But right now I’m too busy to concern myself with these things. My focus needs to remain on today. That means caring for Mom, getting the laundry done, and ensuring my mom is ready for her MRI tomorrow.
On Friday morning, it feels like everything is working against me. Mom seems worse than ever and is not cooperating at all. First she refuses to eat breakfast, and then when I remind her of the conditions of getting her pill, she spills her bowl of oatmeal down her front and into her lap, ruining her second set of warm-ups. For a brief moment I remember my uncle’s and grandfather’s words and almost feel like giving up. But in the next instant, seeing my mom’s troubled eyes, her helplessness, I know I can’t.
“We can do this,” I tell her as I peel off her jacket, then reach for another. I silently pray as I help her change again. I am begging God to help me this morning, begging him to make sure we make it to the appointment on time, begging him to show us some mercy.
It’s nearly 8:30 by the time I’ve got Mom cleaned up and have coaxed her into eating a cookie and some applesauce and drinking some milk. I hold out her pill, and she reaches out with relief in her eyes.
“We can do this,” I say again as I see Leah’s minivan pulling into the driveway. Before long, we’re loaded and on our way.
“You’re not wearing Amish clothes today,” Leah says as she drives toward town.
“Yeah. I thought I’d be more comfortable in my own threads.” Yet as I look down at my jeans, fingering the hole in the right knee, I’m not so sure. It actually feels pretty weird not to have on a dress. I think Mom appreciated it, though.
As we ride, I check my bag to make sure the MRI paperwork and Mom’s wallet are in there. Then I check to see that my cell phone, iPad, and charge cords are all inside as well. I even packed my sketch pad. I have no idea how long all this will take, but I plan to make the most of the available electricity and connectivity while I can.
Mom is starting to get drowsy as Leah and I load her into the wheelchair in front of the hospital. Leah gives me directions to the radiology department and tells me to call her when we’re done. Then I am on my own.
I feel nervous as I wheel Mom toward the elevators, but then I remember what Mammi told me last night before I went to bed. Just when I thought I was sick to death of Amish proverbs too. “Courage is fear that has said its prayers,” she said as she gave me a hug. “I know you are praying for your mamm, Shannon. I am too.”
The receptionist in radiology seems kind and helpful and even asks if I want to go into the MRI room with my mom. “I wasn’t planning on it. Do you think I should?” I’m bent over, trying to get Mom more securely into the wheelchair since it appears her meds have kicked in and she is slumping like a rag doll.
“No,” the receptionist says. “Your mother looks as if she’s pretty relaxed. She won’t even know whether you’re there or not.” She calls over her shoulder to a nurse, asking her to help prepare my mom for the MRI. Then she smiles at me. “Why don’t you go enjoy some downtime in the waiting room? It will take at least an hour. Maybe more.”
Relieved to have this break, I carry my bag over to the chairs and immediately start plugging in my electronic devices. As soon as the iPad is running, I start to google information about brain tumors. Of course, the first thing I learn is exactly what Dr. Hoffman said. There are a lot of different kinds of brain tumors. I pick one of the more common ones and begin reading about the treatment. I realize right away that it’s very involved. Sometimes even before surgery the patients have to be on medications. Then there is usually surgery, although some tumors are inoperable. In that case they might go straight to radiation therapy or chemotherapy. All in all, it looks like there’s a long hard road ahead for both Mom and me.
I try not to dwell on what my uncle said yesterday—attempting to pin me down on what I would do if Mom died. I really don’t want to go there. But I probably should prepare myself for the possibility that I’ll be stuck here for quite some time. Based on what I’m reading, it seems unlikely I’ll be able to go back to my school in Indiana this fall. Even in the best case scenario—if the tumor was completely removed, followed by chemo or radiation—my mom would probably still need a lot of therapy. However, I tell myself, it’s possible that it is not a tumor. So far I have no reason to assume that it is. And what about my prayers? And the prayers of others? God could still intervene and do a miracle.
