T minus 87 days

It’s Logan’s 12th birthday weekend. Tab’s still at Camp Lantern Creek. But Chris is home, which feels like a birthday present in and of itself. We’ve planned for Logan and Reva to celebrate with an escape room, sushi dinner, and a sleepover.

Reva’s always interesting. I noticed her intensity on her first day in Logan’s 2-year-old preschool class. She stood glued to her teacher’s side at recess, fists clenched, eyes glued on the other kids’ playground activity, studying and processing every social interaction. Neither her emotional power nor her observational skills have gotten any less intense in nine years. She’s one of my favorite kids to hang out with.

This spring, we were eating dinner at her house when Reva refused to keep her feet on the floor while at the table. The more her mom, Raman, pushed her to sit up straight and be polite, the higher up the feet went; at one point, Reva even put one on the dinner table. 

Over the years, I’ve watched Reva get similarly oppositional over getting on the bus for day camp, going to school, cleaning rooms, or just about any other time she thinks an adult isn’t considering her desires in their plans or requests. Raman, an experienced trial attorney, knew it was far easier to outargue a prosecutor than Reva and simply sent Reva upstairs to her room. 

“You cannot take food up to your room,” Raman said, “But you can come down and eat when you are willing to be polite.”

Reva got up from the table and started stomping up the stairs, a black cloud following her out of the kitchen. Logan started to intervene on Reva’s behalf. My normally non-confrontational kid tensed up their fists and blurted, “But, but, but… this isn’t fair.”

Before I could say anything, Raman held up her hand and said firmly, “No, Logan, you cannot argue with me. You don’t know how long we’ve been working on this.”

“Logan,” I said. “We need to let Miss Raman and Reva work this out between themselves.”

Logan, silenced, stared at their plate of tacos for a few seconds. Maybe they took a bite. The younger kids also sat silent, putting food in their mouths. Soon, Logan asked if they could be excused. Raman gave Logan permission to follow Reva upstairs.

Shortly after the trip upstairs, when we’d finished eating and started clearing off the kitchen table, Logan came down and said, “I want a rope. There’s something stuck in the gutter outside Reva’s room, and we want to see if we can get it out with a rope.”

This seemed fishy. I wondered how the two kids would clean the gutter with a rope instead of a broom or stick. Before I could ask any questions, Raman said, “Sure, honey,” and stepped into the laundry room, just a few feet from where we were cleaning off the table. She opened and closed three or four drawers until she found a clothesline they could use. I didn’t stop her. I’d already stopped Logan from intervening in the mother-daughter fight. I thought it was important to let Raman and Logan have a little bonding moment.

Logan disappeared back upstairs for a few minutes, then came down and said, “I’m still hungry. Can I eat some tacos outside?”

I started to say no, still suspicious, but Raman was faster. “Sure, honey, whatever you want,” she said, smiling as though she was trying to make up for the table discomfort. “You’re welcome to eat your tacos in the front yard if you want to.”

Logan took a paper plate with two tacos to the front lawn. About ten minutes later, Logan returned without a plate, then walked upstairs to hang out with Reva.

On our way home, Logan admitted that the two kids had engineered some system to use the clothesline to hoist the tacos up to Reva’s room. I have no idea how they did it. Maybe they found a bucket in the toolshed. Maybe they folded the paper plate around the tacos and tied it up with the rope. I do know that Reva ate all the food. I was torn between a desire to punish my kid for this defiance and wanting to congratulate them for their creative problem-solving. Even though I don’t envy Raman’s parenting challenge, Reva knows I admire her persistence and determination.

Chris and I can’t wait to see how Logan and Reva will use these creative problem-solving skills in an escape room. I text Raman to see what time I can pick up Reva.

“I don’t know,” she texts back. “I’m in the emergency room. It looks like they’re going to take out my gall bladder.”

Well, shit. I think, remembering Raman’s recent loss of her father and all the attendant family challenges. I feel thankful I haven’t dumped my tumor news on top of everything else she’s going through. When I finally tell her about it in a few months, she’ll be happy I waited because she’ll have the space to help me.

I text her my well wishes. Then I text her husband, arrange to pick Reva up at the hospital and send a message to Lantern Creek that Chris will pick Shila up the next day when he comes to get Tab.

As soon as we get to my house, the kids head straight to the reclining chairs in the library. They each claim a chair. Then, they begin to make plans for the hours before the escape room – debating between watching Cosmos or rearranging Logan’s room. Logan’s room is generally very disorganized and difficult to clean. Reva loves taking control of the chaos and often volunteers to help straighten the mess. But Neill deGrasse Tyson’s often more attractive than an organization project. 

I hover in the door between the library and the pantry, checking Facebook on my phone while they talk. Reva asks, “Do you have an update on my Mom?”

I check my texts. Nothing.

“I don’t have anything yet, but your dad said he’d text me,” I tell her. I expect Reva to be bouncing in her chair, but instead, she’s reclined back, arms and legs still. But this calm is deceptive. Internally, she’s probably bouncing up and down as much as Logan is bouncing in their seat. I tell her, “You can have my phone to text him anytime you need it.”
            “I’ll be okay,” Reva answers, her usually frantic voice coming out at what is a normal pace for most of us, slower for her. “She has good doctors. They said that they do this surgery all the time. I know she’s going to be okay.”

I’m happy to see Reva so uncharacteristically stoic about her Mom’s surgery. I expected her to bounce up and down, anxiously asking for updates every five minutes. I hope Logan will be similarly stoic when it’s time for me to have my surgery.

