Without You: A Memoir of Love, Loss, and the Musical Rent by Anthony Rapp Page B

got out, and I figured she’d come back, but she didn’t, so I looked for her, and I couldn’t find her, and then finally I found her, and she was lying by the side of the road, just lying there, and nobody had stopped or anything, and she’s dead, and I’m so so sorry…”
    “It’s okay, Momma, it’s okay,” I said, but really it wasn’t, it wasn’t at all, it was terrible, and it was her fault, I’d told her that she couldn’t let Zucchini run, it was so dangerous, it was her fault, it was, it was. After I reassured her some more and listened to her crying and calmed her down and then said goodbye and hung up the phone, I stood in my dorm room and wept and tried to remember what it felt like to hug my dog to me and to throw her favorite toy for her to chase and to take long walks with her at night. I had lost many pets over the years, but it never got any easier. I felt my grief over each loss keenly.
    But in the years since, I had not given Zucchini’s death much thought at all, and when I did think of it I bore Mom no ill will whatsoever, so to hear her ask me for my forgiveness almost six years later was totally surprising.
    “Of course I forgive you, Momma,” I said, and I really did mean it, absolutely. “I was always a little upset about her death, you know, because I loved her, but I really do forgive you.”
    “Well, you know,” she said, her voice small and weak, “I just knew how much you loved her, and how disappointed you were in me.”
    “Well, yeah, I guess I was a little disappointed at the time, but that was years ago. It really is okay.”
    “I just didn’t want to let you down. I know how much you loved her,” she said again.
    “Yeah, I did, but so did you, and I know it was very hard for you, too.”
    “Yeah. She was so sweet. Such a good dog.” I heard Mom sniffle and glanced over to see that she was crying. I reached over and held her hand.
    “Oh, Momma, it’s okay. It’s okay.”
    I was so relieved and happy that we were talking this way, and so touched by the depth of Mom’s remorse, and so proud that I was finally able to bring her some comfort, that almost all of my fears of what we could and could not discuss immediately evaporated.
    “Thank you, Tonio,” Mom said.
    “You’re welcome, Momma.”
     
    At the hospital, Mom and I trundled through its endless, forbidding hallways from one appointment to another. I sat in each waiting room as she had blood drawn or received her final round of chemo or met with Dr. Kelly, the kindly female therapist the hospital had granted to help Mom cope with her cancer. Through it all, Mom methodically and quietly submitted herself to these rounds, talking little. I took her lead and kept silent myself, hoping that I was giving her support and strength by simply being there with her.
    The only stop for which I joined her was the brief physical exam and interview she received from Dr. Barron in a cramped and drab corner room. I sat off to the side as he listened to her lungs with his stethoscope.
    “How are you feeling, Mary?” he asked.
    “Oh, pretty good,” she said.
    “Any pain anywhere?”
    “Well, my back always bothers me. But that’s nothing new. I’m just very tired.”
    “I understand.”
    He asked her to lie back, and tested the flexibility and strength of her legs. She inhaled sharply once or twice as he gently moved her feet up and down.
    “That hurt?” he said.
    “A little bit,” Mom replied, but I could tell it had hurt much more than a little bit.
    “Okay,” Dr. Barron said, “you can sit up now.” After Mom had settled into a more comfortable position, he sat down on the edge of the examination table and said, “As you know, Mary, we’re going to stop your chemotherapy now and just concentrate on radiotherapy. But I’m going to need you to come back in tomorrow so we can perform an MRI. We need to do that so we can know exactly where your tumor is, and to see how much it’s shrunk or