by Sarah Price
“Hmm.” Frances wanted to mention that she knew the feeling of being neglected in favor of work. “Does he know?”
“Yes.”
Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Frances had to shut out Madeline and the image of a son knowing but not caring enough to support his mother. It was a similar image to the one Charlotte had painted for her the previous week when they had met for coffee. Someone in the family knowing and not reacting was the worst thing Frances could imagine. Family members who loved each other supported each other. And it wasn’t a one- or two-shot deal. Family members made meals for, comforted, and helped each other when a crisis arose. It was the one time when people needed to push aside their own self-absorbed needs and focus on providing strength to the patient.
And that, not her fear, was the reason Frances had procrastinated telling Nicholas. She didn’t want him to push aside his needs, at least not yet. Her husband would not be like Madeline’s son, no matter what Charlotte said.
“I’m sorry,” Frances whispered, and for a quick second, she wondered if she actually said those two words out loud or to herself.
“Me, too,” Madeline responded with a deep sigh. She still kept her eyes on the window. Frances followed the older woman’s gaze. She noticed that there were birds perched on the feeder outside of the window. Three nuthatches eagerly pecked seed, flying away to a nearby tree, and then miraculously another bird would appear as if they were taking turns.
Frances hadn’t paid close attention to the bird feeder during her previous treatment. In fact, she hadn’t even paid much attention to anything outside that window. Now, as she observed the birds, she realized that the small parklike seating area on the other side of the windows must have been designed specifically to add endless natural light to the chemotherapy center. While it was a thoughtful gesture by the architects, Frances noticed that all of the chairs in the Chemo Lounge faced away from the windows with the exception of Madeline’s.
“Is that why you sit here?” Frances heard herself ask. “To watch the birds?”
“Hmm?” Madeline turned around. “Did you say something?”
Frances leaned over and repeated her question.
“Well, I suppose I do,” Madeline answered. “I’ve been doing this for over two years, you know. The birds have become my friends, I reckon.”
“Two years!” The thought of undergoing chemotherapy for such an amount of time startled Frances. What could it mean other than the fact that Madeline’s cancer had never gone away and probably would not ever? “Surely you had friends accompany you in the beginning? Family? A sister or brother, perhaps?”
Madeline shook her head. “My sister’s dead, and my son put me into a nursing home.” Her expression darkened. “Or, as he liked to call it, an assisted-living facility. I call it a prison, no matter what he says about how wonderful the place is.”
To Frances, Madeline didn’t appear as if she needed a nursing home. She seemed functional and perky enough. But, of course, she knew Madeline only from these two treatment times and only while the woman was receiving chemotherapy.
“I’m sure they have fun events and nice amenities at the home,” Frances said, hoping to shift Madeline’s gloomy mood.
Waving her hand at Frances, Madeline scoffed at her comment. “Fun events? Why, I’d rather be in my own home with my cat, watching television from my own sofa.” She clicked her tongue and shook her head. “Nothing is like being home. Your real home. The one that you invested your body and soul into making the heart of your family.”
Frances understood only too well what Madeline meant. Her role in the family was to provide that beating heart to her children and husband. And she knew that it centered around the house. It was the foundation on which the family dynamics rested.
“When he talked me into moving to Pine Acres—forced me, to be perfectly honest—it ripped out my heart,” Madeline admitted. “There’s nothing fun or exciting about living in a small room, sharing your meals with complete strangers, and having busybody staff members checking on you every thirty minutes. It’s as if they are waiting for you to die.”
“Oh, Madeline!”
“Makes me wonder what I’ve been fighting for these past two years.” Once again, she shook her head and remained silent.
There was nothing that Frances could think of to say. She didn’t know Madeline well enough to have any words of advice.
“Well, Mrs. Snyder,” a cheerful voice said. Frances turned and saw the nurse Laura approaching her with a blood pressure machine. “Let’s see what’s going on here, shall we?”
Frances redirected her attention to the blood pressure sleeve, watching as the nurse gently wrapped it around her arm. “I’m sure it’s because I was walking up the stairs. Just made me out of breath.”
Laura gave her a funny look. “It’s just one flight. Besides, a quick pulse does not affect blood pressure that much.”
“Well . . .” She was at a loss for words.
Laura chuckled. “I know, I know. You just want all of this over with. But we, Mrs. Snyder, want you better. Hypertension is nothing to play around with.”
A few presses of buttons and the sleeve tightened, once again, around Frances’s arm. The machine clicked, and red numbers began to display. When it finally stopped clicking and the rest of the pressure released around her arm, Laura pursed her lips and seemed to be thinking.
“What is it?”
“Well, it’s come down somewhat. Just not a lot. But,” she said, turning to look at Frances, “I think we can give you another ten or fifteen minutes and try one last time. If it comes down enough, you should be good to go.” She stood up and pushed the machine to the side. “I’ll be back in a few.”
With Madeline staring out the window, watching the birds, Frances shut her eyes and began her deep breathing again. She didn’t know Madeline, and although her heart broke for anyone in pain, she knew that her focus had to be on herself and her own family. Every person currently in the chemotherapy center had their own problems and their own worries. They, too, needed to concentrate on their personal healing and not fret over the problems of the other patients in the room.
