Most of Me Read Free Page B

for my Cry Lady, who now accompanies me to meetings, answers my phone, and replies to my e-mails.
    This morning, my supervisor e-mailed me the most soul-destroying, nitpicking, inconsiderate critique of an assignment I’ve been working on. Her words crush my Cry Lady and trigger a waterfall of tears. Somehow, my Cry Lady manages to write this response:
    Dear supervisor across the room,
Am I correct to assume your ass is glued to your chair? And that is why from over there, you e-mailed me your carefully composed criticisms and slyly missed this lovely vision of all my tear ducts in a row? Because if this is really so, then fuck you!
    Just as my Cry Lady is about to hit send, I intervene and press delete. Why stoop to my supervisor’s level with an impersonal e-mail, when I can take the high road, go over my supervisor’s head, and talk face-to-face with her boss? I muster up my courage, stomp across the room, and lay it on the line:
    â€œEnough is enough! I deserve to be treated with respect! Give me constructive—not destructive—criticism! There’s too much work piled on my plate! Assign this project to someone else! Supervisors aren’t always right! Some supervisors are never right!”
    When I’m done with my diatribe, I collapse into a chair—panting from exertion and euphoric with victory—like an underdog that has captured the leader of the pack. My efforts do not go unnoticed. Having spilled my guts all over his office, the boss commends me for my honesty and rewards me with a box of two-ply tissues. As I blow my nose and mop up my mess, he pats me on the shoulder and says, “I’m glad we had this little talk. I’ll speak with your supervisor.”
    â€œThank you,” I sniffle, exiting his office and closing his door behind me. Nothing beats direct communication.
    A little euphoria can work wonders. Over the next two weeks, my rage retreats and my mood lightens. My routine hasn’t changed: I’m still working nine to five, going to therapy, walking the dog, sleeping on weekends. But now I am feeling hopeful. Digging my way out of depression seems possible, until I get a phone call at work from my dad, and suddenly digging out seems pointless.
    â€œHi, Robyn. I’ve got some terrible news.” His voice sounds hollow, lifeless.
    â€œOh, no. What’s wrong?” My voice sounds shrill, fearful.
    â€œIt’s Mom. She’s in hospital with a collapsed lung.”
    â€œWhat happened? Is she going to be OK ?”
    â€œShe was having a test done on her lungs, and during the procedure, something went wrong.”
    I listen in stunned silence as he explains the grim situation.
    My mom is unluckily lucky. Sick but not sickly. Dying but not dead. She has just been diagnosed with stage-four inoperable lung cancer. It’s in both of her lungs and has likely been there for years. It comes as a total shock—considering she feels perfectly healthy and has been as active as always: looking after my dad, walking five miles a day, playing golf, shopping at the mall, getting her hair and nails done, visiting grandchildren, playing bridge and mah-jongg, going out with friends. She would probably still be in the dark, had she not volunteered to participate in a hospital research study. They were looking at the incidence of cancer among aging ex-smokers, like her, particularly heavy smokers who puffed away the early half of their lives and then managed to kick the habit and live smoke-free for decades.
    Fortunately, it’s a slow-growing cancer, and for now she is asymptomatic. She doesn’t feel pain from the cancer, just from her collapsed lung, which the doctors expect to heal quickly.
    I hear unfamiliar voices muttering in the background, and my dad tells me the doctors have come to check up on my mom. So he will have to call me back later.
    After I hang up, I sit shivering in my chair, waves of nausea rippling through my body,