Trying not to feel hopeless, I decide to call Merenda. If anyone can cheer me up, she can. Unfortunately, she seems to have her phone turned off. I leave her a pretty lengthy message and ask her to call back. Then I text her, just in case.
I pick up my iPad again, thinking I could catch up on the latest news, but then realize I don’t really care. Plus I don’t want to get caught up in reading more depressing stuff about brain cancer. I look at the clock behind the reception desk to see that nearly an hour has passed. Once again, I pray. I have to agree with my religious relatives on one thing—Mom and I do need God’s help more than ever right now. Doctors and medicine are important, but God is more important. And more powerful.
It’s nearly noon when I see my poor weary mother being wheeled out. Her eyes are open, but she looks pretty lost. I hurry to her, asking her and the nurse behind her how it went.
“We should know the results in a couple of days,” the nurse tells me. “But your mother did fine.” She pats Mom on the shoulder. “It looked like you were having a good nap in there, Anna.”
“I need a pill,” Mom says in a raspy voice.
“I have them,” I tell her. “But we’ll need to get something into your stomach first.”
The nurse gives me directions to the cafeteria, and soon I am coaxing my mom to eat some chicken noodle soup. While she fumbles to eat a few bites, I call Leah and tell her we’re ready to go home. As I hang up, it hits me that I’ve been calling my grandparents’ house “home.” I’ve been telling myself it’s just a term of convenience, but after reading about brain tumors, I’m not so sure.
The next couple of days pass very slowly. At first I was making several trips to the barn every hour, hoping that Dr. Hoffman would call with the results from the MRI. Then I realized it was the weekend and decided that was unlikely.
Finally it’s Monday, and as soon as I’ve finished cleaning up breakfast, I decide to call Dr. Hoffman myself. I explain to Betty about the phone situation and my concern that the doctor might call when no one is in the barn. She tells me to call back at 4:00. “I’m sure we will know by then.”
Faced with another long day, I throw myself into chores and caring for Mom. Most of it is boring, mindless work, which leaves time for my brain to worry and fret. By afternoon, I feel like I’m having a full-blown pity party. As bad as I feel for Mom, I can’t help but feel sorry for myself too. What sixteen-year-old wouldn’t? Well, unless she was Amish. But I am not Amish.
As I wash jars that Mammi will use for canning relish, I imagine how my summer might’ve gone. How I’d probably have my driver’s license by now and how I’d be driving Mom’s car to a summer job, earning my own money while working at a fun thrift store. I imagine how I would have freedom and independence. With or without the tattoo!
Finally it’s 4:00, and with my hands still red and wrinkled from washing jars, I hurry out to the barn to make my call. Hopefully no one will be around to hear me. Betty answers and puts me right through to Dr. Hoffman.
“We’ve just been studying the scans,” she tells me. “The other Dr. Hoffman and myself. My suspicions were correct, Shannon. Your mother does have a tumor.” She starts going into some more technical medical terminology, but I am unable to fully absorb it. My knees feel weak and my heart is sinking. Of course, I knew this was how it could go, but I had been hoping for something else. A miracle, perhaps.
“Dr. Hoffman, my husband, has scheduled your mother for surgery on Thursday, Shannon.”
“Thursday? This Thursday?”
“Yes. Is that a problem?”
“N
o . . . but it’s only a few days away.”
“We feel that sooner is better.”
“Oh.”
“I’m going to switch you over to Betty now. She can fill you in on all the details.”
“Yes. Thank you.” It feels like my head is spinning now. Like this is way too much to take in. But then Betty’s voice comes over the phone and I immediately start to feel better.
“Don’t you worry, dear,” she tells me. “Your mother couldn’t be in better hands. I’m working everything out for you. Leah will pick you and Anna up on Wednesday afternoon around 2:00. Your mother will be checked into the hospital to be observed overnight, and you will come stay with me.”
“Stay with you?”
“I live just a few blocks from the hospital. I thought that would make it easier for you.”
