“Don’t cry, sweetie.” I dried her cheek. “Crying is likely to make you feel worse. I’m going to go talk to him. I’ll be right back.”
I sought out the nurse and asked him if jaw pain was unusual. I told him that pain strong enough to make Brittany weep couldn’t be good for her recovery.
“Well, it isn’t unheard of,” he said, “but it is somewhat unusual. Sometimes the surgeon has to move or even cut the muscles of the jaw. I’ll be right in with some pain medication.”
Around midnight, when she drifted off, I grabbed my overnight bag and went to a restroom to change into sweats, wash my face, and brush my teeth.
When I returned, the nurse was sitting at a computer outside Britt’s room. He gave me a smile. “Wish I could offer you better accommodations. I can’t imagine that you’ll get any sleep, but I can bring you a blanket and pillow.”
“That would be nice. Can I ask why you’re holding back on the pain meds?”
“Well, we don’t want painkillers to cover up important symptoms. But with the jaw pain, it’s tough.”
I went back in and sat watching Brittany’s sweet face. She looked angelic to me. I knew that the pain meds would wear off, and that each time we would have to beg for more. We were in for a long night, but I was still awash in relief and gratitude. Hope rose in my chest and fluttered like a wounded bird. Maybe this surgery had bought enough time. Maybe Gary could find a new procedure somewhere in the world that would save Brittany’s life. Hope flailed and thrashed, twisted and turned.
I wrapped myself in the blanket, moved down until the back of my head rested on the chair back, and closed my eyes in a prayer of thanks.
I fervently prayed for God to show us where the answer was. Where in the world was there a neurologist or neurosurgeon who knew more than the doctors at UCSF? It was my version of asking for a miracle. It was my version of faith. It was my version of denial. I confused hope with denial, but now I know they are sometimes one and the same.
I know that denial is seen in a negative light and hope is seen in a positive one, but I’m not sure if they should be. Denial is an unrealistic hope; a false hope. Some would call it unfounded optimism. I would say that defining “unfounded” is hard for those faced with terminal illness.
I think there is a lot of pressure in our country for cancer patients and their families to keep a “good attitude.” There is an unspoken belief by many that if you don’t keep a positive attitude, keep up the fighting façade, the cancer will spin out of control. This line of thinking implies that we can stop cancer from spreading with our minds. There is no scientific research to support the concept that a hopeful outlook stops cancer cells from multiplying.
It is difficult for the families of those faced with terminal illness not to be in denial. Both hope and denial distanced us from the pain. These normal self-defense mechanisms acted as a distraction; we spent precious time looking for something to support our belief that there was reason to hope. At this stage, Gary and I were still clearly in a place where we were asking, “What if?” We weren’t yet ready to ask, “What is?”
My husband said, “Let’s hope for the best, and prepare for the worst.” Even though he said this, he was invested in trying to find some research to support the hope, while leaving the preparation for the worst to others. I was so invested in wishing for a miracle that I welcomed this as our strategy.
On this first night after her craniotomy, Brittany was in too much pain to engage in conversation. Since she was only able to surface enough to ask for water, pain medication, or ice, I was left to my own thoughts.
I had envisioned that after waking from her surgery she, too, would be filled with a sense of promise. Perhaps she was. Perhaps for a brief period of time when she came to, she was able to only feel a kind of blissful gratitude. Maybe she thought, Oh my gosh, I made it. Or maybe she thought, Shit. Why didn’t I go on the operating table?
I think I know the answer. I think she was happy to be given some more time. I also think that articulating any kind of expectation for recovery was just too painful for Brittany. In view of what her MRI revealed and what doctors had said, confidence in the future was equivalent to self-torture. If it crept in, she chased it away. There is a difference between wanting to live and having a likelihood of surviving. Brittany hungered for life, but she had no hope of living.
On that night, the nurses, clean white sheets, blinking screens, and signaling alarms comforted me. The sights, sounds, and smells of the hospital made me feel that we were doing all we could do. My sitting next to her all night—feeding her ice chips, changing her ice packs, advocating for pain management—was my way of fighting for her. That night I allowed hope to bloom in the shelter of my heart, away from the barren land of logic and scientific fact.
