Chapter 15 - Erin Forgot Other Things Too
Two years after the night at the trash can, Erin invited me to speak to a small home-health training group.
I almost said no.
Then asked what she wanted me to talk about.
"Not abuse recognition," she said.
"Why?"
"Because I don't want you turned into a teaching specimen."
I liked her immediately all over again.
She wanted me to talk about patient autonomy during long recoveries.
How easy it was for efficient caregivers to become default spokespeople.
How illness narrowed energy.
How a patient saying "ask my husband" on Monday did not mean the husband owned Thursday.
I agreed.
At the training, Erin introduced me by name.
Not survivor.
Not cancer patient.
Natalie Rowan.
I spoke for twenty minutes.
Then one nurse asked:
"What should Erin have noticed sooner?"
The room went quiet.
I looked at Erin.
She nodded.
I answered.
"I don't know everything she should have noticed. I know people spoke to Scott because he made things easier. He answered quickly. I was slow. He was organized. I was sick."
I paused.
"Convenience can become authority without anyone deciding it should."
Erin looked down.
Then raised her hand like a student.
"I also should have asked Natalie more private questions earlier."
I nodded.
Both things could be true.
Afterward we got coffee.
Erin left her phone on the counter and had to go back.
I laughed so hard the barista stared.
"You forget everything."
"Apparently my entire life is built on retrieval."
The forgotten bag had become a family joke only after it stopped being a sacred object.
Good.
Grace was fifteen then.
She rolled her eyes whenever anyone said Erin saved my life.
"Mom saved her life too," she would say.
I corrected her.
"Doctors helped with that part."
"You know what I mean."
I did.
But I liked accuracy.
My cancer remained in remission.
I had scans.
Appointments.
Fear before results.
No magical ending.
Scott and I became functional co-parents.
Functional was a beautiful word.
Not friends.
Not enemies.
Not destiny.
Schedules worked.
Grace complained about both houses.
Excellent.
Elaine sometimes attended school events.
We sat separately.
Once she asked whether I hated her son.
I thought.
"No."
She looked relieved.
I continued.
"But I don't need to stop hating what he did."
Her relief disappeared.
Then returned in a different form.
"Fair."
That was enough.
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