Chapter 6 - THE JOB I THOUGHT I COULDN'T LOSEOn Monday morning, I was not at the office.
I was sitting beside my mother in pre-op holding.
My manager called at 7:46.
I watched the phone vibrate.
Mom looked at the screen.
“You should answer.”
“No.”
“Claire.”
“No.”
“You worked very hard for that job.”
“And you worked very hard pretending not to have cancer. We are both allowed to stop doing stupid things.”
She almost smiled.
The phone stopped.
Then rang again.
Christopher sat across from us holding coffee.
Daniel was downstairs with Hannah.
Mom had protested having him there.
She had lost that argument.
“Answer it,” Christopher said quietly. “Then turn it off.”
I stepped into the hall.
My manager, Rebecca, did not waste time.
“We need you on the nine o'clock client call.”
“I told you my mother is having major cancer surgery.”
“And I told you Mark would lead the project while you handled the immediate family emergency.”
“Her surgery is the immediate family emergency.”
A pause.
“Claire, I’m trying to help you protect your position.”
Something about that sentence would have terrified me a week earlier.
Now it made me tired.
“What position?”
“You know what I mean.”
“No. My project was reassigned. My promotion was shelved. You're asking me to leave my mother before surgery so I can make a client feel comfortable about a project someone else now owns.”
“That's not a productive way to frame this.”
“It is exactly the way to frame it.”
“Claire—”
“I won't be on the call.”
Another pause.
“I need to know whether you're committed to this team.”
I looked through the glass.
Mom was laughing weakly at something Christopher had said.
Her hospital cap covered her hair.
Her hands trembled.
“I'll let you know.”
I hung up.
For the first time in eighteen months, the company did not explode because I was unavailable.
The sun still rose.
Atlanta traffic still existed.
People kept sending emails without me.
It was almost insulting.
I went back inside.
Mom looked suspicious.
“Did you lose your job?”
“Not yet.”
“Claire.”
“Please save your energy for surviving surgery. You can manage my career after.”
“I absolutely will.”
A nurse came to wheel her away.
That was when the fear became real.
Mom's fingers locked around mine.
“You stay until they make you leave.”
“I’m staying.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
Dr. Harris arrived.
He reviewed the plan again.
Five to seven hours.
Possible bowel surgery.
Possible complications.
They hoped to remove all visible disease.
Hoped.
Cancer seemed built out of words no one could promise.
Possible.
Likely.
May.
Could.
Hope.
Mom looked at me.
“If something happens—”
“No.”
“Claire.”
“No goodbye speeches before anesthesia.”
Her eyes filled.
“Bossy.”
“Genetic.”
That made her laugh.
The anesthesiologist began rolling the bed.
I walked beside it until two doors marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY stopped me.
Mom held my hand until our fingers separated.
Then she was gone.
The doors closed.
I stood staring at them.
Christopher wrapped his arms around me from behind.
I let him.
The first two hours passed slowly.
The next three were worse.
Daniel took Hannah home for a nap.
Christopher and I sat in the surgical waiting room.
At noon, Rebecca emailed.
At 1:30, human resources emailed.
At 2:10, I turned off my work phone.
At 3:47, Dr. Harris finally appeared.
I stood so quickly my chair fell backward.
He removed his surgical cap.
“How is she?”
“She is alive.”
My knees nearly gave out.
Christopher caught my arm.
“Did you get the cancer?”
Dr. Harris breathed out.
“We removed everything we could see.”
I covered my mouth.
“Everything?”
“Every visible area of disease.”
“Then she's okay?”
“She still has cancer.”
The joy stopped.
He continued gently.
“This is a very important step. But it is not the end of treatment.”
I nodded rapidly.
“Okay.”
“There was more bowel involvement than the scans suggested. We removed an additional section.”
My stomach tightened.
“Her ileostomy?”
“Still in place.”
“Can it be reversed later?”
“If she recovers well, yes.”
I started crying.
Relief.
Fear.
Exhaustion.
Everything.
Then Dr. Harris's expression changed.
“There was another issue.”
My body went cold again.
“What issue?”
“Her blood pressure became unstable near the end of surgery.”
Christopher stepped closer.
“What happened?”
“We controlled it. She received blood. But because of the length of the procedure and the instability, we're taking her to intensive care overnight.”
“Is she awake?”
“Not yet.”
“Can I see her?”
“Soon.”
I nodded.
He touched my shoulder.
“The surgery achieved what we hoped to achieve.”
I held onto those words.
For the next six hours, they were everything.
Mom looked nothing like herself in ICU.
Tubes.
Monitors.
Lines.
Machines.
Her face was pale.
I sat beside her and held her hand.
At some point after midnight, her eyes opened.
I stood.
“Mom?”
She looked confused.
Then her gaze found me.
Her lips moved around the breathing tube.
“You can't talk.”
She frowned.
Even sedated and recovering from eight hours of surgery, Abigail Miller was irritated by instructions.
I laughed through tears.
“You did it.”
She closed her eyes.
A tear slipped sideways toward her ear.
I wiped it away.
“You're still here.”
Her fingers moved weakly inside mine.
I stayed all night.
At six the next morning, my personal phone rang.
Not work.
The genetics clinic.
My test results were ready.
I stepped into the hallway.
The counselor asked whether I was somewhere private.
My heart began hammering.
“Yes.”
“You were tested for the specific BRCA1 pathogenic variant identified in your mother.”
“Yes.”
She took a breath.
“You did not inherit it.”
I leaned against the wall.
“What?”
“Your result is negative.”
For several seconds, I could not speak.
I thought about Hannah.
I thought about myself.
I thought about the strange guilt of receiving good news while my mother slept in intensive care because she had received the opposite result.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
I started crying again.
Apparently crying had become my full-time job.
When I returned to Mom's room, she was more awake.
The breathing tube was gone.
I bent close.
“I got my results.”
Her eyes widened.
“Negative.”
She closed her eyes and whispered something.
“What?”
“Thank God.”
Not thank God for me.
Not thank God for herself.
For me.
That was my mother.
Even after everything, her first instinct was relief that the danger had stopped before reaching her daughter.
I kissed her forehead.
Then a nurse entered quickly.
She looked at the monitor.
Her expression sharpened.
“Abigail, are you having chest pain?”
Mom's hand moved toward her chest.
The monitor began alarming.
Three more people rushed into the room.
“Claire, step outside.”
“What is happening?”
“Now.”
Christopher pulled me through the door as staff surrounded the bed.
I heard someone say her oxygen was dropping.
Another voice called for an ECG.
May you like
The ICU doors closed between us.
After surviving the surgery everyone feared might kill her, my mother was suddenly fighting for her life again.
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