10
Middle Years
1996—1998, Ages Twelve to Fourteen
“No,” the mother told her. “It’s too dangerous there.”
A small incident, but when multiplied a hundred, a thousand times in a little girl’s life, she learns that she’s not as capable as a boy of handling life on the edge. She learns to hang back.
—Sue Monk Kidd, The Dance of the Dissident Daughter
When does your carefree daughter—always in motion, legs ablur—change? When does she stop doing cartwheels, running through the house chasing the dog, bringing in pond water and caterpillars for observation? When does she stop pulling quirky hats out of the dress-up trunk to wear? When does she stop having fun with her mother? When does a daughter stop acknowledging that her mother has even spoken to her?
In 1996, when Britt was in sixth grade, I quit my job in semiconductor sales and became a science teacher at the Episcopal middle school that Brittany attended. I took this enormous cut in pay because I thought I could be a more attentive mother if I had basically the same school hours as Brittany. I could allow her to participate in more activities. We could remain close if I quit the energy- and time-sucking sales job. I probably didn’t factor in how hard it is for a child to attend the same school that her mother teaches at.
At the same time, she and I moved out of our house, leaving the stepfather who never became a stepdad behind. Marrying him had been the second worst decision of my life. I felt that he didn’t deserve me, or my little sweet pea of a girl, in his life.
We moved back into the house that I’d purchased after the divorce from Britt’s father. I’d converted the one-story into a rental when I remarried, holding on to it as a safety net. Now we were downscaling again, returning to our safe place surrounded by sword lilies, the jacaranda now huge. I told myself that it didn’t matter that I’d failed at marriage twice. I told myself that Margaret Mead had married three times, and she didn’t consider herself a failure. The night we moved, Brittany and I turned on the boom box and jumped with glee on the queen mattresses laid out on the floor. We felt free.
In the half-light of that first morning in our old home, I swore that I would never trust a man again. I would never marry again; from now on, it was just the two of us. I no longer trusted my judgment regarding men, and I would not subject my daughter to any more losers. I couldn’t wait to get my maiden name back. I was never going to give it up again.
Brittany attended sixth grade at the private middle school near our home, where I taught seventh and eighth grade science. My daughter was interested in absolutely everything. She had an unquenchable thirst for knowledge, tearing through books and poetry, drinking in the underlying meaning and themes in great gulps. Brittany excelled in all of her classes, and her teachers adored her. She quickly made friends with a gaggle of girls who were forever doing the Macarena.
When a few of the older kids talked about the strict new science teacher, I think she felt conflicted. I made light of it. “Just tell them they’re lucky they don’t have to live with me,” I laughed. Most of the time Britt seemed to neither rely on me nor be ashamed of me. She started developing her own distinct tastes. She wanted her bedroo
m painted green, which we did. My friend Lola and I took our preteen girls to Melrose Place one Saturday afternoon and walked up and down looking at the shops.
Brittany’s bedroom had a cathedral ceiling with a recessed area that she wanted to decorate. Looking in one shop window, I called out, “Hey, Brittany, look at this beautiful narrow vase. It looks like blown glass. It’s so pretty.”
Lola’s older daughter, Kylie, and Britt came to look. Kylie started laughing uncontrollably, holding her sides. She said, “Wow, Britt, your mom rocks! She wants to buy you a bong.”
Brittany’s surprised face revealed that she didn’t know what a bong was, but she laughed along with her friend.
“What’s a bong?” I asked.
This was my first inkling that I would soon be navigating uncharted mother-daughter waters; a place where even the language we spoke would be foreign.
Brittany was now at an age where she listened to boy bands and some intensely depressing songs by female singers. She watched several television shows I didn’t particularly approve of, either, such as Friends. I felt I needed to pick my battles, so I settled for just discussing the lyrics and inappropriate scenes with her.
