The Fearless Journalist

Mobile, Alabama

I can’t cry right now. I’m sitting in the middle of Pilot Truck Stop in Mobile, trying to write. I don’t have the luxury of falling apart.

Last week, my mother had a breast biopsy. Today, she got the call. They never say it on the phone, but you know. You can tell by the gentle hesitation in the nurse’s voice. You can hear it in the urgency — “Dr. Yeager wants to see you at 8 a.m. tomorrow to discuss the results.” Long pause. “You’re going to want your daughter or husband with you.”

Except I can’t be there. I’m leaving at 6 a.m. tomorrow, headed to Jackson, Miss. for Christian Science Monitor.

My mother will huddle in the doctor’s oversized leather chair alone, clasping and unclasping her hands, while I curse rush hour traffic on I-49 N. I’ll get to my hotel and call her, but she’ll tell me we can talk about it when I’m finished with my story. She won’t say it, but she won’t have to. I’ll be able to tell by the shaking in her voice, the way she’ll remind me to charge my camera battery and please, PLEASE be careful. At that moment, she’ll probably start to cry. And if she cries, I’ll lose it.

A good daughter would stay here with her. A good daughter would turn the assignment down. A good daughter would be home right now, not sitting in an over-bright truck stop, watching rain slide down the windows and trying to find the right words to say what I feel.

Highway 90 West, near Grand Bay, Alabama (Photo by Carmen K. Sisson/cloudybright)

I’m always trying to find the right words. Words to say “I’m sorry,” when I forget yet another special occasion. Words to say, “I love you,” when it’s been weeks since I’ve called. Words to say I wish I was different, I wish I was successful, I wish I’d followed a normal path and made my family proud. Instead, I stubbornly cling to a dream they can’t understand. When I am home, which is seldom, I dash in the door, grab a Pop Tart, cram it in my mouth and dash out again, “Gotta go, writing, deadline, love you all.”

I’m always in a hurry. Always on my way to somewhere else. I’m always chasing the next hot thing, chomping at the bit to go again as soon as a story is filed. I have so little to show for this life I’ve chosen. I sometimes wonder how much it will take from me before I throw in the towel and walk away.

My mother can’t have cancer. She just can’t. Because I’m scared and alone, and I don’t know how to cope with this.