Chapter 37: Apathy
Mike looked himself in his mirror as he vigorously scrubbed his teeth, the bristles of his toothbrush prying off any remaining stuck-on food, and the minty smell of the toothpaste coating his breath. It was late Friday morning, and with his friends and Sandy off of his mind, he felt like his life was finally getting back to normal; of course, he now had something new to pester him. His mom had told him not long after his call to Sandy that the results of his test were in, and they were scheduled to go see the doctor. Mike spit the foamy contents of his mouth into his sink.
"I should be glad." Mike said to himself as he rinsed off his toothbrush. He attempted to make the best of the situation, but there just wasn't much he could say or do. It was nice he didn't have to go to school, but he was beginning to fall behind in his work for the first time in a long time, and he knew that he was going to have to make it all up, but when all was said and done, it didn't really matter. All that mattered was whether or not he was going to be around to make the work up at all.
Mike wrapped his scarf around his neck and walked over to his window. He glanced out and observed how the minuscule droplets of water that rested on his lawn glistened brightly as the orange glow of the sun impacted and reflected off of them. He wanted to enjoy the beauty of the sight, but unfortunately, it merely reminded him that the grass was too high and needed to be cut. There was always something that needed to be done, and always something to worry about. He left his room and headed downstairs, finding his mom in the kitchen refilling her mug with coffee.
"Morning," Mike said to her.
"Good morning," she replied. Mike walked over to a cabinet and opened it up. He reached in and grabbed a box of cereal. He half expected his mother to stop him, just as she had in many similar events, but she didn't. Feeling a slight-bit of relief, he sat down at the table and enjoyed his meal, or rather, he tried too. His mother had taken a seat at the table with him, sitting in ominous silence, occasionally sipping at her coffee. There was something about her, something about the way she didn't look at him no matter how long he stared at her, something about how she sat almost perfectly still – it bothered him immensely. Steadily, as he sat there with her in his presence, he grew increasingly uncomfortable. Worry seemed to emanate off of her, blanketing him in a shroud of insecurity and doubt, and of result, he made his meal quick so he could retreat up into his room until it was time to go. He didn't blame his mother for making him feel the way he did, and if anything, he felt bad about avoiding her, but the fact was he couldn't properly maintain his own fears while shouldering hers as well.
Fortunately enough, his mom was already ready to leave when he finished eating, so she called him down shortly after he had went up to his room and they left for the doctor's office. He sat in the car, the docile tones of soft rock coming from the radio helping to the alleviate the tension he felt. The trip was not long; for, the distance was not far. The results had been communicated to his general practitioner, thus leaving her with the job of passing the news – good or bad – to Mike and his mother.
When the car came to a stop in the parking lot of the doctor's office, Mike became aware that neither he, nor had his mother, said a single word the entire trip. He looked at her face and observed her expression. On the surface, it seemed to be blank and emotionless, but as he adjusted his gaze he soon realized that it was a mere ploy. He could see that below her deceptive front lied a hurricane of emotion: pain, depression, worry, confusion, anxiety. It was looking at her expression that Mike realized the importance of what was coming. When he had woken up, his mindset had been more about working to fix his life, to bring everything back to normal, to deal with the problems that had already been thrust upon him. He simply wanted to take what he had accepted and move on, but he couldn't be so lucky or deserving.
Mike stepped out of the car – following in his mother's actions. As they walked towards the entrance he reflected on his current state and on his becoming future. Slowly, the severity of the situation began to dawn on him; the moment of the truth was coming. There was a time in days past where he had accepted his own death, come to terms with the impending loss of life that crouched in the darkness ahead, but soon realizing he couldn't possibly live knowing his death was nigh, he altered his thinking; after all, he didn't really know if he would die or not. What if the cancer could be cured? What if he could be helped? Who was he to say it was impossible? He wasn't anybody. The only choice he had was if he wanted to accept the help, and the answer seemed clear enough.
He followed his mom into the doctor's office. She walked up to the front desk, signed them in, and they took a seat. He was moments away from hearing his fate, from hearing from the person who did get to say whether or not he could be helped. He felt sluggish and somewhat nauseous. He crossed his arms in front of his chest as he curled the corners of his lips downward. To add to his overall displeasure, he remembered something - he had forgotten to call and tell Lucy he wasn't going to be at school. He knew he was under no real obligation to do so, but he also knew that it bothered her, and if possible, he wanted to spare her any unnecessary worry, but either way, it was too late, and he really didn't have the mental endurance to worry about her too. He attempted to return to his thoughts of what was too come, but he couldn't. His mind seemed to turn to a blank slate, and with his thoughts atrophied to nothingness, he sat in silence until they were called back.
It did not take long until the inevitable summoning, and with great worry and apprehension, both Mike and his mother stood up from their seats and headed back. His mother seemed normal as she talked with a nurse, but it was apparent to him that she wasn't. Her natural happy and talkative nature was diluted to near nonexistence, and everything she said seemed wavering and hesitant. It was like she wasn't there, as if the words being exchanged didn't affect her. It was as if she were simply going through the motions of conversation. She was nothing more than a mercenary and a dancer.