Like the nurse had said to her, their job was caring for the patients. It was, however, the job of the patient to take care of herself.
CHAPTER 14
“Mom! Your phone keeps ringing,” Andy said as he walked into the kitchen with her cell phone in his hand. He slid it down the length of the countertop toward where she was standing.
It was Sunday, and the week had gone surprisingly well. Despite feeling fatigued, she hadn’t gotten as ill after her second treatment. Taking the medicine before she felt nauseated had definitely helped thwart an adverse reaction.
“What’s for dinner, anyway? It smells good.”
Frances wiped her hands on a dish towel and reached for her phone. It wasn’t ringing now, but she could see that she’d missed five calls, all from the same unknown number. “Chicken piccata, Andy.”
He made a face. It was expected.
Mealtimes at the Snyder household had always been among the toughest parts of her day. Even at a young age, Andy had been a fussy eater, not to mention stubborn as well. Vegetables rarely crossed his lips, and the main ingredient for most meals was inevitably carbs. Pasta, potatoes, and bread seemed to be his foods of choice. Fortunately, he was active in sports, and it didn’t show on his frame. But Frances worried about his future, especially when he would begin working full-time and exercising less. She knew that he would eventually put on weight if he maintained the same poor eating habits.
On the other hand, Carrie was even worse. Whenever Frances tried to introduce something new to her diet, she would sink her heels into the ground and refuse to touch it. As a toddler, she wanted only chicken nuggets and Tater Tots drowned in ketchup. There was one night, when she was five, that Carrie had fallen asleep at the kitchen table. Frances had told her that she couldn’t be excused until she tried one bite of creamed
corn. Nicholas walked into the house at ten o’clock, and upon seeing his daughter asleep, still seated in the kitchen chair, just shook his head and walked upstairs to bed.
Ever since then, Frances had decided to make what the children wanted. She might have lost the battle, but she justified her decision as having won the war: no child of hers would ever go to bed hungry at night.
She pressed the “Call Back” button, then lifted the phone to her ear.
“Pine Acres,” a woman said.
Frances frowned. Pine Acres? It took her a minute to place the name. “The retirement home?” Why on earth would someone from Pine Acres call me? And then, it dawned on her: Madeline. “I’m returning your call. Is this about Madeline? Has something happened to her?”
“Are you Frances Snyder?”
“Yes.”
“As a matter of fact . . .”
Andy walked over to the refrigerator and opened the door, pulling out a can of soda. “Who’s Madeline?” he asked.
“Shh!” Frances shot him a look. “I’m sorry. Could you repeat what you just said?”
“She has a fever and won’t agree to be admitted into the hospital.” The woman hesitated. “That’s our policy, you know. For cancer patients.”
“I understand that.” Fever was enemy number one for patients undergoing chemotherapy treatment. She had heard that preached to her time and again, especially from the nurses, who systematically reminded her after each treatment that should she have a fever over 101 degrees, she should go immediately to the emergency room.
But what Frances didn’t understand was why they were calling her.
“Madeline’s son didn’t respond,” the woman explained. “She gave us your number. So, will you come?”
Frances wanted to ask how Madeline had known her phone number, but she figured she’d save that question for when she saw her in person. “Of course. I’ll be right over.”
When she hung up the phone, she stood in the kitchen, staring out the picture window that overlooked their backyard. As the weather continued to change, cold and flu season would rear its ugly head. Somehow she’d have to avoid getting sick. It was something she hadn’t considered. Now she was going to a nursing home, putting herself right into the thick of germs. Of course, she put herself at risk every time she went to the hospital for treatment. The irony wasn’t lost on her.
“What’s wrong, Mom?”
Her train of thought broken, Frances turned and looked at Andy. “Nothing. But I have to go somewhere for a bit.”
He frowned. “Go somewhere? But it’s Sunday night!”
“A friend is sick.”
Carrie darted around the corner, one of the dogs nipping at her feet, and slid across the tile floor, laughing as the dog ran into her. “When’s dinner, Mom?”
“It’s chicken piccata,” Andy mumbled.
“Yuck.”
Frances ignored their comments. “You two will have to deal with this tonight. It’ll be ready in . . .” She leaned over and looked at the oven clock. “Twelve minutes. Carrie can set the table, and, Andy, you can take it out of the oven, OK? Use oven mitts or you’ll burn your hands.”
“No duh!” Carrie said as she rolled her eyes.
Frances took a deep breath. Part of her wanted to shake Carrie, to scream out that she could be dying at that very moment, that she was fighting cancer in order to live, not for herself but for them. Whether they wanted to admit it or not, they still needed her. She knew that . . . had to believe that. Why couldn’t Carrie just drop the tween attitude and get beyond this rebellious, snarky hump once and for all?
“And leave a plate for your father if he doesn’t get home in time to join you,” she said as she hurried upstairs to quickly change her clothes and put on some makeup.
Thirty minutes later, when she walked into the nursing home, Frances wrinkled her nose at the distinct odor of disinfectant mixed with death. At least that was how she defined it: the smell of aging people who clung to life until their last breath.
