“Relax yourself. I’m not dying tomorrow,” she said. “These nice doctors want to watch my tumors for a while to see if they change size or if anything pops up somewhere else.”

One of the doctors turned to me and explained that the location of the tumors made them inoperable, but they also appeared to be benign. For now.

“What if they’re not?” I asked.

“Then we will see changes in their composition pretty quickly. If that’s the case, we can radiate them. There’s a new protocol for targeted chemo, too. Much less invasive, less downtime.”

“My God,” I said.

The world changed in that moment. I looked at my mother, lying in her hospital bed, and realized she might be facing something nasty that was going to eventually take her life even if she treated it. It was like a conditional death sentence. She glanced over to me and bit her bottom lip, something she did when she tried to hold back tears. I felt terribly sorry for her then. She seemed as vulnerable as the day Daddy ran off with his physical therapist eleven years ago. Leslie and I didn’t blame him. After all, life with the QB was difficult. He had all but vanished from our lives.

I didn’t remember the doctors leaving, but I found myself alone with her. I should’ve asked them for their names and telephone numbers and for a copy of the reports, but I had been so shocked by the news, I had not. She was very quiet, which was completely unnerving. Finally, after a long while, she spoke. She had meditated herself into a ninety-miles-an-hour tither.

“I feel fine,” she said in a manic voice. “In fact, I don’t feel sick at all. Let’s get out of here.”

She started to get out of bed.

“Hold on there, Momma,” I said quickly trying to maneuver her back under the covers. “I don’t think that’s how this works.”

“What do you mean? They can’t force me to stay here! I’m not a prisoner!”

“Well, for one thing, you’ve got an IV in your arm.” I touched her shoulder, encouraging her to lean back against her pillows.

She started to pull it out.

“You watch. In five minutes, they’ll march back in here and say they want to do even more tests on me like I’m their personal guinea pig. I’m not going to have it. Plain and simple. Now, Holly, either you take me home or I’ll call a taxi.”

“Momma, I . . .”

“Don’t ‘Momma’ me. Pull this tape off and be quick about it.”