The lights of the room are too harsh, the pale blue walls swallow any other color, and the cold tile floor is life sucking. The familiar noise of the city permeates the walls and helps settle my nerves, reminding me life continues on. But it isn’t enough. Closing my eyes and swiveling my head away, I gulp stale air and whisper over and over, “it’s just a tiny needle, it’s just a quick poke, it’s nothing to be afraid of.”
In the waiting room I told myself that we’d likely have a discussion about my changing hormones at thirty-five. Perimenopause and the accompanying exhaustion have been a constant conversation among the girls at the gym and at work. We were always hoping this was the weekend we would catch up on sleep. I scheduled the appointment looking for an easy answer, or a vitamin recommendation.
I had found my doctor through the insurance website. She was in my neighborhood, and accepting new patients. I had previously been in for an annual visit and one bout with strep throat. She was a presence in the room. Tall and lean, like a runner. Her long brown hair was pulled tight into a low ponytail, brown eyes lined in dark liner, and always with big hoop earrings. She looked professional, but also like she could be a friend.
When I scheduled the appointment, I hadn’t considered the possibility of needles being involved. I wasn’t surprised when she said the blood draw was advised, yet here I am nervously giggling in panic mode over absolutely nothing.
“That’s it, Lizzy, all done,” says the nurse in the calmest of voices. She probably thinks I’m crazy for being in a frenzy about a tiny poke for a routine blood test. But as soon as she puts the silly Hello Kitty band-aid on my arm, I fix my sleeve and head out of the clinic as fast as I can.
Lightheaded from the anxiety, I pull in another deep breath as the city swirls, with me stopped in the middle. The noises give me a focus. I love these sounds. I thrive on it. The traffic, construction, public transportation, and sirens blend, forming the drumming heartbeat of the city. Twenty thousand people in a square mile create the echoes of life in forward motion. The sound itself may not be pleasant, yet it is the constant clamor I savor.
On my walk home from the doctor’s office, I nod to a few of the friends who contribute to the song my city sings. I wave to a woman walking three tiny pooches on straining leashes and she stops so I can pat a few of my furry-headed friends. I stand tall again, smiling. This is where I do life, my home, my city mile.
I push through the doors of my apartment building and trot up the stairs into the place that is a reflection of me. It isn’t big and lavish, but it is fun. In my little space I have a few trinkets, some mementos of the times I want to keep alive, and a whole lot of soft, cozy things. It has been my place to land while I live out the life I dreamt about since I was a kid.
My city mile is so different from the country mile where I grew up. In my childhood country mile, we lived life alongside each other. I knew everyone, not just what they did for work, but, after hours playing and working next to them, I knew them. Together, we celebrated the joys of graduations, marriages, and babies. Which neighbors opened the door when the hard times came, and they always came.
There is sound in the country, but not noise. It’s more a hum, deep within your soul. Home in the country is Mom and Daddy’s house. Warm and inviting, it smells like clean laundry and biscuits, and is always the right temperature. The house is full of treasures, old and new, but love is what you recognize first. It is a place I savor and cherish the times I can return. But it is not mine. I didn’t create the space, nor choose it. It has been a gift. One I will always treasure, and do not take for granted. The dumb blood test made me feel nostalgic about being a kid again. A trip to the doctor with Mom always ended with a soft serve ice cream from Sno-White drive in. It’s not the same doing doctor appointments alone as an adult.
Two days after my doctor’s appointment, I’m busy at my desk when my cell phone rings. I answered before I checked the caller ID, and my cheery hello caused the nurse to stutter for just a second. When she finally finds her voice, she tells me that I need to schedule an appointment with the doctor, as soon as possible to discuss the test results. She says she can’t tell me anything about it, but I can’t help thinking she’s harboring some horrific information. Setting a time of noon the next day, a tiny knot formed in my belly.
I try to loosen the tightening of my shoulders by reminding myself that I have always been thin, but athletic and healthy. Being raised in the country teaches you hard work, making you strong. Lifting bales of hay or hitching up a trailer, the daily tasks create the muscles I now have to work out to maintain. Shaking off the call, assuming I’m anemic or something ordinary. I plod through the rest of my day, dragging an anchor of apprehension behind me.
