I Grew My Boobs in China (4 page)

“I did a most precise job on your stitches to ensure the faintest of scars, but unfortunately, it was all for nothing,” the surgeon had said as he broke the news to him. “I’m very sorry to have to tell you that we’re going to have to remove a larger part of your ear. The biopsy revealed the mole was carrying an aggressive malignant melanoma cancer. You’re going to have to come in for a more extensive operation to ensure the entire cancerous area is gone. We can’t take any chances with this.”

As Ammon left the doctor’s office, his teary eyes blurred his vision and the road ahead. He had never felt so vulnerable in his life. He pulled over and hit the steering wheel hard with the palms of his hands, gripping it rigidly as he sat stiff and straight for what seemed like forever. Even when he began to drive again, his emotions in check, he didn’t yet feel able to face us. At a red light, he had to choose whether to turn left to go home or to head right to Simon Fraser.
Crossing three lanes of traffic, he sped up the mountain to the school. It was quiet and the halls echoed, but he was grateful to see she was still there, long past regular office hours. He knocked on the door that was just slightly ajar, and Doctor Northwood opened it.

“What are you doing here, you twerp? Get out of my sight!” she shouted, in keeping with her reputation as the big bad wolf of the department, the one professor everyone feared. Sticking her head out, she looked both ways down the hall before pulling him in by his collar. Over the years, Ammon’s banter and his witty attitude had propelled him past her wicked-witch facade. When he didn’t laugh at her charade, she asked, “What’s wrong?” in a gentler tone than he’d ever heard her use. He broke down and told her the bad news first.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When he’d finally made it home and announced the unexpected news, the word cancer set off a red alert in my mind, but I stopped dead in my tracks when I heard him translate his particular diagnosis into non-scientific English. “It’s the most
lethal
form of skin cancer, causing seventy-seven percent of all skin cancer related deaths.” Or perhaps it was Mom’s terrified face, frozen with confusion, that frightened me most. His cancer was potentially on the move and being the knowledge sponge he is, Ammon didn’t need to be told what the consequences could be. If the cancerous cells decided to get up and travel around their little Ammon world, it would be the end of him. They were like a bomb’s detonation timer counting down the days, and they had to be fought as aggressively as possible.

Prior to the actual surgery, thick green dye was injected into the cartilage of his outer ear. With evident sympathy, the doctors had warned him, “We’re so sorry. We’re not going to lie to you. This procedure is going to be nothing less than excruciating.” But that wasn’t the end of it. In addition to removing the required portion of the ear, they also had to slice into his neck to determine whether or not the cancer had spread to his lymph nodes. While we waited for the results of the lymph node biopsy, the trip planning was put on hold. And we waited.

We found it really hard to watch a healthy, twenty-five year old man face some of the harsher realities of life. Ammon had far fewer answers than he had stitches. The first day and night after his surgery were tremendously difficult, especially for someone who was always in tip-top condition. Watching Ammon deal with this terrifying, painful disruption to the life he had planned made me realize I wasn’t the only person learning the life lesson of how abruptly the ground can fall out from beneath you.

Even the short journey to the bathroom was painful for him and a struggle for Mom and me. We first transferred him from the couch in Mom’s bedroom to the computer chair and then wheeled him across the wood floor to the bathroom, Harrison following dutifully to show his support. He paced from side to side wanting to help and make his presence known, even though the last thing Ammon wanted was a dog hanging around.

“Not now, Harrison,” I had to tell him every time. Head low, he sulked over to the corner where he could sit out of the way but still keep a watchful eye.

Giving Ammon some privacy in the bathroom, we waited for him to shout, “Ok.” On each return trip, despite our best efforts, clearing the bump at the doorway made him groan miserably.

“Oops, sorry,” was about all we could say about that as we wheeled the pale-green, almost corpse-like patient back into Mom’s room, parked him next to the fireplace, and tucked him up in a blanket.

