Curly Toed Shoes June 12th 2013

I'm sitting in a waiting room again. He has to get a PET Scan to see if there are tumors anywhere else in his body. Last week’s CT of his abdomen showed a spot on his kidney. Monday will mean an Ultrasound to get a closer look. I thought the first time I would be in a waiting room for an ultrasound would be with Elissa, waiting on the news of a grandchild.

The diagnosis has been changed from Stage IV Sarcoma to a Desmoid Fibromitosis Tumor.  His samples and scans were sent to Mayo Clinic, because of the size of the tumor and his age. It was Mayo Clinic that made the final diagnosis of a Desmoid. What in the hell is a Desmoid? Well, it’s rare, very rare. I don't blame the doctors in Saginaw for not knowing, for calling it Stage IV Sarcoma. Desmoids happen to four people in a million. Some websites call it Cancer, others say it is not. It is an aggressive tumor, often called the Angry Tumor. While not malignant on a cellular level, like Cancer, these tumors are very invasive and can cause death. This is better news. It is not Stage IV Sarcoma but this is hardly good news. Our life with ‘The Monster’ has just begun.

We are in a makeshift office, a trailer, outside one of Covenant’s Clinics. Nate says it before I do that it feels like he is there getting some illegal treatment instead of a scheduled PET Scan. They take him away, telling me it will be at least an hour. There is nothing but senior citizens in the waiting room. Nate is only 20. We shouldn't be here.

I became fascinated by an older couple speaking Greek. Speaking in English, he tries to explain to her what she is reading. Another older couple comes in. The wife tells a woman, a total stranger, that he has Stage IV liver Cancer. Two other women start talking about where they are at with their cancers. They go on and on about friends who have passed, who has it now….I cannot stomach their conversations. He is only 20.  I put my earbuds in, trying to escape their talk but my brain won't let me.

I text my friend, Kris, for a while, I start thinking about friends who have lost children, young children, to horrid obscure illnesses. I don't know if I can be like them, holding fund raisers for awareness, printing off Team Nathan t-shirts. I don't know what my role is here. I get up to use the bathroom and I see Nathan in another room. He has to wait for the dye to work into his system. I am so proud of how he is talking to the technicians. He speaks clearly, like an adult, and asks all the right questions. Back at my seat, I think about how he has grown.

He used to get so nervous and excited to do things with his friends that he threw up, even in high school. Nervousness runs on his dad’s side of the family. I used to push him, maybe harder than I should have, about being stronger. I would tell him that he could outsmart those butterflies and push through it. Not being a nervous person myself, I really couldn't understand his behavior. I didn't mock him but kept telling him how strong he really was.

I couldn't help but think back to my father’s funeral. I was abnormally high-strung and understandably upset hat day. Normally the tough as nails one in the family, I was shaking.  My eyes darted about the room. I really couldn't settle myself down. I had spent the day before at the funeral home for the visitation. I didn't do well there either. I wasn't being a grown up. I was being a little girl who lost her dad. I spent a lot of time sitting on the steps on the back porch of the funeral home.

I wasn't doing the grown up thing. Hours of telling people thank you for coming and making idle small talk was tiring to say the least. The funeral was being held at the church of my childhood. Standing in the back I could remember all the times I sat by my dad singing hymns. I can remember lighting candles with him on Christmas Eve and I remember him walking me down this very aisle. I’m not ready for this day.

The pastor comes over and tells us it’s time. It’s time to say goodbye so they can close the casket and start the funeral. My knees buckle and it starts. I’m not ready and start crying. My friend Cheryle, bless her soul, was watching me like a hawk. Before she can reach me, Nathan has his arms around me. Suddenly I am the child and he is the adult. 

I'm sobbing by now, uncontrollably. I can not stop. I'm sobbing as I hug my sister saying I don't want to say goodbye, not yet. I'm sobbing when I go to his casket and touch him for the last time. I'm sobbing while they are leading the prayer in the hallway, before we take the walk to the front of the church. I’m trying to compose myself during the prayer. I have my eyes opened but my head down. Nate is by my side with his arm around me. I look at his shoes. Good Lord, he wore his ratty old leather shoes and they were dirty. I look up at him, he gives me such a tender look and I say through sobs, “Your…shoes…are..dirty.” He looks at me, shocked, and whispers, “Really Mom, really, you want to go there with my shoes, now?” 

I'm leaning on him as we walk down the very aisle that I walked down with my father on my wedding day to Nate’s dad. I'm holding onto Nate this time. He leaves me to help bring the casket in. He’s so tall. He’s the largest of all the grandson’s. My Dad was a big man too. I feel a touch of pride knowing Nate is so big. Throughout the service, Nate was on my left side, Elissa on my right. I kept sobbing. I could NOT stop the tears. A couple of times I looked up at Nate and he patted my head. He was being my rock, my shoulder. Not my oldest child, not my daughter, my baby, my baby was there for me.

My boy grew that day. He was called upon and he didn't cower. He knew I needed him and he did what had to be done.

They bring Nate back to the waiting room. He is talking to the technician and they are joking about how tall Nate is. Because Nate is 6’4”, they had to do his PET scan with his feet sticking out, and then later with just his feet sticking in. I’m seated, listening to all of this. While Nate is asking questions about when the results will be to his doctor, I notice the technician’s shoes. They seem to be curled at the end? I stifle a giggle, grab my phone, mumble something to Nate about texting his dad but I secretly snap a photo of the guy’s shoes. In the car later I show them to Nate. He looks at me and says, “You notice people’s shoes at the weirdest times.”