My sister Julia and I have been calling my Mom a hypochondriac since we were old enough to know that a word existed to describe someone who always assumed that everyone was dying. But every story she tells makes her pessimism seem a little more rational.
My Aunt Belinda was an exaggerated version of my mother: a little shorter, a little fatter, cheeks a little rosier, with a laugh that was a little more contagious. She and my mother were best friends, and they talked about ten times a day on the phone.
In 2009, Belinda went to the hospital for the first time in twenty years outside of her prescheduled physical, because she didn’t feel well. My mom had convinced her that it was better to be safe than sorry, saying the half-hour trip into town was worth it.
The hospital in Peterborough hid in the back of a pharmacy and housed a nurse practitioner rather than a doctor. The nurse told her she had a cold and gave her some pills.
“I’m not going to say I’m sorry,” Mom laughed into the phone when Belinda called that night demanding gas money for her wasted trip.
Two days later, Belinda still didn’t feel any better, and Mom convinced her to go back to the clinic. The nurse listened to her chest and sent her straight to the hospital, another hour’s drive away, where they stuck a needle in her back to drain her lungs and ran another round of tests.
When Mom answered the phone that night and suddenly gasped, I muted the TV and leaned against the counter watching her face. Her eyebrows scrunched together and she leaned on her knees, hunching over and looking at the floor.
“What do you mean? What did they say?” Mom said quietly into the phone. “Okay, okay, I’ll talk to you tonight.” Mom put the phone down and I looked over her shoulder as she typed “ovarian cancer” into Google.
That night when Belinda called back, Mom sat by the phone with her iPad waiting. “It can’t be ovarian cancer. I looked it up and you don’t have any of the symptoms. It’s something else.”
The next day the doctor called Belinda back and told her that they had made a mistake. It wasn’t ovarian cancer, it was lung cancer. “Well, Jesus Christ,” Belinda scoffed. “My goddamn sister told me that. Even she knew before you did.”
Belinda called and told Mom that she was right, so Mom started looking up lung cancer. She already knew a lot about it since Grandma died, but now that she had the Internet, she wanted to know more.
Later that night, when Belinda called again, Mom sighed into the phone. “What the hell do you mean they called back? What the fuck is wrong with these people? Come out here and come to our hospital.”
Mom talked for an hour or so longer and hung up the phone. “What’s wrong now?” I sighed.
“The doctor called again, and they made a mistake again. It’s not lung cancer, it’s alpha 1.”
“What the hell is that?” I asked.
“I have no idea” Mom sighed, flipping open her iPad.
When I woke up the next morning Mom was still up, and she was an Alpha 1 expert. Alpha 1 is a pair of genes that all people have. But, if one of your genes is deficient and your numbers fall low, your body begins to attack itself in areas like the liver and lungs. Although Alpha 1 can be treated with a lung or liver transplant, it’s ultimately incurable.
The next day when Belinda went back to the doctor they scheduled her for a liver biopsy. By that time, Belinda’s birthday weekend had arrived. Mom made the three-hour drive to Peterborough to visit her. She arrived at the house while Belinda and Don were at the hospital getting the biopsy, and let herself in using the spare key.
When Mom saw Belinda and Don pull into the driveway, Don practically carried Belinda from the car. Belinda went to bed straight away and slept for the rest of the day. Mom says that liver biopsies aren’t supposed to hurt, but by the end of the weekend she still hadn’t been able to convince Belinda to go back to the hospital.
By the next Friday, Belinda couldn’t stand the pain anymore. She went back to the hospital and they did some more tests. When she called, excited to tell Mom that they had given her a private room, Mom wasn’t excited. Belinda’s liver was so damaged that it had shrunken down to a third of the size it should have been. Since the doctor hadn’t used an ultrasound machine when doing the biopsy, he hadn’t known that the liver wasn’t where it should have been, and he punctured her stomach.
The next day Mom packed up and drove to the hospital, four hours from home. Mom says that when she got there Belinda’s cheeks weren’t rosy, and she wasn’t plump anymore. Her eyes sunk in and extra skin dangled off her arms.
While Belinda slept the doctor came in and Mom finally got to ask all the questions that she had wanted Belinda to ask for so long. She asked how they had gotten the diagnosis wrong so many times. She asked why the nurse had sent her home so many times. She asked why they hadn’t used an ultrasound machine when doing the biopsy. Mom asked all the questions she wanted, but still only one answer remained. They could do nothing more for Belinda.
While the rest of the family lived far away, thinking that Belinda was only having a few health hiccups, Mom was the first one to know that she was dying. Even Don hadn’t realized how serious things had become. He walked into the waiting room smiling and carrying a bouquet of flowers. “How’s my girl?” he asked, looking down the hall towards Belinda’s room.
“It’s not good, Don.” Mom shook her head. “This is it.”
“What do you mean, this is it?” Don asked, his forehead crinkling and the corners of his mouth turning down.
“There’s nothing more they can do.” Mom pushed the flowers out of the way and leaned up to hug Don, patting his back and wiping her eyes on his shirt.
Mom called Belinda’s children and told them that they should come to the hospital. When they said that they would come on the weekend when the work week had finished, Mom said that she didn’t think they should wait that long. Her children, grandchildren, sisters, and brothers all came to visit. Two days later, on April 23rd, 2009, she died in her sleep.
Once everything had settled, Mom called everyone in the family and told them to get tested for alpha 1. Mom says you’re supposed to have a number between 1.8 and 2.6, and anything lower meant that you could get the disease. Everyone got checked, and only a few people had a low number. Mom kept a little black book under her bed with everyone’s information and numbers inside. No one had a number as low as Belinda’s 0.02.
Every year on her birthday Mom says that Belinda was telling her all about growing old, and now, without her, Mom doesn’t know what’s coming or how to deal with things. Every spring when she’s planting her garden Mom says she can’t believe Belinda will never plant another cucumber seed. Every Christmas Mom says she can’t believe Belinda will never see another winter.
Mom says that when she got Grandpa tested for the disease he had a higher number than anyone else. He had two perfectly healthy genes. Mom wrote his number in her book, put it back under her bed, and never took it out again.
Mom says that alpha 1 is hereditary, and parents pass their genes on to their children. Mom also says that Grandpa’s number means there is no way Belinda could be his daughter. But Mom only says that to me.
91 Days
Christy Moffat