Dragonflies live two different lives, in two different
worlds. The young dragonfly begins its life in the water,
eventually crawling out of the pond to transform itself
into a superb aerial hunter with a wing span as big as 7.5
inches across.
— The Sunshine Coast News, September 14, 2005
We measured our progress by red-tailed hawks and the
iridescent carcasses of dragonflies flickering against the
windshield in the warm light of the setting sun.
Eric and I counted the hawks, learning, as we crossed the
endless prairie miles, to recognize their call, the broad
silhouette of their wings in flight, and to spot them
sitting still as death on fence posts and telephone poles.
At each stop — for gas, for food, for a cheap, sometimes
clean motel — Mickey analyzed, bagged and recorded the
wings stuck in the florid yellow smudges on the
windshield. And then he carefully cleaned the glass until
it reflected, without a flaw, the flaming prairie sun.
The wings were all that remained of the dragonflies after
their abrupt halt against our windshield. Mickey used my
eyebrow tweezers to tug them from the baked-on sludge
surrounding them. He was extraordinarily patient, his wiry
body stretched out over the boiling hood of the car, the
tweezers in one hand, a plastic container in the other. I
watched him. No longer a little boy, his face had thinned
out over the past weeks, grown definition and character.
His white T-shirt and shorts, even his untanned skin,
vanished into the milky haze of prairie heat. His short
dark hair and matching eyes remained, burning holes in the
air between us.
Mickey's obsession with this form of violent death made me
nervous. So did Eric's silence. And the huge blue
cloudless bowl of the sky above us, day after perfect day,
made me want to crawl into a cave.
The white lines disappearing beneath the car gave me the
heebie-jeebies — one, two, three, four. Break. One, two,
three, four. Another break. Mickey counted out loud, and
my head rang to the sound of his voice. One, two. Three,
four. Pause. I'd get used to one rhythm, then he'd change
it. One. Two, three, four. Pause. One, two, three. Four.
But I couldn't ask him to stop.
When he did stop, that made me nervous too. I turned my
head to check that he was okay. He had pulled earphones
over his ears, closed his eyes and vanished into the
music. I rolled up my window to shut out the sound of the
highway and heard the faint tinny sounds of Limp Bizkit.
I glanced in the rearview mirror. Eric shrugged and turned
back to his sketchbook, drawing God knows what. The one
glimpse I'd had of his sketch pad since we left home,
before he shut it in my face, was a drawing of a tiger
devouring a fawn, in excruciating detail and vibrant,
unreal colors. I couldn't remember the last time he'd
spoken.
We weren't moving fast. Not with two boys aged twelve and
fifteen. They slept until noon, insisted on showers and
full breakfasts. By then it was past lunch-time. Finally
on the road, we didn't make time; we made pit stops. The
car filled up with sticky slurpy cups and rattling
aluminum cans.
On this trip two hundred kilometers was a good day's
journey, even across the straight-lined prairies. I bit my
tongue and pulled into another rest stop, gas station or
tourist attraction. I handed over money for drinks, food,
admission. I stopped at a bank machine at least once a day.
The idea for this journey had begun in a brightly lit
hospital room two weeks ago on the day we learned that my
sister, their mother, wasn't going to die.
I choked on the sour taste of vomit filling my mouth. The
smell did it, antiseptic laden with a hint of stale bodies
and still-warm spilled blood. That smell and the memories
it brought with it. The walls were covered with battleship-
gray latex, but no scraping, no cleaning, no paint could
disguise the strip of pain running along the corridor,
hand-high, where patients and their visitors touched the
walls, leaving tiny molecules of anguish behind.
I felt it rising from beneath the layers. I kept my hands
clenched in my pockets because I couldn't bear to touch
the walls.
The good news was that this time the patient wouldn't die.
Or so the doctors said, assuring us that the system was
working, that detection saved Susan's life. Not early
enough to save her breasts, but early enough for life. I
had trouble believing, my faith in the medical system
severely shaken when my young and seemingly healthy mother
had gone into the hospital two years ago and never come
out.
My mother's nurses and doctors had told me her moans meant
nothing. The medication took care of the pain. But the
moans meant something to me. They meant I couldn't sleep
for the fourteen days it took her to die, nor for almost a
month after. Even now, I often woke to ghostly moans from
the spare bedroom. Opening its door, I expected to see my
mother lying on the bed, surrounded by flickering red
monitor lights and moaning in the chill antiseptic air.