At the gym, I push myself to prove I’m okay. Even after a faster-than-usual run and heavier weights, I feel strong, good. At home, I take a hot shower, and make a simple dinner with fresh veggies from the community garden. Later, snuggling my cozy blankets, the questions of tomorrow’s appointment linger, haunting my broken sleep.
As I rush out the door the next morning, juggling my insulated mug of hot coffee, I feel the tug. Stopping at the entry mirror, I take inventory. I appear healthy. My short bob of blond hair is full and shiny, my teeth are white, and my skin is just the right amount of tan.
The tiny pause gave me enough time to wonder if I want to go to the follow-up appointment alone. But who would I tell? There is no one at work I trust with anything more than the superficial. I’m not close with any of the girls at the gym, besides, they thrive in their own drama. And this isn’t a big enough deal for a call to mom. Even if I told her not to come, she would drop everything “just in case.” I will fill her in once I know what this is about. With that, I shove away the nudge to ask for help as fast as it came.
A little before noon, I shut down my computer, grab my bag and jacket, and stroll out the office door. First stop, the corner deli for a sandwich and iced tea to eat on the walk to the appointment.
I take notice Dr. Anna looks like she is a character on Greys Anatomy, making this follow up appointment feel slightly surreal. She is pretty, and looks professional wearing a dress and low heels, with her starched, white lab coat over, not the uniform scrubs that everyone else in the office has on. She has always impressed me as someone who manages the whole situation, takes care of the details, and would think to dress for the diagnosis.
When the word CANCER passes through her lips, I blink, unprepared, as I try to process. But is anyone ever prepared for it? Once she says that one horrible word, I retain nothing else. I can’t hear her over the noise of the city hammering in my head.
***
Closing my city life is the hardest assignment I have ever done, and yet as I do it, I know I face much harder challenges ahead. Especially when the one guarantee is that the next phase will be unimaginable. I make lists, checking off each task as it is done, maintaining the idea of control. I’m tempted to explain why I am turning my life off, and at the same time, not able to say the words out loud because then my nightmare would be real.
Quitting the job I love is impossible, and yet insignificant in light of my diagnosis. I can’t put in the hours required and at the same time fight for my life. Avoiding awkward conversations and pity, I tell my coworkers I have bigger things to conquer. Saying it with the bend of progress in my future and infused with enough enthusiasm, they believe me, assuming I am taking a new job. We have no connections outside of the office other than occasional drinks when we close a big deal, so no one has earned the right to my personal reality.
The gym is an easier lie. My relationships there are superficial, based on the commonality of goals, diets, and targets. While sharing your weight and a ridiculous amount of sweat feels personal, there isn’t a lot of room between sets for actual life. Even training for a marathon together wasn’t that intimate. Hard? Yes. Gritty? Yes. But entirely focused on the endgame. So after my last Friday night workout in the city, I didn’t say the “C” word over skinny margaritas. I laugh and smile, acting as if life is moving forward as planned. It takes just a few days and a couple small fibs to fade out an entire slice of my mile.
Sunday morning is harder to navigate. Even when everyone is busy with their own life, there is an intentionality in my church relationships. They ask questions and push in when I start to crack. It doesn’t take long for me to waver, confiding and sharing the hard news. In a flash, I’m surrounded by people wanting to assist me, but this kind of support is hard when our miles are scattered throughout the city.
A lot happens in between the blocks and blocks of the city miles. The idea of help from people who only see me in my Sunday best makes it next to impossible to imagine them holding my hair back while I puke. Trying to stay composed, while my entire world crashes in on me, is more than I have the strength for. Without much consideration, I keep them at an arm’s length, stepping away as they lean in. I do my best to assure them of a network in place once I get to my country mile.
Moving back within the safety and familiarity of the mile I was born and raised in is the best option for this battle. It is the same mile that gave me the fortitude to move to my city mile. I did not leave the country mile because I didn’t love it, or because I was running away. I left my country mile because I grew up! It was the natural progression for me.