She hated nursing homes. Always had. Her grandmother had lived in a nursing home toward the end of her life. Frances had been only fourteen at the time, but she had been old enough to realize that the frail, wrinkled people that lay in those metal hospital beds were at the tail end of their lives. Most of the time, the residents were alone in their rooms, their eyes glued to the television set that hung from the corner of the ceiling or, even worse, just staring at the ceiling. It was as if they were lying on those beds or sitting in a vinyl recliner just waiting for someone—anyone!—to visit them. Or perhaps they were just waiting to die.
After all of those years raising families, working in corporations, and volunteering at the church, what was the point of prolonging life only to be neglected by the very people—children, colleagues, and friends—whom they’d spent their entire lives supporting and nurturing?
After signing in at the front desk, she headed to the elevator, pressed the button, and waited for the doors to open. A man in a wheelchair rolled beside her and, even though the button was illuminated, he pressed it. Not once but twice. Frances glanced at him, taking in his stooped back with a thick mass that made him hunch forward. His face was wrinkled, and his skin looked paper-thin. And, not surprisingly, there was a distinct stench of urine surrounding him.
She took a step away.
“Slowest elevator on the planet, I say,” the man grumbled. He lifted his hand and pointed behind her. “Better option might be the stairs.”
Frances turned around and saw a sign for the stairs screwed onto the wall. A much better option than traveling in the elevator with the wheelchair man and his urine smell.
“Thank you,” she managed to say before she hurried over to the door.
By the time she got to the third floor, she needed to pause and catch her breath. Before chemotherapy, she wouldn’t have even been winded. Now, however, she gulped for air as she clung to the railing. It took her at least two minutes to calm down her beating heart. Only then did she open the door and emerge on the third-floor landing. She walked down the long hallway, glancing into each room that she passed. Most of the doors were open. Frances was surprised to see that each room appeared comfortable, some with plants and books on the window ledge, and almost all of them decorated in some unique way. Unlike her grandmother’s nursing home, it was almost as if they were trying to mask the fact that the rooms were in a nursing home.
At the end of the hallway, she stood in front of room 313 and, taking a deep breath, knocked gently, then opened the door and entered.
“Oh, Frances!” Madeline cried out when she saw her. She sat up in her bed, a white knit blanket pulled up to her waist. She looked frail with a small gray cap on her head and wearing a floral-print nightgown. Frances was happy to see that a spark of life still gleamed in her eyes. With a concerned frown, Madeline shook her head apologetically. “I don’t know why they called you!”
“Now, Madeline,” a nurse said, brushing past Frances, “you told us to call her when your son didn’t answer.”
“I didn’t think you would make her come here! He lives only five minutes away. He probably just stepped out for a minute. You could have tried him again in an hour before bothering my friend.”
Frances hesitated before she walked farther into the room. She suddenly realized that she didn’t know much about the woman at all. She set down her purse on the recliner next to Madeline’s bed and walked up to her side.
“Well, they called and I came, Madeline,” she said. “Fever is not good. You know that with the chemo your body is in no condition to fight it alone. You need antibiotics.”
“Pssh!” She waved the air as if dismissing Frances’s comment. “I feel fine. I keep telling her that.”
The nurse looked at Frances. “Over 104 degrees. I contacted her oncologist, and he wants her over at the hospital at once for blood work and observation. Perhaps you can talk some sense into her.”
Frances gave a slight nod of her head,
understanding the situation but not understanding Madeline’s reluctance to follow the doctor’s orders. She waited until the nurse left them alone before looking at Madeline, who was watching her with mild curiosity.
For a moment Frances wasn’t certain what to say. She barely knew Madeline, having been in her company only two times during chemotherapy. Despite her curiosity about Madeline’s son, after their discussion at the last treatment, Frances knew better than to ask. There was bad blood between mother and son, and the last thing that she wanted to do was upset Madeline if she wasn’t feeling well.
“How did you get my number, anyway?” she asked, moving toward the chair. She pushed her purse to the side and sat down, leaning forward so that her hands almost touched the railing of Madeline’s bed.
“Those nurses always leave their charts lying around,” Madeline replied. “I have a photographic memory. I saw it and remembered it.”
Frances caught her breath. “I’ve never met anyone with a photographic memory! How interesting!”
“It’s like having a superpower. It can be put to use for good or evil.”
Frances laughed. “That’s one way to look at it.”
“I am sorry that they contacted you. And on a Sunday night. I hope you weren’t interrupted?”
Of course she was interrupted, interrupted from making dinner for her children, who barely spent any time with her and did not appreciate it anyway. Interrupted from waiting for her husband, who always seemed to prefer spending time away from his home. Interrupted from listening to sassy comments from her kids and cleaning up after them. Interrupted from making a home for people who would much rather spend time away from it. In fact, Frances couldn’t remember the last time that she had gone out socially at night alone. Charlotte was usually busy with her boyfriends or other friends, most of whom were single. In a way, it felt liberating to have somewhere to go. Someone to see.
“Don’t think twice about it,” she said. “Now, what are we going to do with you?”
“I feel fine, Frances. Honest.”