They sat in a cold and lifeless room; it was decorated with posters illustrating the inner workings of man, and the walls were painted an almost sickening shade of white. The silence seemed almost palpable, but what was there to say? Mike looked at his mother in the corner of his eye. It hurt him to see her in so much pain, to see her in such a subtle, yet conflictingly glaring state of mental disarray, and he knew it was his fault. He didn't want to hurt her, he didn't want to hurt his friends, and he didn't want to be sick, but he couldn't help it. What could he do to help remedy the situation? How could he possibly fix everything alone? He looked at the state of his mother, at the state of Lucy, at the regrets of Paulo, at the helplessness of his other friends and of Blur, and all together it seemed to be a dagger. It was a resentful piece of emotion, refined and sharpened with his self-pitying behavior. It stabbed and tore away at his heart, leaving him a shell of his former-self. He knew there was nothing he could do about the former; after all, as long as he was alive, he had to deal with the hand that fate bestowed upon his person, but the latter was a different story. The dagger could exist and it could try it's best to cut, to stab, to tear, but in the end, it couldn't accomplish anything more than a mere bruise if it wasn't sharpened. All he had to do was grow up, and he would not only be helping himself, but his friends too.
"Mom, I'll be alright." Mike said out of the blue. She looked over and down at him and gave a soft smile. She put her arm around him and embraced him in a hug.
"I know, sweetie." Her soft tone and reassuring words helped to pacify the chaos which were Mike's thoughts. The warmth from his mother's arm seemed to cause his worries to melt away. He was still distressed and anxious, as was his mother, but their bonding helped fill the gap left by the helplessness of the situation. They remained in that state for several more minutes until the doctor entered the room.
"Good morning," The doctor said looking at them both.
"Morning," Mike's mother responded.
"How are you both today?"
"Tired, we're very tired." Mike's mother answered.
"I see, well, I'll just get right into it then. So, as I'm sure you both already know, we got the results back from Michael's test a few days ago. I'd like to discuss them." There was brief moment of silence. The doctor looked at her clipboard and began again. "Last time, we went over how Mike has a disorder called primary biliary cirrhosis. Basically, what it does is it inflames the bile ducts in the liver. This leads to obstruction - trapping the bile. This, over a long period of time, can seriously damage the liver. We are fairly sure that it is what led to the cancer. Fortunately, we were able to figure out the cancer isn't actually in its advanced stages as we had previously thought. It hasn't spread either, which is very good!"
Both Mike and his mother felt relief wash over them, but before they could celebrate, the doctor went on. "Unfortunately, the P.B.C., or the cirrhosis, is, in fact, in its later stages. It other words, it has been damaging your liver for a very long time" She looked at Mike, "long enough to give you cancer." The doctor took a seat in front of them, stopping to take a deep breath. "The extent of the damage is severe. We're not sure if your case is particularly bad, or if the P.B.C developed incredibly early in life, but we do know that it has gotten to the point where simple management techniques will not be enough." There was another brief silence. "I am afraid that the only practical solution to Mike's current problem is a liver transplant."
"A … liver transplant?" His mother was mortified.
"Yes, a liver transplant."
"Is it a safe operation?" Mike asked, joining the conversation.
"It has gotten far safer over the years, but the problem doesn't lie with the safety. The problem is actually getting a donor liver. Michael, you're a young and healthy kid. You don't abuse alcohol and I don't see any reason why they would deny you, but it doesn't matter if they can't find a suitable match."
"What?" His mother responded with sudden anger and desperation in her voice, startling Mike. "And what happens if they can't?"
"The cirrhosis will continue to eat away at his liver."
"And? What does that mean? You can't stop it? You're not worried about the cancer but you can't cure this- some disease or disorder I've never even heard of?" Her voice was beginning to break.
"It means that even if we get rid of the cancer before it spreads, the cirrhosis will lead to liver failure, and that would mean death." The doctor's voice was not cold, but it was emotionless. There was nothing she could say or do to help, and she already knew that.
Mike's mother lost her composure and fell into a fit of tears. She hugged Mike, holding him close, not wanting to lose her son.
"What are the chances of finding a donor?" She asked in-between sobs.
"I'm not going to lie; there is a long waiting list. There also aren't very many livers that would fit a boy as young as Michael."
"Oh God… how long do we have? Is there enough time?" She asked, pleading desperately for a fortuitous response.
"About a year," the doctor replied with a serious tone.
"No… no, God, please, no. Please don't take him from me…"
Mike placed his hand on his mother's back in reassurance, but oddly enough, he himself did not feel sad or depressed; although, he did feel confused and somewhat lost. He could feel tears in the corners of his eyes, but he did not cry or breakdown; he simply sat in silent reflection, pondering his situation. He almost wanted to laugh. To laugh at the cruelness of life and at the ridiculous position he was in. All the tears he had shed; all the regrets he had accumulated, and all in the name of cancer. After hearing the cancer was fixable, after hearing that he would be alright, there was another problem – another blister in his mind. No moment of beauty could subsist in his life; for each was doomed a harrowing scar, raping it of its magnificence. They all were granted the same fate: a fall from the glorious heavens – illustrious and gold in nature – to the wounded earth of humility - the everlasting carrion wastes. Everything was twisted and deformed by the wretched hand of irony, by the merciless judgment of coincidence, and by the indiscriminate will of Death.