My Two Emilys
Death, love, chemo and Kierkegaard:
There is, however, some reassuring tonal quality in the voices of the doctors and nurses, something there now that I didn’t hear three-and-a-half years ago. They know Jennifer’s daughter will be okay. They’re telling her this with every sentence they speak and every sentence they leave unsaid. I know this because I have been present in a room very much like this one. I have listened to terminology very like the words being spoken to us now. I have been present when the voices had no comfort to offer, voices desperate to stay as steady as possible, as if one careless syllable might launch an avalanche of uncomprehending anguish.
“Will I lose my hair?” Emily asks her mother from the bed. No one can answer. Only after the surgery will they discover that she will need three rounds of chemo. Though her prognosis is a very good one, much more promising than most of the children she and her mother will meet during their stay at the Ronald McDonald House, they will need to remain in Memphis until midsummer.