Now Susan lay in the surgical ward of the same hospital.
She smiled and beckoned me in when I knocked tentatively
at her door. We looked enough alike to be twins, although
I was older by a year and Susan's once-glowing, healthy
skin now appeared gray and muddy. But, despite these
differences, no one could mistake our shared genes.
This, basically, was what I worried about. Every minute of
every day since my mother went into the hospital. There
had been no need for my mother to die of breast cancer,
not if she'd followed recommendations and had a mammogram
every year, or seen a doctor when she started feeling
sick. But not my mother — no doctors or hospitals for her.
She died because of who she was.
That's what the doctors said. That's what Susan and I
said. But Susan believed it and I didn't. So it didn't
help me much. Just set me wondering how many women died of
curable diseases because, like my mother, they'd had their
children in the days when natural childbirth meant hours,
sometimes days, of pain.
Susan had the operation and was going home in a few days
to start healing and then chemo, probably radiation after
that. She, unlike our mother, caught the lumps before they
spread throughout her body. I was specially tested twice,
ultrasounds and everything, in addition to my monthly self-
examination and my yearly mammogram. Everything negative —
but the pages of positive results, the unequivocal good
health I enjoyed, didn't convince me. No reassurance
cracked the thick layer of anxiety I carried.
I imagined lying in the hospital bed. I visualized every
step of the operation removing my breasts. It got so I
even felt the shunt in my lymph glands, and the bruising
in my armpits. I imagined the day the surgeon came to tell
me all hope was gone. I pictured his face, sad and forlorn
because he loved me, and there was nothing he could do.
I imagined my deathbed, the flowers and cards, the crying
friends and family. I went to my own funeral. And I didn't
do this once; I did it almost every night. I woke up in
the darkest hours of the night and started right in at the
beginning, with the hospital bed. I couldn't sleep until
I'd imagined the funeral. My elaborate fantasy felt more
real than reality.
Forty-two years old and I was obsessed with my own
imminent death, even though every indicator said I was
fine, perfectly healthy. But I didn't believe. I couldn't.
None of this showed in my face, or at least I hoped it
didn't. Susan's life held enough complications without
worrying about her sister. Besides, I was the strong one,
the older, more mature, in-control one. Stiff upper lip,
that was me. No one knew that underneath my cheerful
exterior lay a quivering mass of fear and anxiety.
Especially not my baby sister. Especially not now.
Because today was D-day. Time to hear the results of the
desperate operation to save Susan's life. I timed my visit
to arrive after rounds and the pronouncement of the
verdict. Life? Or death? One look at her face and I knew.
She was going to be fine. Fine, that is, if you didn't
count the months to come. Near-death while they killed her
cancer with radiation and drugs so virulent that her body
would almost die with it. And there were no guarantees.
We'd wait and watch for five years and still might not
know. I tried to ignore the statistics on life expectancy
and recurrence and to believe, with Susan, that she would
be okay. Even though I couldn't do the same for myself.
I stood at the door, tears running down my face, dripping
onto my yellow silk blouse until I looked as if I'd
dropped not just a glass but an entire bottle of white
wine onto my breasts. The blouse would never be the same
but I would hang it, untouched and uncleaned, in the back
of my closet, leave it there as mute evidence of a miracle.
Susan's courage, and mine, flagged as the doctors
enumerated the cost of living. What about the boys? My
nephews? The loves of my life? How could she ask them to
watch her through weeks filled with needles and diarrhea,
moaning and vomiting? How could Susan concentrate on
recovery with Mickey and Eric on summer vacation? She had
spent the morning coming up with a solution. "It's the
reunion this summer," Susan said.
I nodded. I'd had what felt like hundreds of reminders of
it. At least once a week I opened my mailbox to another
mimeographed newsletter headed "Cranberry Portage
Reunion." It was filled with news about people I didn't
know and didn't care to, cute poems in iambic pentameter,
badly reproduced photographs of places I'd long forgotten.
My mother would have gone to the reunion and, for her
sake, I flipped through the newsletters before I threw
them away. The years in Cranberry Portage were the best
years of her life. She'd spent years telling me so,
bemoaning her loss, reminding me of events and people I
didn't want to remember. Everything in our lives suffered
by comparison. She filled Susan and I with fairy tales
about a town and a man so perfect they couldn't possibly
exist — not in the harsh realm of northern Manitoba. Maybe
not anywhere.