She is pale and frail, tiny on the hospital bed. Becky looks like knives held together by rubber bands. I can't imagine the mask of my face right now. I hug my mother as gently as I can. I hug Becky almost as gently.
I want to ask her how this happened--but I know it's no one's fault, and I'm afraid she'll think I'm blaming her, or I'm afraid she'll blame me for leaving.
This is not about me.
As Mom drifts into sleep, Becky gives me the update in whispers.
"They're still trying some chemo, hoping they can knock it back out."
"When will they know?"
"I'm not sure. Sometimes, the doctor's talking and the words go right past my head."
I try to hang on to her words now.
"She wants to go home."
"If it doesn't work?"
"I don't know. She just keeps saying that she wants to go home."
That doesn't sound good.