 6th finger in utero, but had failed. However, they tied it and eventually it fell off.

Life was quiet until my sister was three or four. My mom finally went in for an exam and the doctor told her that the tumor had progressed since the last MRI. They said they needed to operate soon or it would become truly dangerous. My mom suffered from chronic splitting headaches and memory loss. She told me and the rest of my family that they were going to operate in May of my freshman year. She started to set affairs in order; it was a risky operation. A quick medical brief: The particular tumor that my mother had was so risky to operate on because it was in the section of her brain that controlled motor functions and communication skills. It was also risky because it didn't simply shove the brain out of its way. Lobes of the tumor snaked into crevices and made it almost impossible to get all the way out, or be initially treated with radiation. If they didn't get it out or if something went wrong during the operation, it would eventually shut down her abilities to talk, hear, see, or move. In essence, she would have been a vegetable. Do you know how scary that is to someone who talks to their mother about everything, and who is unable to comfort a very small child with half the skill of her mother? I was terrified. Only then did I realize exactly how much I needed her.

The day before the operation came too quickly. My brother and his wife drove in from Illinois. We went to church that night, and instead of a regular service, there was a prayer session for my mother's safety the next day. It was so moving. That night, we finished getting everything set, and my mom said that she needed to have her head shaved. I volunteered to do it. My mom didn't have long hair; but at the first pass of the razor, she kind of shuddered because of the strange sensation. She had a mirror, and as I shaved, she began to cry. I hated doing that to her. She doesn't think she's pretty, I believe, and she cried that losing her hair was so hard because it was one of the few feminine traits she had. I wanted to shave my head just to make her feel better, but when I mentioned it, she yelled that under no circumstances was I to do it. She had cried in years past when I even took a few inches off, so I knew it would be better to do as she asked. Despite having just the barest of peach fuzz on her head, she was beautiful. About three in the morning, I finally decided to go to bed because I would have to get up early to go to the hospital. I hugged my mom for the final time before she went into surgery, and I seriously believe letting go was one of the hardest things I've ever done.

When we got to the hospital the next day, my grandmother was there, and gradually, people from our church began to show up. Throughout the day, along with church friends and family, we took up an entire section of the waiting room. I think we might have offended some of the more somber waiters in the large room; I kept catching them giving us scandalized looks. It was hard to remember that we were waiting for a life-threatening surgery to end, because it felt like any other social gathering. We talked, ate, and even joked. Near the end of the afternoon, one of my friends, Christian, showed up with his mother to be supportive. They brought me Burger King food. Although we never talk anymore, I am eternally grateful to him. He was one of the few people there for me at the time, and the only one that listened to me cry and confess my fears over the phone for three hours the night we found out she was going under the knife.

Finally, my mother's doctor appeared, who was not actually doing the surgery but was in charge of updating us. She said, (and I'm not sure exactly of her words because it was a blur, but I'll paraphrase) "She's out of surgery, she's awake, and she knows who she is. She knows her name is Debby." All of a sudden, the room dissolved and I cried. I cried with joy because she didn't die. God had pulled her through, and the entire room was hugging and laughing, and asking when we could see her. Her doctor said only family could see her, so those who were trooped up to her room.

My dad and I were the first to see her. We walked in, and she looked so out of place in that sterile, white hospital room that smelled like sickness and sadness. Forever after that, the smell of a hospital is enough to give me chills. She was sleeping, a drug-induced slumber that seemed like the sleep of one dead. The beeps and blips coming from the monitors were the only indications, other than the gentle rise and fall of her chest, that she was still alive. Liquids of indiscernible content rushed down thin tubes, holding her life in their fragile grasp. They must have reshaved her because her head had no hair on it, and there was a bandage encircling her entire head. The bandage was starkly white against her skin and there was some kind of salve around the edges that was a bright, sickly yellow. That particular shade might have seemed cheery elsewhere, but in that dim and frightening room, it only served to emphasize her lack of color. She was so pale, and we could see her shivering slightly. As I gazed at her, all the thoughts I had had in the past about wishing it on someone else’s parent faded away. I thought of my little sister, blissfully ignorant of Mom’s condition, and hoped that she would never, ever have to her mother like that, so seemingly weak and unlike her normal vibrant self.

My dad started to cry and I hugged him, near to tears myself, and said, partially to reassure myself, "She'll be alright." I went and got two extra blankets because I know she is prone to cold, and when I put them on her, she moved slightly and a soft "Mmm" came from her, and she smiled in her sleep. I laughed to keep myself from bursting into tears again, because that reaction was so typical of her, and I knew in that moment that she was going to be ok.

*Disclaimer* This is an edited version of a post I have already put up. It is more recent, and hopefully better than the first. I am not putting it up to cheat the system at ProU, but simply to get critiques on it. I am submitting it for a Creative Writing class and would appreciate any advice you might have. Thanks.