Mom sobbed something into Dad’s chest that I wish I hadn’t heard, and that I hope she never finds out that I did hear.
She said, “I won’t be a mom anymore.” It gutted me pretty badly.
I couldn’t stop thinking about that during the whole Cancer Team Meeting.
I couldn’t get it out of my head, how she sounded when she said that, like she would never be okay again, which probably she wouldn’t.
Anyway, eventually we decided to keep things the same only with more frequent fluid drainings.
At the end, I asked if I could travel to Amsterdam, and Dr. Simons actually and literally laughed, but then Dr. Maria said, “Why not?”
And Simons said, dubiously, “Why not?” And Dr. Maria said, “Yeah, I don’t see why not. They’ve got oxygen on the planes, after all.”
Dr. Simons said, “Are they just going to gate-check a BiPAP?” And Maria said, “Yeah, or have one waiting for her.”
Placing a patient—one of the most promising Phalanxifor survivors, no less—an eight-hour flight from the only physicians intimately familiar with her case?
That’s a recipe for disaster.” Dr. Maria shrugged.
“It would increase some risks,” she acknowledged, but then turned to me and said, “But it’s your life.”
Except not really. On the car ride home, my parents agreed:
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