Chapter 3 - THE TEST GERTRUDE THREW AWAY
Gertrude had taken the screening test because her primary-care physician insisted.
She had almost refused that too.
The result came back positive.
Her doctor called.
Sent a portal message.
Then mailed a letter.
Recommended colonoscopy.
Gertrude canceled the first appointment.
Rescheduled.
Canceled again.
Then transferred to a different medical practice and never mentioned the result.
Nicole listened as Dr. Shah explained.
A positive screening test did not mean cancer.
It meant further evaluation was necessary.
Gertrude had chosen not to find out.
Brandon walked into her hospital room looking like a son who had just discovered his mother had maintained an entire second life inside her silence.
“You knew?”
Gertrude stared at the blanket.
“You had a positive test?”
“It’s an unreliable test.”
Nicole spoke from near the door.
“It’s a screening test.”
Gertrude’s head snapped toward her.
“I was not asking you.”
“No.”
Nicole nodded.
“You weren’t asking anyone.”
Brandon sat beside the bed.
“Why?”
Gertrude looked at him.
“I felt fine.”
“You’ve been bleeding.”
“That happened later.”
“You stopped eating.”
“Your wife’s cooking—”
“Stop.”
The word came from Brandon.
Gertrude stared.
He rarely said it to her.
“You knew something might be wrong, and you spent months insulting Nicole instead of telling us you were scared?”
Gertrude’s face hardened defensively.
“I am not scared.”
Nicole looked at her.
“Yes, you are.”
“Stay out of this.”
“You dumped food into a toilet so nobody would notice you couldn’t finish dinner.”
Gertrude’s lips tightened.
Nicole continued.
“You blamed my cooking because admitting you had no appetite meant admitting the symptoms were real.”
Gertrude looked away.
For the first time, Nicole understood the humiliation differently.
Gertrude had still chosen cruelty.
Still enjoyed using Nicole as a target.
But beneath it was something less glamorous than malice.
Panic.
If every meal was Nicole’s fault, Gertrude did not have to ask why eating had become difficult.
If every stomach ache was seasoning, she did not have to think about the test she ignored.
If the blood was hemorrhoids, she did not have to remember the letter.
Brandon sat back.
“Eight months.”
His voice sounded small.
“You knew for eight months.”
Gertrude snapped:
“And what would knowing have changed?”
Nicole answered before Brandon could.
“Possibly everything.”
She immediately regretted how absolute it sounded.
She corrected herself.
“We don’t know yet.”
Gertrude looked at her.
Nicole continued.
“That’s the point. You took away everyone’s chance to know.”
Gertrude looked toward the window.
“I watched my mother die in a hospital.”
The room went quiet.
Brandon frowned.
“Grandma died of a bowel obstruction.”
Gertrude’s eyes closed.
“That’s what we told you.”
Nicole felt a chill.
“What did she actually have?”
Gertrude did not answer.
Brandon stepped closer.
“Mom.”
Gertrude looked at her son.
“Colon cancer.”
He stared.
“You never told me that.”
“She was seventy-one.”
“Why would you hide it?”
“Because you were twelve.”
“I’m thirty-seven now.”
Gertrude turned away.
Nicole watched the movement carefully.
There was something else.
Family history mattered.
A parent with colorectal cancer could affect screening recommendations.
And Gertrude had hidden that too.
The colonoscopy was scheduled for the next morning.
Before leaving the room, Brandon stopped beside the door.
“Was Grandma the only one?”
Gertrude’s face changed.
Nicole saw it immediately.
“Gertrude.”
No answer.
Brandon’s voice hardened.
“Was she the only one in the family who had cancer?”
Gertrude looked at both of them.
Then said:
“We are not doing this tonight.”
May you like
Nicole understood.
There were more names.
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