“Yes, it would. Thank you so much!”
“Your mother’s surgery is set for 8:00 in the morning on Thursday. And it’s always best to have an early surgery.”
“Okay.”
“It’s hard to say how long they will keep Anna after the surgery. But you’re welcome to stay in my guest room as long as you need it. It’s only me and a couple of old cats.”
I thank her again, but as I hang up I still feel like I’m on uneven ground. Trying to absorb everything, I slowly walk back to the house. I have no idea how I will tell Mom this news. How do you tell someone you love that she’s got a tumor in her brain? And that in three days someone will be cutting her skull open? That is a lot to take in.
22
On Tuesday I’m feeling lost and confused and scared and totally apprehensive. I wish I had someone to talk to, a confidante to pour out my troubles to, a friend to reassure me. I’m even tempted to use the barn phone to call Merenda, but I am worried I’ll get caught, and that would only make things worse. Especially since it honestly feels like no one here cares. It’s as if they’re so caught up in their own lives—or more accurately their chores—that they don’t have time to be concerned for my mom. Or maybe they don’t want to be concerned. Maybe they believe that because she left the Amish, she is not worthy of their concern.
Mammi tries to act sympathetic, and I can tell she cares, maybe even more than others, but she refuses to talk about it. If I try to express my anxiety, she simply changes the subject or quotes a Bible verse to me. I know she means well, but it makes me feel like screaming.
Finally, after I finish the supper dishes and know that Mom is resting, I go outside to get some fresh air. By this time tomorrow, Mom will be in the hospital, and then the next day, she will be undergoing a very serious operation. An operation that could take her life. The whole thing scares me to death.
But fear isn’t the only emotion I feel as I walk through the pasture toward the pond. I’m mad too. I’m angry at my relatives for the way they’ve treated Mom. The way they refuse to care. As I push through the brush that surrounds the pond, I feel like throwing something. Or breaking something. Or maybe I’ll jump into the pond with my clothes on, to cool off my hot head.
Instead I sit down and kick off my shoes and stick my bare feet into the cool water. I haven’t been here since that day with Ezra. I really don’t want to think about that right now. I cannot believe how obsessed I was with that stupid boy. Okay, maybe he’s not stupid. But I sure was.
It’s funny how having your mom at death’s door diminishes other things. Thinking about what Mom faces tomorrow makes my silly crush on Ezra look ridiculous. In fact, I can hardly believe how totally smitten I was. It is embarrassing.
“Hello?”
I don’t even need to look up. I recognize the voice. I say nothing.
“Do you care if I join you?”
I still don’t answer.
“I know you hate me,” he says as he comes over and sits on a stone that’s a couple feet away from me. “I don’t blame you.”
“I don’t hate you,” I say quietly. “I just wanted to be alone.”
“Oh.” He takes off his hat, tossing it behind him. “I heard about your mom.”
“What did you hear?”
“That she’s having surgery this week. That maybe it’s a brain tumor.”
I turn to stare at him. “You heard that?”
“Ja. You know how people talk.”
I pick up a stone and toss it into the water. “Well, I’m surprised anyone is talking about my mom’s condition, since it seems like no one cares.”
“People care.” He picks up a stone, tossing it into the pond as well. This causes an interesting pattern of circles intersecting circles. “It’s just that the Amish handle feelings differently than the English.”
“Really?” I turn to study him. “How so?”
“Amish are taught to trust God for everything. The good and the bad. And when you are trusting God, you do not need to talk about it so much.”
“We English like to talk about how we feel,” I add.
“Ja.”
“Maybe some of you Amish would be wise to learn a lesson or two from the English.”
“Ja. Probably so.” His brow creases. “Do you have a lesson for me?”
I stand up and put my hands on my hips. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
He looks surprised but interested.
I point at him. “You are such a good Amish boy that you have totally buried your feelings about something that’s making you miserable. If you would only face the truth and admit how you feel, you might have a chance for happiness. As it is, you are running away.”