Driving the route out of the city to my country mile doesn’t take directions. It doesn’t take forethought or planning. It simply takes a decision. The possessions from my tiny space in the city fit into a few boxes in the back of my Mini Cooper. The only awkward piece is the lamp I bought last month. I paid more for it than I did my couch from Craigslist, so I am determined to not leave it behind. Packing my city life is simply one of the few affairs I can control and keep organized. As I try one more angle with the lamp, I stop. My frantic stuffing is ridiculous. With my health spinning rampant, the belongings I accumulated don’t matter. Even my lamp, a trophy of my city mile accomplishments, is worthless through this new lens. Still, I don’t leave until the lamp is wedged into place and taking up half the driver’s seat and all of my rearview mirror.
The drive out of the city passes without attention to what is happening. Focused on the task at hand, I miss the last few moments in my city mile. Driving away without soaking in the sights and sounds that have permeated my life for the past several years, I am too preoccupied to notice if the old guy is in his usual spot watching the traffic go by. I always intended to introduce myself and learn his story. I am pretty sure I walked right past Beanie, the wienie dog, on his afternoon stroll, without a goodbye. I look past the view of the bridge that made me wish I were an artist with the ability to capture its beauty.
Leaving it all behind, I set my gaze on my mile of the country. A place that has always remained exactly the same. Brimming with unanswered questions, I am confident my old, comfortable home is absolutely the only place for me to do the battle the oncologist prepared me for—fast and brutal if there was any chance of hope. Tomorrow morning we will start the war with the one army I trust.
Pulling into the long driveway, my eyes settle on Mom framed by the screen door. The smile on her lips does not reach her eyes, making her appear older than the last time I saw her. When I made the horrible phone call, I couldn’t see her, but I could feel her ache as she quietly sobbed on the other end of the line. Daddy had done most of the talking, asking the appropriate questions. With no certain answers, no way to assure them we will win this war, we are on hold. But we have a battle plan laid out and are waiting for the bugle to blow, ready to charge into the fight.
I stumble out of the car, and Mom wraps me in a desperate hug. With the strength of a lioness, she ushers me to the kitchen table, while instructing Daddy and my little brother, Henry, to unload my things through the front door. Somehow she gets a cup of hot tea and a plate of Ms. Mary’s cookies in front of me without ever releasing her grip of my waist.
As we sit, she inspects me, dissecting how I hold the cup of tea, nudging the plate of cookies a little closer. She observes as I bite into the deliciousness that transports me back to the many special events when Ms. Mary graced us with a plate of her cookies. With a knot of anxiety twisting inside of me, I work to savor the nostalgia in a single mouthful. Mesmerized by the grass in the back field swaying in the breeze, I am lulled with a false sense of normal for a split second. The field is a view I cherished for years. Now I can’t help but wonder if this will be the last season I will be soothed by its wave.
Alone in my childhood bedroom, I unpack the few small boxes holding my city life. The contents contradict everything about this country mile. Where will I wear the Louboutins I bought with my first bonus check? What do I do with the bag of quarters I reserved for the laundromat? Even the prized trophy, my lamp, is out of place. Lying back, I pull the pillow over my head, bathed in the familiar scent of Mom’s line-dried sheets. The moment feels a bit like I’m looking into Alice in Wonderland’s topsy-turvy looking glass. Thankful for the comfort of home, even as my world swirls so many unknowns.
Being back usually is easy and familiar, but this time, I am home for more than a visit. Not because of the usual things where I made a choice, or got married, or caring for my parents, or any of the other million reasons to return. I am home because there are no other options. I need the people in this mile, the people who witnessed my worst and still love me. The people who earned the privilege of holding my hair back. But that doesn’t make stuffing my city mile into my country mile comfortable or easy.
I yield to the retreat of sleep, the one place I am not absorbed with the fear and dread of what tomorrow will bring.
