Lemon Drop Pie

I’m lying on my back, left arm stretched straight out. I have a white clip on my index finger, to measure my blood gasses through my fingernail. Blood gasses? What does that mean? Oxygen; maybe carbon dioxide, I guess. The anesthesiologist makes sure my left breast is numb, while the surgeon picks out music. U2 OK? Sure. I’m reminded of watching St. Elsewhere, way back when. An older doctor would play classical music, while the young, hip doctor would listen to classic rock during surgery. Cool, I think, I’ve got a doctor that rocks. The nurse clips a sheet up vertically to separate my head from my body. I can’t see much; the light blueness drapes down on my face, and I feel claustrophobic. The nurse tries to hold the sheet away from my face when she’s not busy with other tasks. She constantly talks to me; reassures me. I feel a tugging, but no pain, as the surgeon cuts and removes a growth that has formed where it shouldn’t have. The tugging seems to last a long time. Finally it’s over. A call to the pathologist is made. I sense rather than see people conferring, hear something about clean margins. It looks malignant, they tell me. We’ll do a biopsy, but it looks like cancer.

Tears swell, break, roll down my cheeks.

I’m lying on my back, left arm stretched straight out. The white clip is back on my finger, doing its thing. The anesthesiologist is pricking my toes, then he pricks my abdomen, to make sure I’m numb. One nurse counts aloud, a second nurse repeats the numbers. There is a rhythm to it, this counting of surgical instruments. Bring dad in, someone says, and there is Ed, by my side. He is wearing mint green scrubs, looking somewhat like that doctor from ER, Dr. Green. He peers over the sheet, hung vertically again, curious yet cautious about what he will see. I feel tugging and pulling on my abdomen. I see blond hair, the doctor informs us. A protesting, indignant wail fills the room as the baby is lifted up. It’s a girl! the doctor exclaims.

Tears burst out of me.

Is she all right? I ask.

She’s fine, Ed says. She’s perfect.

When Lily was about a year old, give or take, I took an empty pickle jar and slapped a label on it that said “College Fund.” I was ridiculed for my naivety. But for three years, Ed and I put our change in that jar until it was full, and then we filled another jar to the brim as well. They sat on Ed’s dresser for a while because of our laziness. Finally, a couple of weeks ago, I took both jars to the bank.

The magic number? $303.56! We saved one hundred dollars a year! I divided the money between the girls’ savings and put that jar on the counter to start filling up again.

I had been thinking about this book three years ago when I was scrounging around the kitchen for a jar. I think I ate the rest of the pickles just to have one big enough!

A Chair for My Mother by Vera B. Williams

rating: 5 of 5 stars
When Rosa and her mother come home one day, they discover the house they share with Rosa’s grandmother has burned down. Fortunately, they are all safe. Unfortunately, all their possessions are gone. Rosa’s mother brings home a huge jar from the restaurant where she works as a waitress, and all the change from her tips go into that jar. Eventually, the jar is filled to the top, which is enough to buy a comfortable chair for them all to enjoy.

A Chair for My Mother helps us all appreciate our family, hard work, and also that favorite chair in the living room!

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