“What are you saying?”
“How do you feel about Rachel?”
He shrugs and looks down at the water.
“See,” I say with absolutely no patience. “You can’t even acknowledge your real feelings. Ezra, you are pathetic!”
He looks up with startled eyes.
“You can’t even admit how you feel about Rachel. Are you a man or a mouse?”
He almost smiles.
“Okay, let me make this easier for you. Maybe you’d like to hear how Rachel feels about you.”
His eyes light up.
“But then you Amish don’t like to talk about your feelings, do you?” I taunt him. “So maybe I shouldn’t either. Let’s just sweep it all under the rug.”
“Come on,” he urges. “What are you saying?”
“Why is that?” I continue in a slightly teasing tone. “Why do Amish hate to talk about their feelings?”
“That’s not true. We talk about our feelings.”
“Really?”
He seems to consider this. “You might be right. Maybe we don’t talk about our feelings in the way the English do. But that’s the way we are brought up. Think about it, Shannon. As a boy I might wake up on a cold dark winter morning and not feel like going out to milk the cows, but if I were to voice this feeling, what do you think would happen?”
I slowly nod. “Okay, I kind of get it.”
“What were you saying before? I mean, about Rachel?”
“Only that Rachel still loves you.”
“No,” he objects. “She does not. She made that clear in May.”
“Then that shows how much you were not listening,” I declare. “Why does that not surprise me?”
“Why are you being so mean to me?” he asks. “Is it because I hurt you?”
“If I’m being mean, which may or may not be the case, it’s probably because I’m worried about my mom. And because I’m fed up with all these Amish people who refuse to talk about their feelings.” I turn to go.
“Wait,” he calls out. “What if I tried to talk about my feelings?”
I think of Rachel now, remembering her quiet tears in the night and her hopelessness for her future. For her sake, I stay put. “Okay, let’s do a little test,” I say as I turn to face him. “Tell me, Ezra . . . how do you feel about Rachel?”
His expression grows serious. “I feel the same about her now as I ever did.”
“And that is what?”
&nb
sp; “I love Rachel. I think I always have.” He grabs a fistful of grass, shredding it angrily. “But it doesn’t matter. Rachel doesn’t care about how I feel.”
“I’m sure that’s what you assume, Ezra, since you won’t even talk to her. But I happen to know differently. And maybe if you got off your high horse and had a real conversation with her, you’d know differently too.”
“She won’t talk to me.”
I shrug. “Yeah, maybe not. And who can blame her?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, look at how you’ve been acting. You go out partying and drinking and you take up with an English girl, acting like you love her, when you clearly did not. Why should Rachel trust you or want to talk to you?”
“But you said she loves me?”
“Love is a two-edged sword,” I say tritely.
“What?”
“Never mind.” I glare at him, wondering how he could have become such a dim-witted blockhead when he used to seem so charming and intelligent.
“Tell me what to do,” he pleads as he leaps to his feet.
“Seriously? You want me to tell you what to do?” I am tempted to tell him to go jump in the pond, but seeing the pain in his eyes stops me. “Okay, you asked for it, Ezra. Why don’t you get baptized?”
He frowns. “I always planned to get baptized.”
“You planned to? When?”
“I probably would’ve started working on it this summer. But then Rachel did what she did. I figured, why bother?”
“Would you be getting baptized for Rachel? Or for God?”
He looks down at his feet.
“Maybe it doesn’t matter.” I feel a little too intrusive. “It’s not like I understand all that anyway. I should go.”
“Wait,” he says. “What you said is true. I was going to get baptized for Rachel. But I do believe in God. And the truth is, I want to serve God.”
“But you also want to leave,” I remind him.
He’s twisting his hat around and around in his hands. “That was to get away from her. I can’t stay here, working for my parents, watching as she marries someone else—and she will. I know she will. Lots of guys want to marry Rachel.”
My Amish Boyfriend Page 19