The mornings start early in my country mile, well before the sun rises. The familiar rumbles of Mom murmuring to Daddy, and the smell of coffee brewing almost allow me to forget. I am sure she is laying out the list of to-dos for the day. Lunch will be in the fridge, and dinner will be in the crockpot. There is no laundry, nor a speck of dust anywhere, because Mom has obsessed over what she could control. She’s showered, dressed, and has her handbag and a sweater by the door. The moment there is a creak from my foot on the floorboard, her attention will be on me. Until then, she focuses on the tasks at hand. Concentrating on her checklist, normalizing the impossible, until she must focus on the list itself. No one should be required to have “chemo for their daughter” as a to-do. But this is mom, she lives and dies by her organization, a tactic to keep her sanity by forward motion, no matter what the mission.
We repeat this dance for weeks. Except Mom has relinquished most of her duties to others. She hasn’t made a dinner since my first treatment, allowing her country-miles community to help. There is still not a speck of dust, nor a piece of dirty laundry, and yet she has not left my side. No one will be aware of the floorboard creaking from my weight without first hearing it bow from Mom’s weight.
Daddy goes out the door for work each day, but now he does it with a heaviness. Robotically executing the motions of the day. His focus centers on the upstairs of the house, which holds his best memories.
He spent his entire life on this piece of land. Growing up on the other side of the field in the small farmhouse built by his parents. There wasn’t much in the way of luxuries at Grandma and Grandpa’s, so Daddy was determined to make our house full of comforts he’d only dreamed of. From all appearances, Mom and Dad had created a fairytale. Until now, when his home has become the place holding his worst nightmare.
Each evening, I spy from my bedroom window as he pulls into the driveway. Once he shuts off his truck, he clinches the steering wheel so tight I can see his white knuckles. Preparing himself for the inevitable reality waiting inside, he takes a few seconds, releasing his pent-up emotions. With a deep heave, he throws his head back letting out a blood-curdling yell, then, just as fast, he drops his forehead between his hands, defeated. Resolved, he opens the door and steps out, ready to fight. My daddy has always been strong, sheltering us, protecting us, and now his ability to help has been stripped away. He is helpless, so he puts one foot in front of the other, enough to get through.
Together we create moments of joy among the hours of pain. In the fleeting times when my strength is enough to navigate the stairs, we laugh, because what else can you do but laugh? We have spent more time around the kitchen table than we did as kids with the endless hours of homework. Daddy pulls the box of home movies from the attic so that in the evening, the four of us can journey through the years of memories. None of this is normal, if it wasn’t for the unexpected swerve in my life, we would be on our own, living life in a forward motion, not in the holding pattern where we are stuck in endless circling.
***
Today is my last treatment, a day to celebrate, even though I am drained of any energy. The cynical side of me thinks it is good my hair has fallen out. It would be a big rat’s nest anyway. Mom pulls a new beanie over my ears, an attempt to keep me warm. Clara made it special for today with love. The same Clara who drove Mom to the hospital the day I was born. Mom wills a sad smile as she supports my too thin arms to help me push up from the bed. It is now a process for me to dress. Mom is strong and determined, lifting my weight as she bathes and readies me for the day. Weeks ago, we traded in jeans and sweaters, settling for sweats and sweatshirts. My clothes hang off my body, and there isn’t a color made that can disguise my jaundiced yellow skin. Even my once dark brown eyes are faded, drab and murky. I can’t help but remember back to my first blood test when those pale blue lab walls sucked the color from the room. This is my entire life now, I can’t find color anywhere.
Harvest is the busiest time in these country miles. The work never ends, and is not the time to take on an extra chore. Even so, the familiar crunch of our gravel driveway continues as so many neighbors come by with full arms. Any time of the day or night, they are willing to help. Each time I hear the gravel, a tiny piece of my heart swells with the knowledge someone is here to love on my family.
The city bustle intimidates Mom, even after the weekly journey we’ve taken for months. She still tenses as the traffic and the constant noise increases. Her fists squeeze the steering wheel as she navigates the city streets. She labors to talk in a calm voice about anything but chemo. Filling the miles with updates on current events or celebrity news is always strong on the front line of my battle.