At this point, in what I assume is meant to be a moment of empathy, Logan leans toward Reva and announces, “My Mom’s going to have surgery this fall, too.”

Everything stops. Breath. Movement. Time. This is the first time I’ve heard Logan refer to that conversation in the weeks since I told them about it.

I can feel the muscles in my mouth trying to move, but I will them to stay frozen in the smile they were in a second ago, in the world before Logan made this announcement. I keep my eyes trained on the backlit silhouette of Logan’s face.

Reva turns her head first to Logan, then to me. She fixes her coal-black eyes on my face as she jerks up, pushing the footrest down and pulling the reclining back forward, shifting her body to the edge of the chair. The alarm she wasn’t showing for her Mom has latched itself on me.

“Whatkindofsurgeryandwhen?” Reva asks.

“It’s because she has headaches,” Logan answers while I’m still searching for the right response.

“Surgery?Forheadaches?Whatkindofsurgerydotheydoforheadaches?Aretheygoingtocutyourskullopen?Aretheygoingtomesswithyourbrain?Whataretheygoingtodo?Howdidyoufindout?Likedotheycutyoureye?Oryourear?Ordotheygointhroughyournose…….”

There it is. The giant can of monster-sized anxiety worms I’ve been trying not to open, especially not in front of my kids. But I’m not at all surprised that Reva comes with a built-in can opener.

I pause, searching for the right words. I know I’m not just talking to Reva. I’m also talking to Logan, who’s still relaxed in their chair, giving no sign that the monster worms have invaded their brain. And I’m talking to Raman, even though she’s not in the room. Images of the scenarios I’ve been trying to avoid flash through my head: Raman being jolted out of a post-surgical painkiller haze by hearing the word “tumor” coming out of Reva’s mouth. Tab coming home from a playdate with Shila the next week and asking me why Shila said I have brain cancer.

These are very real possibilities if I give Reva an explanation of my tumor. But Reva won’t be satisfied with no answer or vague dissimilation. Reva will not stop asking me questions until her curiosity is satisfied. She’s the living embodiment of the fear and anxiety in my brain that keeps trying its best to swim up to the surface. Her dogged determination might kick off concerns that, so far, Logan seems to have successfully avoided. As long as Logan avoids their fear, so can I.

I draw on my years of having Reva at my house to choose a strategy. I remind myself that this persistent curiosity is one of my favorite things about Reva. If it doesn’t land her in trouble with the law, her determination and creativity might win her a Nobel prize for either Peace or Scientific Discovery when she grows up. I force myself to stay deceptively relaxed, lightly laugh, and say, “Reva, slow down. Breathe.”

She tilts her face away from me slightly but keeps her eyes trained on my face, suspicious. Like I might treat her like a kid instead of the adult she keeps trying to be, even though she’s only twelve.

I shake my head a little bit and widen my smile as I say, “Reva, I’m going to ask you to do something that I know is impossible for you. I want you to accept that I’m not going to answer your questions.”

Her eyes narrow slightly as she leans back in her recliner. I can see the bullshit meter fluttering behind her eyes. Should she believe me? Or am I just treating her like a silly child? Her mouth opens, ready to ask another question, but I cut her off.

“It’s not that I’m trying to keep something from you; I just don’t have answers to a lot of the questions you’re asking,” I continue. I’ve watched teachers and other adults try to keep information from Reva. It never ends up well. I hope the partial truth of what I’m saying will convince her to rein in her curiosity.

“Look at me right now,” I continue, waving my hand up and down to call attention to my healthy body. I tell her what I mostly believe is the truth. “I’m fine. My doctors tell me that it’s no big deal. I know that not knowing things is really, really hard for you. When it’s time, and I learn more, I promise I will tell you and your Mom more about it. But for now, I need you to trust me that I’m okay, and I just don’t have a lot of information to share.”

Reva’s gaze travels from the top of my head to my toes and back up again, searching for signs of a headache or illness. I’m careful to keep my eyes on her, knowing any change of glance with kick off her usual distrust.

“Miss Susan, it’s really hard for me to do that.” Her words come out more slowly now. The frantic moment has passed. “I just want to know.”

“I know, Reva. I really do know how impossible this is for you. Thank you for trusting me.”

Reva finally looks away. The kids look at each other for a minute. I encourage them to use my favorite anxiety management tool: distraction, “Why don’t you guys play Just Dance or run around outside? Reva, I’ll text your dad to see how your mom’s doing.”

Reva studies me for a few seconds, wheels turning behind her eyes, trying to decide whether to push me to satisfy her curiosity or accept my request to back off. The years of trust between us win. She and Logan head up to Logan’s room to entertain themselves.

A couple of hours later, Chris, Reva, Logan, and I leave for the escape room. Throughout the evening, as Chris, Reva, Logan, and I solve puzzles, eat nigiri and California rolls at the sushi restaurant, and pick out fancy cupcakes at a bakery, Reva only asks five or six more times, “So, what kind of surgery is it?”

Each time, I laugh and say, “Good try.” Or “Wow, it’s been a full hour since you last asked. I’m impressed.” Chris joins in with his mockery, fully understanding the need to deflect. Reva smiles and laughs back. Logan smiles and laughs and starts shaking their head. “Reva, not again.”

Our joking keeps my surgery fear small, docile, and manageable for this weekend, at least.