We All Need Somebody to Cry To
By Jon Lasser
“The doctor says it hasn’t grown.” I’m telling my therapist about the results from my latest surveillance scan. “At least, he thinks it hasn’t. He says the radiologist’s made a measuring error. Probably. They take their CAT scan and put it in software, like PhotoShop or something, and they drag this tool from one end to the other to measure. He showed me how they measured differently from the time before—”
Brigid lets out a long, keening cry, one that goes on so long I wonder if the Zoom session’s frozen. I watch her grey cardigan and green top, but they don’t pixelate, and her jaw and throat keep working. I lift off my headphones, hold them off my head a bit. Her wailing is still plenty loud, though, and I wait for her to stop.
When she goes quiet, I put my headphones back on. As soon as I do, she starts to wail again, but quietly enough that I can talk over her.
“Why do they call it a cancer journey when we’re all going to the same place? Everyone’s going to die.”
She stops wailing.
“All right, maybe not you.” I settle back into my chair, talking over her as she starts up again. “I don’t trust the doctor on this measurement thing either. Then again, every scan I think Doc Singh is going to tell me it’s larger, that there are mets everywhere. If he tells me that, I’m justified in feeling awful, right?”
Brigid’s wail rises again, piercing my soul.
At first I thought it was strange, having a banshee for a therapist, but I figured why not give her a try? There was a waiting list for everyone else I reached out to anyway. She doesn’t say much during our sessions, but the e-mail summaries she sends me afterward are cogent and sympathetic. It’s nice to have someone who cares, who really cares, even if she’s only listening because you’re paying her. And because she is eternally bound to observe the dying.
My friend Erin said it was ominous, that it would freak her out, but she’s not the one with stage four cancer so really it’s none of her business. Besides, I listen to her wailing all the time. We all need somebody to cry to.
“Sometimes I’m jealous, you know.”
Brigid tilts her head in a way that I’ve learned means she’s listening very closely, that whatever I tell her next is some kind of deep truth, even though I don’t yet know what I’m about to say.
“Of people with untreatable cancer. It’s exhausting, living in this how-long-do-I-have mode. Like if Doc Singh sees nothing on the scans, it doesn’t mean I’m healed. It means I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
I hang my head and say nothing. Brigid’s keening sounds sympathetic now, almost soothing. I breathe slowly and try to center myself in this moment.
She stops. I check the clock. Fifty minutes gone already.
“I guess that’s all the time we have.” I smile. “Thanks so much.”
She ends the session. I sit at my computer another minute, doing the breathing thing like she suggested in her summary of our last visit, and think about the question she asked in that e-mail: why don’t I let my feelings out, instead of having her do all the crying for me?
Jon Lasser lives in Seattle, Washington, with his wife and two children. His stories have appeared or are forthcoming in Lightspeed, Interzone, Kaleidotrope, and elsewhere. He’s a graduate of the Clarion West writers’ workshop. Find him on the Web at twoideas.org and on Mastodon as @disappearinjon@wandering.shop.