“Gawd, Mom.” Britt rolled her eyes. “I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to ruin Friends for me with all this psychobabble.”
Brittany seemed to hold her own about me being not only a teacher, but her teacher. When she entered seventh grade, she was in my earth science class, and in eighth grade I taught her physical science.
I ran a hands-on science program and, as such, a classroom with strict rules. I couldn’t have middle schoolers getting hurt because they were larking about in the middle of a lab activity. I knew I was one of the strictest teachers, but there was also a lot of learning going on in my classes.
One morning I forgot to bring some supplies in, so I asked Brittany to take my keys and get them from my car. She and her friend were happy to go to the teachers’ parking lot. After a while, Brittany returned looking chagrined. “Mom, your keys are locked inside the Saab.”
“Oh dear. Did you get the supplies? I’ll just call Triple A at lunch, if I have the stuff to do this morning’s lab.”
“Um . . . well, we have the supplies, but there’s something else you should know.” Brittany’s friend tucked her chin so I couldn’t maintain eye contact.
I raised my eyebrows at Brittany. “What?”
“The radio’s on.” Brittany smiled the tiniest bit. “Really loud.”
“Are you kidding me?” The bell rang, and I ran downstairs to see if by some wild stroke of luck the key I’d hidden years ago in a magnetic box was still affixed to the undercarriage of the car. Brittany and her friend made a break for their next class.
Was it my imagination, or could I actually see my little Saab’s canvas roof pulsating? The music was pumping, the side mirrors were vibrating, and the car seemed to be straining with the effort of containing the sound. Of course there was no longer any hidden magnetic box. So I dialed Triple A and returned to my classroom. I had to smile, wondering how many reports of rap music emanating from the beat-up Saab in the teacher’s lot would make it to the main office before the Triple A guy arrived.
Brittany and I had several after-school routines that we loved. In between running her to the ice-skating rink, or cheering practice, or to the store for supplies for a project, we did little things that brought us comfort and togetherness. We loved to look for something yummy for dinner. We called it “Trader Joe’s therapy.” We also liked to drive through Wendy’s. The reason we went there was for the long, bendable French fries. We fought each other for the “Wendy Bendys.”
We also enjoyed evening walks around the tiny man-made lake that sat in the shadow of Saddleback Mountain’s twin peaks near our home in Trabuco Canyon, California. I walked the one-mile path twice while Brittany jogged ahead in the dusk. I always insisted that Britt circle back before I lost sight of her in the twilight.
In middle school, Brittany changed from a tall, lanky girl into a taller, voluptuous young woman. Her hair darkened and grew longer, streaming down her back. Brittany developed a classic Sophia Loren figure, but she hated her hips and breasts. It didn’t help that a list sent around by the seventh grade boys listed her as the girl with the “biggest tits.” I tried to explain to her that our brains are programmed to look for symmetry, and that having a large bust, small waist and curvaceous hips was a good thing. I told her that historically and scientifically, her shape was considered alluring. “You have an archetypal hourglass figure,” I said.
In our teens, my sisters and I had narrow hips, small waists, and large breasts. My mother was six feet tall and lanky, with small hips and breasts. She made us aware that she felt utter dismay at our bourgeoning bosoms. She seemed to think if we exercised enough, or dieted enough, our cup size could somehow be controlled.
I was determined not to have this dynamic in my relationship with Brittany. In some ways, I was successful. In other ways, I failed miserably. I accepted that Brittany’s figure was beautiful. I thought that if you were genetically predisposed to a big bust, it was better to also get the curvaceous hips. I complimented her figure and told her she was lucky. I failed not so much in what I said to Brittany about her body, but in what I said in front of her about my own body. If I could do one thing differently, this would be what I’d change.
I complained about my weight all the time. Britt saw me try the grapefruit and boiled egg diet, the tuna, carrot, and celery diet, and the Atkins diet. I did encourage taking regular walks and outdoor exercise, but my unhappiness with my weight shone through. My self-deprecating remarks couldn’t help but spill over to my daughter. I regret this thoughtless behavior, and always will.
