Page 272 of The Havenport Collection

Sam

M y eyes glazed as I nodded politely. My mother, ever the diligent student, furiously scribbled notes in the chair next to me.

I had spent all day yesterday at the hospital—blood work, ultrasounds, and round after round of Q my mother had been screaming at me about protecting my skin since birth.

But I knew the moment I felt it that it was cancer.

I had just returned from India on a work trip and was luxuriating in the steam shower in my apartment when I felt something near my armpit.

It was hard and immovable, about the size of a peanut, and I knew instantly that something was wrong.

And how could I not have realized how big it had become?

How could I not realize what was happening in my own body?

But meeting with doctors, scheduling treatments and surgeries, talking through side effects, clinical trials, and genetic testing? It had become so real so fast that my head was spinning.

All I wanted was to go home and sleep. Except I didn’t actually have a home at present. My corporate apartment in Geneva had been packed up, and I hadn’t lived in the states for almost twenty years.

All I had was my grandparents’ house. It was my forever home, the place where I was raised. It belonged to me now, and I rented it for extra income. Thankfully, my tenants had left a few months ago, so it was empty at present. I would stay there for a while and then figure everything out.

I didn’t ever want to sell that house. It was mine, and even if I never lived there again, I needed it as an anchor. I knew that cancer was too often a financial battle, as much as a health one, so I couldn’t rule it out.

But I was lucky. I had savings, decent health care, and a retirement account. Selling out for the corporate life five years ago may not have been good for my soul, but it was good for my bank account. I could afford to take some time off and heal. And then I’d have to get back to my life.

I tried to breathe and focus on what Dr. Swanson was saying, but my brain continued to spiral.

My entire life had been thrown into a state of chaos. I wasn’t a control freak by any means. I had always been a fly by the seat of my pants kind of gal, but no home, questionable job prospects, and a potentially life-threatening diagnosis? Even that was too much for me to deal with.

Which is why I knew, after nineteen years, that it was time to come back to Havenport—the small town I had fled for big adventure.

I had graduated from college and never looked back, aside from the occasional visit.

I didn’t hate it, but I also didn’t love it.

I knew from an early age I needed much more than that tiny place could give me, and after watching my mother get stuck there, I knew I needed to go.

But now…now I needed stability. I needed friends and family, and I needed roots, a connection, something to tether me to this earth while my body fought this unexpected battle.

The past few weeks had been so busy, and I had been so decisive, so strategic in how I handled every aspect of my life.

But today? Today I was a foggy-brained mess.

“Samantha, do you have any other questions?” my mom asked, gently prodding me with her foot. I received her signal and knew what she was silently saying to me. Sam, be pleasant, be polite, show the world I raised you right.

It was the siren song of the teen mom. The guilt and shame we carried with us every day of our lives.

I was forty years old and still worried about how people perceived me and my family.

My mother bore far more than I did, always being insistent that I be presentable, have neat, clean hair and nails, and always dressed up for any family, school, or community event.

I can’t even count the number of nights we spent carefully ironing my clothes or scrubbing grass stains out of my new jeans because we couldn’t afford new ones and Beth Sullivan would be damned if her daughter looked sloppy at school.

So, always conscious of how we were being perceived, I sat up straight and attempted to speak clearly.

“Can you explain the timeline again?”

I tried to pay more attention as he walked through everything again, including the fact that I would likely require a mastectomy instead of a lumpectomy. Which meant total removal of my breast. It was too much to even contemplate. How could something so small cause so much destruction?

My mother continued to take notes, underlining certain words while the doctor spoke.

“My PA will schedule your initial treatments and then I understand you are due to meet with surgical next?”

“Yes,” I replied robotically.

“Dr. Larsen is an excellent surgeon. You’re in good hands.”

“Thank you.” Grace Larsen was more than an excellent surgeon; she was one of the best Goddamn breast surgeons on the planet. If I had to have my breast removed, she was the only one I trusted to do it.

My stomach rolled, and I resisted the urge to look down at my breasts.

They had served me well over the years. Not too big, not too small, and generally proportional to the rest of me, I had always liked them.

They filled out bathing suits and tops and made me feel feminine and curvy, even when my height and wide hips made me feel like an ogre sometimes.

Losing this part of me just felt so unfair and unjust. This essential part of my womanhood was trying to kill me. How fucked-up was that?

He made a few notes in my chart and explained that the hospital would be calling me soon to schedule my chemotherapy treatments.

By the time Mom and I made it back to the car, I was a mess. I couldn’t even get through the parking garage before I was crying hysterically.

She stroked my hair. “I love you, Sam. I love you so much. We will get through this. You are not alone.”

I looked at my mom’s beautiful face and registered just how painful it was for her to see her daughter sick. Just how excruciating it must be to see her child in pain. And then I was hit with another wave of sadness and the tears kept flowing.

I had fucking cancer. At only forty years old.

And it would take months, maybe years, to heal my body.

And, if the social worker we met with at the hospital was right, it would take many years to heal my mind after this whole ordeal.

As if this wasn’t horrible enough for me?

My mom, who had not been dealt the easiest hand in life, had a front-row seat to her child’s pain and suffering.

It was moments like this I hated the world and everyone in it.

I hiccupped and sobbed, letting it all out.

The confusion, the sadness, the grief…and most of all the fear.

The fear that I may not survive this physically or emotionally.

There were so many things I wanted to do, things I wanted to experience.

I still didn’t have a dog, despite a childhood spent dreaming about one.

“It’s okay. Shhhh,” Mom said, trying to soothe me. “You have the best doctors and the best hospital. You have access to the kind of healthcare others only dream about.”

She was right. I had seen firsthand just how bad conditions were in other places and how medical technology and innovation were usually hoarded by first-world countries.

And then I felt even worse. I was lucky.

Of course I was. Not only was I being a baby about losing my breast and my hair, but now I had to feel guilty for surviving something that was a death sentences for less fortunate women the world over. I was truly the worst.

The sobs racked my body, shaking me to the core. I had nothing left and they just kept coming.

Because it wasn’t just my breasts. It was the illusion of my health. The confidence in my body and the belief that I was a healthy person.

Because now…now I knew I was just one rogue cell away from death, and I could never get that innocence back. I could never blindly walk through life, oblivious to the dangers lurking within my own body. I was a marked woman.