12 Years of Glory: The Call

December 17, 5:13 PM.

I was almost done with Eyong's shower. The phone rang as I put her on my lap to dry her up. Thinking it could be Glory calling, I made Eyong sit on the toilet and rushed to the dresser where the phone lay. It was Martin, and I was slightly disappointed that it was not Glory, so I picked it up and went back to the bathroom to assist Eyong. 

"C'est comment?" he asked. I replied in French that all was ok. He went straight to the point: "Sabine m'a dit que Glory l'a informe qu'elle a le cancer du foi?" he asked. 

I could communicate in French, and I heard what he had said, but the words he put together weaved a surreal meaning. And as my consciousness obstinately buoyed the impact to the surface, my knees suddenly felt soft, and they could not hold my weight. I felt the bathroom spinning, and I crumbled to the floor with the phone in my ears.

No, I managed to reply, breathing hard to regain my composure. I trembled. "Glory just went to the hospital, and we don't know what is wrong with her yet," I mumbled in an unconvincing explanation for myself rather than Martin. "So, I have no idea what you are saying, Martin," I said in French. He repeated what his wife had told him. At this point, I am exasperated, annoyed, and tired. I am mad at Martin for knowing such a brutal truth. It was as if his saying it made it definitive. I had been on my feet all day, and the urgency of giving Eyong a bath, making dinner, and going to the hospital in Jackson to see Glory took over. I finished that conversation with Martin and promised him I would keep him abreast of what was going on later that evening after I spoke with Glory.

I had spoken with Glory twice that morning. She told me they were still running tests to determine the provenance of a blood clot they discovered in Natchez. I did not recall anything she said about what Martin had revealed. Instead, there was an encouraging text in which she expressed how great it was to feel a sense of "normalcy."

Somehow, I managed to get the children ready. I packed food so that we could all eat dinner at the hospital. I had spent most of the previous night of Monday the 16th at Merit health hospital with the children and then with Glory alone, so I was tired and needed sleep. I counted on the black tea to stay awake for the 200-mile (and almost 4-hour) drive to and from Jackson. It was when I was in the car that my thoughts ran amok. The kids talked about their day at school and their excitement at going to the hospital to see and be with their mother while I feigned interest, sailing back and forth to the call I had just had with Martin. Eventually, I drifted from the discussions and started processing my brief conversation with Martin. I thought it had never happened, and instinctively I pulled my phone out of my pocket and perused my call history. There it was, Martin and Sabine Fameni: call received. I reassured myself that it was never as bad as it seemed. I can recall several instances when my mind immediately raced to the worst thing that could ever happen, only for it to be much ado about nothing. Come on, this was Glory! Glory is solid. Liver cancer! Liver cancer?

The GPS yanked me from my reverie as I completed the trajectory of Highway 55 North. We made it to the hospital a little after 7PM, and after a slight frustration from trying to find our way to her room, I finally met Glory. She was lying on her hospital bed, and her face lit up when she saw us. After all the hugs and kisses, we ate dinner. One of her friends who lived in Jackson, Maureen, had stopped by with some food and drinks. We missed them on our way in. After dinner, I asked Glory what the situation was. I wanted her to tell me something different. I wanted her to confirm my theory that Martin was wrong and everything was alright. Glory rambled, and I understood why she had not talked to me. She did what you do to people you love: shield them from pain.

"Martin told me that you said you had liver cancer?" I finally brought myself to ask. Glory sat in bed with both arms by her side and her elbow resting on her lap. She made a damaging gesture that shook me because it was a confirmation. It was the affirmation of a seismic shift in how all those who love her will look at life from now on. The gesture was banal: she pulled her hands from where they were tucked in her lap, raised them slightly, and then tilted each hand outward so I could see her palms. Then she clasped them together and rested them on her lap this time. Now words. It was resignation. It was acceptance of a sealed fate. All this happened in less than one second. I was confused and dumbfounded. I just looked at her. She stared at me as if waiting for some kind of reaction from me. It was as if she expected me to be mad at her, just like a child who had admitted to some wrongdoing. It also felt as if she needed to figure out my fortitude. It may have been something else, and my after-the-fact analysis could be ultimately off the mark. 

So, what's the plan moving forward? What have the doctors said? How bad is it? What are our treatment options? Glory had no answers for me. Only the oncology team could tell us what options we had. Meanwhile, the most pressing issue was the blood clot in her lungs. The immediate plan was to thin her blood to prevent more clots. 

"Weti you go do with my die body?" Glory asked me in pidgin. The question perplexed me. I was utterly unprepared for it. Yes, liver cancer is severe and means death, but I had not made the connection conscious with Glory. Anyone else, yes. But not Glory. "Baby," I managed to reply, "Your die body no be my concern. The only ting we e matter now na how you go survive this sick." I said to her. 

With that sentence came an immediate shift in focus for me. Before Glory's diagnosis, the thought of seeing her and getting some relief from the duties I had assumed in her absence consumed me. I wanted to go to a place alone and not worry about the children or a babysitter. I longed for a time when the children would go to their mom for some things and leave me alone. Now, none of that mattered. What mattered was Glory's life and what we could do to preserve or save it. 

After about three hours at the hospital, I kissed Glory good night and started our journey back to Natchez. The kids fell asleep as soon as I started driving. It was good for me. Glory had cancer, I said to myself. Then, the tears cascaded. It was just the beginning.

Our life has never been the same. Cliche, right? 

Next, 12 Years of Glory: The Last Roadtrip