Brittany’s young body began to draw unwanted male attention. It was frightening and disturbing to have grown, even old, men ogling my child.
One day, I was driving with Brittany in the passenger seat with our windows down. At the stoplight, a truck pulled alongside us on the passenger side. Brittany yelled “As if!” as the truck pulled away. The middle-aged driver had offended her by ogling her and winking at her.
I told Britt that when I was in my teens and twenties, I pretended that the rude men didn’t exist. I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of letting them know I’d even seen them. I also said that I didn’t feel like that was enough sometimes. “Men who stare inappropriately or harass females with catcalls or whistling are rude, sexist jackasses,” I told her. “Some of this attention”—Damn it, did I really have to tell my child this?—“is just the way life is. When you’re in a safe situation, you can call a guy out on this behavior; but not if you’re alone.
“Always trust your gut,” I said. “If the situation feels a little scary, don’t be bold and take risks just because you think, He can’t do that.” I paused. This topic was fraught with my own painful memories, strengthened by my instinct to keep my daughter safe. “Studies show that women who are attacked usually have a moment where they think, Maybe I should go back and get someone to walk with me, or Maybe I shouldn’t go to the car in the parking garage because there’s a guy standing over there.”
The silence in the car was heavy. I knew I hadn’t nailed it. I wasn’t sure there was a way to nail this. How could I say that it wasn’t right to walk around afraid and embarrassed, and at the same time say that if you felt that way, you should heed it?
I didn’t want this blooming sweet pea of a girl to get the message that she must still her voice, become shy, or doubt herself. I didn’t want to put fear in my bold, willful girl’s heart, but in my own heart, I knew that women feel fear because they are truly at risk. More than one out of four women will be assaulted in their lifetime.
I’d taught Brittany the single mom’s habit of religiously locking doors. I’d taught her never to answer the door to a stranger. I’d taught her to come home before dark. I had already been teaching her fear as well as boldness.
No mother wants to teac
h her child to be anxious. I wanted Brittany to continue to run, jump, and climb trees. I didn’t want her to cower in shyness or cringe in fright. I tried to teach Brittany that most people were good. At least that’s what I said, but did she feel my worry when I had to stop in strange parts of town? If I’m brutally honest, middle school was the beginning of a long stage of apprehensive parenting for me. From age eleven to thirteen, something important stirred between Brittany and society. Between Brittany and her body. Between mother and child.
And not just for us; this was happening for a lot of the girls I taught. I saw trepidation in other mothers’ eyes, too.
It happened slowly, just as a summer day fades. First a gentle lengthening of shadows, then the gradual loss of light until you find you’re jogging in darkness and nowhere near home. That was how fear crept into my parenting. Niggling in the back of my mind was a growing sense that Brittany could somehow be hurt, and I wouldn’t be able to prevent or fix it. I also felt somewhat wounded and abandoned as Brittany began to try to define herself as an individual. My mum had always frightened me into doing what she wanted me to do. She also had my dad as a backup drill sergeant. Brittany defied me in little ways, and I felt anxiety nibbling at the corners of my confidence.
“You’re the worst mother in the world!” she shouted at me on the way home from school one day.
I took a deep breath. “Thanks, Sweet Pea. I’d hate to be the second worst.” I’d hoped to make her laugh, but this comment only made her angrier.
“You think you’re such a good mother, but you aren’t!” She turned her back to me and stared out the window. “And stop calling me Sweet Pea!”
It hurt. Britt’s childhood had been marked by that nickname. Sweet peas produce long-stemmed sprays, adorned with ruffled, winged blossoms that emit a blissful scent. Mothering her when we were truly intertwined had been just as sweet. As a little girl, Brittany remained within touching distance. We held hands or walked together, her arm around my waist. She climbed into my lap and looped her arms around my neck. My best friend, Sherri, Tyler’s mom, called Brittany “the Velcro child” when she watched me drop her off at summer camp one year. She said she could actually hear the tearing sound when the camp counselor took her from my arms.
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