Regardless of all the drugs, surgery, and stress, he was utterly determined not to vomit. It was simply mind over matter for him. Have I mentioned what a strong will Ammon always demonstrated? Even unbalanced and physically weak, he was devoted to maintaining his resolve not to puke. I always thought it strange what boys will do and the bizarre games they play, but he actually managed to come out of this ongoing competition without breaking his personal record of eight years.

Thankfully, the trip was put on the backburner until we felt that our designated leader would be, not only still alive, but healthy enough to survive a year on the road.
We don’t want him to drop dead in the middle of the world and leave us as live bait for the locals! With my luck, they’d be related to the heart-eating tribe from Indiana Jones. It wouldn’t take long before we’d wind up in the same state as him. DEAD
!
They’d gobble us up in pieces.
The days of waiting seemed to take weeks, and I felt somehow responsible for Ammon’s condition because of all the negativity I’d been putting out. I felt guilty because, on a very basic level, I was torn between the conflict of losing my brother or losing everything else.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The house was silent, a rare state of affairs with three children still living at home, not to mention hosting varying numbers of home-stay students and the ever-intrusive business phones ringing off the hook. With the fluffy duvet tucked snuggly under her chin, Maggie-the-Mom sat contentedly with her arms folded across her tummy. It was here, nestled in her warm bed, that she took advantage of the precious quiet. A few minutes were wisely spent in calmly pondering the many arrangements involved with making a smooth exit from this stage of her life. There was so much to be done, so many nagging concerns. She didn’t know how she would manage everything in her set time frame, especially with the preparation time Ammon’s cancer had lost her, but she was taking it day by day and doing her best to ensure she would not be overwhelmed.

The only sound she heard was the soothing hum of the minibar fridge she used as a bedside table. Sensing that rhythmic vibration, she promptly reached down, opened the door and picked out one of many Dr. Peppers. Sitting back, the “spisss” of the can opening brought her a calm release, like a smoker’s first puff after a long, red-eye flight. One or two soft drinks a day was the only addiction she had developed in her forty-five years.

Mom looked across the empty bed, big enough to host her six-member family in a pinch. Gathering together at the end of the day to chat one-on-one with her was something of a nightly ritual, but these days it happened less and less. Unaccustomed to the luxury of space to herself, she inched towards the centre. She rarely had any personal time and, like most mothers, sacrificed herself for the benefit of her loved ones. Reaching over to what had been “his” side of the bed, she took an extra pillow and, laughing to herself, she inwardly noted that he certainly wouldn’t be using it anymore! That simple act epitomized a whole new concept to her as she slowly began to identify the first signs of selfhood – If she wanted a pillow, she’d take a pillow, dammit! Sitting back with her fizzy drink, she thought,
Maybe I can get used to this solitude. It might be nice.
She was always hopeful there was a way to get past the hardships, and this realization was the first step towards mending her heart.

Everyone was out of the house. Now that he was cleared of cancer, Ammon was once again busy writing exams, I was off with friends trying to escape the trip’s fast-approaching reality, and Bree spent every waking hour with Fernando. Her mood changed abruptly. It began to seem very lonesome as she imagined getting old alone in that bed, the kids grown with families and homes of their own. She flinched slightly from that thought, and her heart fluttered as she instinctively thought of Skylar, her second oldest child and the first to leave home.

The only offspring born in his father’s homeland, he felt his country calling and had unexpectedly declared that the U.S. Marine Corps was the place for him. When he and his father had first walked into the enlistment hall three years earlier after visiting other branches of the military and learning about their various signing incentives, he’d been asked who had recruited him. His sincere explanation that no one had actually approached him and that the challenge of becoming one of the toughest and joining the best of the best was incentive enough for him, surprised them. It may also have got him off on a positive note with the Marines, as the recruiting agents rarely had people walk in on their own accord. The day after his twenty-first birthday, he left for boot camp at the MCRD (Marine Corps Recruit Depot) in San Diego, California. Within six months, he graduated as one of the few recruits who were able to survive the gruelling marine training.