Sympathetic to how much she hates these trips, today I am pushing her deeper into the city miles. The hospital is on the edge, near the freeway, not in the part of the city that was once mine. Today is my last trip across the bridge. Refusing to miss its beauty again, I lean my head back and soak in the details of the span. I am already prepared for what the scan will say. My battle on this temporary earth is close to being lost, but there is so much more ahead for me. Today, I am going to be selfish and ask for more. I need Mom to take me to my city mile. I need to say my goodbyes.
Her jaw clenches as I direct her deeper within the city, making me question my selfishness. This was never her world, nor was it the world she wished for me. But for a moment, it was mine, and I was happy. As the passing blocks grow more familiar, I recall the excitement I once lived. The old guy is still on the corner. It’s good to see him, a familiar fixture, but I again regret not taking time to learn his story. At my apartment building, I ask Mom to pull over, taking in what once was my window. Three stories above, framing a lamp, but not my lamp…someone else’s lamp. With each beat of my heart, I sense this temporary world slipping from me. I knew from the first day this was not home for the rest of my life. I knew it was a season in my story. Today, peering at what was once my window, I note how temporary it was. A placeholder while I lived out my journey in the city.
Rounding the corner by the gym, Mom slows down, so I roll down my window and feel the music thumping, adding to the city sounds I love so much. Drawing the deepest drag of air I can manage, I take in the faint musky scent of sweat. I peer through the windows, trying to recognize anyone. I don’t want to stop. I just want to search for a familiarity to prove I was once a part of it. Every woman in the class looks the same, bouncing with the beat of the music in their leggings and ponytails. Remembering I was once one of them, I reach to touch the ponytail that is no more, and I mourn the loss of the city life I once lived far more than the loss of my hair.
North a couple more blocks is my office building. Craning my neck, staring out of the sunroof, I marvel at the height. On one of those floors, a stranger has stepped into my job. I miss working. I miss using my brain for a purpose beyond survival. In so many ways, I was a cog in the wheel, but I took pride in doing it well. I enjoyed the challenges, and the people, and now even the people who were the challenges. I loved dressing professionally and demanding respect. It was a respect I earned with more than professional clothes, but over time, I achieved it from my colleagues. Rounding the corner, keeping the building in view, I whisper a quiet goodbye.
It’s a few more blocks before we reach the church. A quick text to pastor Ted, and he is out the door, perched at my open window. Observing my yellowish skin color, accentuated by my new beanie, he reaches for my hand without hesitation. Tears threaten to spill as he takes in my smiling mom, her knuckles still gripped on the steering wheel. There are no magic words. He lowers his eyes, thanking the Lord for His presence in our lives. The warmth of his hand causes me to lean in, not realizing how cold I’d become driving through the city with the window open. He doesn’t ask questions. The answers won’t change the outcome. Instead, he speaks life into Mom, telling her of the impact I made on the people in his congregation, filling her with pride of the city daughter she did not get to witness often.
As I direct mom out of the city, I recognize that piece of my life has been plucked away, like a flower cut away from its garden. It hurts, yet the flower doesn’t have a choice. The crescendo of silence builds as we drive away from my city mile. Mom’s grip relaxes as we travel away, while her jaw continues to carry the tension. She knows this is the last trip. We had not held back our words as we drove back and forth these endless miles. Now we sit, silent, our words spent. Releasing the steering wheel with one hand, she reaches for me as one of the thousands of tears drops falls.
The last country mile before home has always been my favorite. I catch sight of the dust from Daddy on the tractor in the field, with the dogs chasing behind it. On the corner, Tony always has a wave from somewhere near his shop, while Clara snaps peas on the front porch. The scent of the sprinklers watering the summer gardens and the sound of the birds chirping in the apple trees are as familiar as my own reflection. With the windows open, and the wind on my face, I turn my gaze toward heaven, assured it won’t be long until I meet Jesus. Every detailed piece I have loved about my country mile and my city mile will soon come together…in my heavenly mile.
Jodie Elrod is a Christian author, homemaker, and storyteller who writes about faith, hospitality, and the beauty of everyday life. A wife, mom and grandmother, she shares encouragement through short stories, reflections, and gatherings around the table. She is working to release her gift book on hospitality and a debut novel.