After biology class, I have statistics and then algebra. I’m taking a very heavy schedule of classes during the second semester of my freshman year. Stacy calls me a glutton for punishment. But I guess part of me is hoping that my mom gets to see me graduate from college, so I’m trying to speed that up.
Also, I’m a nerd who likes math and likes learning in general. Figuring out numerical and mathematical problems takes my mind off my real problems. So, I’m one of those rare students who actually likes doing homework after spending all day in school.
But today when I get home, it looks like the studying will have to wait. My mom is sitting at the kitchen table with her head in her hands, crying as she looks at a piece of paper on the table in front of her.
“What is it, Mom?” I ask, going up to her and hugging her.
My poor mom. Life has dealt her such a bad blow. She has a rare form of cancer, sarcoma, for which the prognosis doesn’t seem good.
“Oh, Veronica,” she says, shaking her head regretfully. “I didn’t realize how late it had gotten. I didn’t mean to still be sitting here when you got home from school. I don’t want to burden you with my problems any more than I already have.”
“No, it’s fine, Mom,” I tell her, rubbing her back. “All I want to know is what’s going on so that maybe I can help.”
“I don’t think anyone can help in this situation,” she says, burying her head in my chest.
I hug her tightly and as she breaks down into sobs I realize what a serious situation this must be. During the entire time that my mom’s been diagnosed and getting treatment, she’s maintained a stoic demeanor.
She always exudes strength where most people would break down. I know she has been trying hard to be my rock just as she has always been, since I was a newborn baby. So, whatever’s happening must be a really big deal.
“Mom, tell me.” I run my hands over her thinning hair, which the chemotherapy treatments have ravaged. “Please. You’re really scaring me.”
“Well,” my mom takes a big breath and nods her head as if deciding she needs to tell me. “The last time I was in to see the specialist, he told me that there was some hope to cure my cancer. Or at least, there’s a new method that seems much better than the current treatments. So I talked to the doctor that he recommended.”
“That’s great, Mom,” I say, a little offended that she hadn’t told me any of this before.
But I don’t mention it because I don’t want to make her feel even worse. My mom and I have always been so close. I’m close with my dad too, but with my mom there has always been a special understanding that it’s me and her against the world.
“I know I didn’t say anything,” she says, as if reading my mind, which she has the tendency to do. “I didn’t want to get your hopes up and I really shouldn’t be saying anything now because my own hopes were dashed as soon as they were raised.”
“I’m so sorry, Mom.”
I don’t even understand what she’s talking about but it sounds bad.
“And don’t worry about not telling me,” I add. “I understand.”
It’s true— I do. I can’t even imagine if the roles were reversed. I don’t want to tell her anything that could make her feel sad. I want to protect her and she’s my mother, so her urge to protect me must be even stronger.
“This other doctor told me that there is only a fifty percent chance that his treatment will even work,” she says.
“Fifty percent,” I repeat, mulling the number over in my mind, thinking of all the statistics class I have ever taken. “That’s really good. Those are better odds than…”
I trail off, not wanting to go there.
“…than Dr. Oslo has given me of surviving even one more year,” my mom finishes my sentence for me. “I know that. But it’s still not great odds and it’s not as high as Dr. Oslo was hoping that it would be.”
I nod, still not understanding what’s so bad that she’s this upset.
“But the worst part is that this new doctor sent me a proposal of costs for the treatment and it is way outside anything I can possibly afford,” she continues, and now I understand.
She hands me a piece of paper and I scan it. The treatment will be hundreds of thousands of dollars.
“How much does insurance cover?” I ask her, hearing a glimmer of hope in my own voice.
“None of it,” my mom says, shaking her head. “That’s the really sad thing that this doctor told me right up front. This treatment is considered experimental and there’s not enough data backing up the necessity for it or the rate of treatment success so the insurance doesn’t have to pay for it and they won’t. There are some private charities that will pay a certain amount due to the fact that we don’t make a lot of money, but it’s nowhere near as much as we would need to pay for the treatment.”
“If there isn’t enough data to back it up, then how do you know that the treatment would actually be any good?” I ask her.
“That’s what I had asked Dr. Oslo,” my mom says, “and he is sure that this doctor knows his stuff. He’s helped cure several patients nationwide already so he has the best experience and the best guess for how well this treatment would work on my particular type of cancer. Dr. Oslo said I can trust him on those fronts but he added that obviously the insurance company will find any reason to deny having to pay so much.”
She hangs her head and sobs some more.
“There’s really nothing either of them can do to help me be able to afford the treatment, even with the charity money and even with the doctor giving me a discount based on income. The treatment itself is cutting edge technology and is just so expensive that it has to come out of someone’s pocket. We both know it can’t be mine.”
She starts crying again and I start rocking her in my arm, cradling her like a baby like she once did me. This whole time— ever since she was first diagnosed up until right now— she hasn’t mentioned what would happen if her cancer wasn’t cured. She was obviously holding out for some miracle, and she had thought this would be it. Now she is realizing her own fate and how little control she has over it.
Reality hangs between us and we are both well aware of her prognosis without some kind of new cure or treatment. Like this one that’s apparently available to her with a fifty percent chance of working, if she could only afford it.
There has to be a way to afford it.