On a glorious fall day, I played hooky for a couple of hours to walk around Green Lake with a friend. After the stimulating walk and conversation, I remember noticing the vibrant colors of the leaves and reflecting on how great my life was. In that moment, I think I even remember saying out loud “This has been a perfect day.”
On the way to my car, I had the urge to call my mother, which is not a daily, or even monthly urge for me. Everything changed in a mere two seconds when she said, “Oh, I thought you were the doctors. They found something strange on my CAT Scan.” Sure this could be taken in stride if you’re mother is prone for dramatics, but my mother is the opposite of that. She has had major surgeries without ever mentioning them to my sister or me. She doesn’t ever complain about ailments, she just goes to bed. So the fact that she was feeling sick enough to get a CAT Scan—and later I learned several blood tests, an MRI, lung screen, and numerous physical exams by numerous specialists—told me something was very, very wrong.
Over a week passed with several cancers mentioned, but nothing declared as definitive. Numerous of tests and biopsies were ordered. She asked all of us to remain optimistic, never use the word “fight” or any other battle reference, and most of all “not to worry.” She also asked me not to tell my kids.
I am a worrier, especially when it comes to the people I love. I’m also a talker, especially about things I need to process, which are usually the things I am worried about. But I wanted to honor her request, so I tried to shove my worries, stress, and fear into a box so I could appear “fine.”
Within a week of this I felt like an overfilled tire ready to explode. I was so high strung, I jumped at any sound. Even a ticking clock. I cut caffeine from my diet, increased my exercise, grew overly fond of Ambien, but still, I felt as if I was going to pop.
Three weeks after the first mention of something being wrong, and ten days after two biopsies, we still didn’t have a definitive prognosis from the doctors. Throw in the fact that my boyfriend, the main person I was leaning on during this time, received a suicidal phone call from an old friend. And on top of that, his contract was ending in two weeks and none of his supervisors would say if there was another job for him. And on top of that, his parents were coming to stay with him for a week. Needless to say, this made him a little preoccupied. Needless to say again, this freaked me out. I told him he wasn’t letting me in, he denied this, tears ensued, repeat, repeat again, for two days.
I had the good sense to call my therapist during this time and her words of wisdom were, “It’s too much. It’s just too much.”
“I know it is!” I shrieked. “But what am I supposed to do about it?”
“Breathe and call me.”
Thank god the phone call was free, because three more of them followed during the week. One after my roommate said he was moving out, therefore would not be paying half of my mortgage anymore. Another after a woman I hardly know told me she was concerned about the mental health of my ex-husband (he may be my ex-husband, but is very, very sane). And another one after my son stayed awake crying for three hours because he couldn’t sleep.
“He knows something is wrong, he always knows. He’s very intuitive,” I tell my therapist.
“Of course he is, he’s your son. You can’t keep this from him. All of the not talking and not being able to feel your feelings is now transferring over to him and he’s stressed.”
“I’m going to explode.”
“No you’re not. Sure, you’re under more shit than imaginable, but you’ll get through this. Breathe and call me.”
I tell my kids, “ My mom is sick and it’s worrying me, so I may be acting snappy or strange. I’m sorry if I am.”
“When will she be better?” they ask.
“We don’t know because we don’t know exactly what’s wrong with her.”
They took this in stride and I tried to walk and breathe my way through another week of ambiguity. I had several good sobs in my bed or in my boyfriend’s arms, which released the pressure a bit. But only for the evening. A phone call with my mother where she said, “I’m so fucking pissed!” for the first time in her life released more pressure. But, I was a ball of knots the next day. And my son’s orthodontist ended up in my firing range.
I arrived at the appointment tired and wary of the bejeweled orthodontist. When they wouldn’t let me accompany my son and instead demanded I wait in the waiting room, my wariness turned to anger. My son said he was all right and the hygienist reassured me they were merely taking a mold of his teeth and he’d be back quickly. I tried to relax and play “guess how many times I’m blinking without looking at me” with my daughter, but I was distracted and irritable. My son reappeared without any signs of tears or harm, so I gathered our things to leave. This is when Mr. Bejeweled called us into his office. He proceeded to reprimand me for taking several months to make this follow up appointment, scoffed when I said we were seeking a second opinion, and then said, “Do you even know what we’re doing here? Who is his parent?”
“I’m his mother, but his father is the one who brought him to his first appointment,” I explained. “And yes, I understand what’s going on.”
He lectures me more, says he doesn’t want to have to get in the middle of a divorced couple, and then berates me again for not bringing my son in sooner.
I interrupted his belittlement by asking him, “Do you even know what my name is?”
“No,” he replied.”
“And do you have any of my contact information on your forms?”
“No.”
“Then you need to stop berating me for supposedly ignoring you and your office when this is the first time you’ve ever met me. And stop talking down to me.” I ordered my kids to follow me, muttered “condescending asshole” just loud enough for the receptionists to hear, and stormed out of his office.
I took a couple of days to think about whether I was placing my misguided anger at my mother’s doctors on to my son’s orthodontist and waited to make any decisions until I’d had a good night’s sleep and at least five consultations with various friends. In the end, I decided I was too polite so called the orthodontist office to inform them we would not be returning and told them exactly why. And for a few days after, I didn’t feel as if I was going to explode.

Corbin Lewars is the author of Creating a Life: The memoir of a writer and mom in the making, which was nominated for the 2011 PNBA and Washington State book awards. Her essays have been featured in over twenty-five publications including Mothering and Hip Mama. She has been a writing coach and instructor for fifteen years and sees clients in Ballard. She is currently offering a 20 for $20 special, twenty-minute coaching/editing sessions for $20. Contact her for details.