Prompt 1 (Redux)
Scan Study No. 3, Hair and Heart, Scan Study No. 1 by Danielle Leventhal
I’ve been thinking about you and your son for over a year.
Dear Mother in the Waiting Room at MSK,
I’ve been thinking about you and your son for over a year. We were sitting on couches facing one another, me with my young adult daughter’s balding head propped against my shoulder as she took a few bites of her egg and avocado sandwich. You with your teenage son’s curly head nesting in your lap as he slept.
You smiled shyly, leaned forward and whispered, “Where did you find that breakfast? I can’t get him to eat anything.” Suddenly, I felt validated, like maybe some of the random tidbits I’d learned over the past two excruciating years might actually be helpful to someone else.
“Eggstravaganza,” I whispered with a little too much excitement. “It’s a breakfast food truck just two blocks away, next to St. Bartholomew’s Church on Park Avenue.”
“Is it expensive?” you whispered back. I had to check myself before replying. It was just an egg sandwich, and I would have paid anything if it brought some nourishment and a few minutes of pleasure to my frail daughter.
“I have an extra in the bag, and I don’t want it to go to waste. Please take it.”
Your eyes fell to the carpet, but you mumbled, “God bless you, thank you so much,” as you reached for my lunch.
I looked away and tried not to listen when a social worker came and sat by your side, but that was impossible. I overheard her ask if you had any trouble getting to the hospital without a car, then suggest the “Access-a-Ride” program. She said she had made you an appointment with the Finance Assistance Office, who could help families who were uninsured. I stole a glance at your sleeping son, tall and lanky but with the face of a child, and I felt ashamed of all the times I had felt sorry for our family during this unending war against cancer.
It was and continues to be inconceivable to me that you had to face such an insurmountable battle without the resources I took for granted. I wanted to hug you and tell you three things—that you were doing your absolute best for your boy, that you were in the best possible place for his care, and that everything would be ok. But I sat motionless, unable to comfort you. I knew the first two were true, but not the third. None of us sitting in that waiting room—that club no one ever wanted to join—none of us could know if everything would be ok.
– Jennifer Leventhal