As if in recognition of that train of thought, her reverie was broken by a phone call from Sky. Shortly after our parents’ separation and the announcement of Mom’s plans to travel the world, Sky was being deployed to Iraq for his first tour of duty, so he would not be joining his family on the trip.

“Oh Sky!!! It’s so good to hear your voice. How are you? Where are you? North Carolina?”

“Yep, just in my barracks at Cherry Point. I’m … I’m ok, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“Well, I’m just trying … I need your help, Mom. I just can’t do this,” he broke down, “I’m trying to fill out a form.”

“Well, what are you doing?” she asked gently.

“I gotta make my will and fill out funeral forms,” he said, trying to sound calm.

“What? Your funeral? You’ve got to make funeral plans? How awful. Why would they make you do that?”

“Yah, I know. The military just doesn’t want any worries for us or you if something happens to me in Iraq, but it’s really hard.”

“Oh, lovely! That’s
so
good of them,” she said sarcastically.

“We have some things to fill out.”

“Like what?”

“We have to choose our songs and our pall bearers, a whole bunch of stuff like that.”

“I can’t believe you have to do that. No wonder you’re having a hard time!” she sympathized.

“We have to get everything in order before we go away,” he paused, reluctant to upset her but needing her help to do what was required of him, he continued, “in case we don’t come back.” And there it was. The awful, stark reality of it all. Her son may not return home alive to her, and they both knew it all too well.

Mom’s throat tightened. Her chest was burning, but she wouldn’t let that affect him any more than it had to. He needed her to be strong. He needed her guidance and support, so she could not let herself crumble. And she wouldn’t. The most important thing was making sure she made it as easy as possible for him. Tears would not help the situation, so she struggled to ignore the excruciating dread.

“So, I need your help ’cause I can’t get through this. It’s just too darn real.”

“Okay, Sky. We’ll do it together. Let’s start at the top.”

“I’ve already been working on it a bit.”

“What part are you stuck on?”

“Ummm …” She could hear papers rustling at the other end of the line, “What kind of casket should I get?”

“Well, yikes, what do you like?” her lips tightened before the words were forced out in a calm tone.

“I don’t like any of it! I don’t know if I want to be buried at all,” he confessed.

Since he was an impressionable kid, he’d had his mind set on having his bones dipped in adamantium (regardless of the fact that it’s a fictional metal from the Wolverine/X-Men comic books) so his indestructible skeleton could be displayed in a glass cabinet, like the also fictional Terminator, for all his future kids and grandkids to see. That way he could “live on” forever. She thought this might explain why he didn’t want to be buried and his inability to choose a coffin.

“I have this ridiculous fear of being buried alive, you know? Like in that movie, what was it called? Oh yah,
The Serpent and the Rainbow
. What if they put me in before I’m really dead?” Surprised that this could be his biggest worry with all the more likely challenges he was about to face, she could sense his emotions faltering. Instead of drilling him about the unlikelihood of such an eventuality, she sought to allay the fear he’d given voice to. If this was his biggest concern, she was determined to help him work through it.

“Ok, then, let’s just see what we can do,” she started. Putting herself in his place, fearful of being trapped underground, she instinctively chose her approach, “We’ll just have to make sure that you have a way to get out if you wake up. ‘Cause the worst that could happen is you can’t get out, right?” She paused to give him time to acknowledge this. “So you’ll need an axe in there with you so you can escape.”

“Can you really do that?!?!” he asked.

“Of course! We can do whatever we want. It’s
your
funeral. And if they won’t do it, I will.”

“Aw, thanks Mom. I guess I’ll only have a short time to get out, I mean, the air supply will be limited.”

“Then you’ll need a small oxygen tank in there, too. That will give you some time to break your way out.”

“Yah, yah. That’s a good idea,” he agreed, oddly beginning to calm down. Like Bree, Sky was always up for a “mission.” “And an axe seems a bit bulky and heavy, I think I’ll just keep my Marine K-Bar. I want to have that with me,” he added.

Mom felt his mood lightening as it became a game of logistics, even breaking into some unexpected laughter as potential scenarios unfolded.