Purple Flowers June 10, 2013

There are moments in your life, defining moments that you remember where you were, what you were wearing, what you ate; odd details that have nothing really to do with the impact of the moment. 

You remember that on your way there, a car, a blue car, cut you off. You remember the flowers blooming outside the doctor’s office, unusual purple flowers that look a bit too much like onions. You think, “What an odd choice for an ornamental flower?” They aren’t very attractive. You keep thinking about those strange flowers as you sit in the doctor’s office, waiting. You have done your research. You only researched benign tumors. You have a few theories but you wait for the experts to explain it all. You listen to the too young doctor in the too large suit rambling. You can tell he is nervous. That makes you nervous, so you think about the odd purple flowers.

Stage IV Sarcoma. He’s only 20. Yes, the tumor on the CT Scan last week seemed very large but he only started having pain a month or so ago. Stage IV, how can this be? The too young doctor in the too large suit starts talking about treatment plans, U of M, and the dimensions of the tumor. You look at him, your boy. You can tell he has NO clue what a Stage IV diagnosis means. You look at your ex-husband; it hasn’t registered with him yet either. You keep swallowing, trying hard not to make a scene. You want to scream, cry, to vomit but you keep it together because you KNOW what Stage IV means. You see that the too young doctor in the too large suit realizes that you know. He starts looking directly at you, speaking directly to you. You don’t know what to ask? How long has it been there? Well, that is hard to say. What caused this? We really don’t know. You look at your boy again. You remember the first time you saw him. Your skin starts to crawl. You don’t know how much longer you can stay composed. The buzzing in your ears grows louder. The walls start moving. The too young doctor in the too large suit is watching you. He leaves the room to get you some information he’s printed off. You try to think about those damn purple flowers.

And there you are, making plans at the front desk for an appointment at U of M Sarcoma Clinic. He needs more blood work. He needs all his records. You agree to take him for his blood work but you say you have to do something first, that you will pick him up in a few minutes. Driving across town, you keep thinking of the purple flowers because if you think of Stage IV Sarcoma you are not going to be able to move. People are waiting for the news. You call your sister. You have to say the words out loud. You start to unravel. You manage to post the information and a prayer request before your hands start shaking uncontrollably. You are undone. You let it happen. It pours out of you. You try to breathe. You know you have to compose yourself. He needs you to be strong. Dear God, how can I be strong? My baby boy has Stage IV Sarcoma. He’s only 20.