Free Not To Us by Katherine Owen Page B

normally reserve for my children’s bumps and bruises.
    The fear in his eyes extinguishes just a little bit and I know he so wants to believe me. I want to believe me, too. Josh looks over at both of us. I see the light come into his brown eyes and know he smiles behind his mask, too.
    “How are you doing, Ellie?”
    “I’m okay,” I say.
    “You’re officially the bravest woman I’ve ever met,” Josh says with a laugh. His sincerity causes my eyes to fill with tears, my throats gets tight, and all I can do is smile in answer.
    I’m in recovery after a two-hour surgery where the margins of my lumpectomy have been reviewed, surgically incised, and are now being tested and analyzed. The tissue samples taken have been rushed to the lab and even more blood work has been done and taken there. I’ve been moved to the head of the line because my doctors wished it so. I do feel, as if I have been summarily run over by a fast moving train. In reviewing the procedure that just transpired in my mind, I conclude I’m beyond brave, too. The nurse comes in, waving paperwork that requires my signature concurring she’s carefully reviewed my at-home care.
    “What day is it?”
    “It’s January 22nd,” the nurse says back to me. I stop signing my name.
    “It can’t be.”
    “It is Mrs. Bradford.” With a strangled cry, I finish my signature and write the date.
    “It’s my daughter’s sixth birthday,” I say to the alarmed nurse.
    “Oh.”
    “I forgot.”
    “Ooooooooohhhh,” she responds.
    No words can describe this onslaught of failure. Failure.
    Mommy failure . It’s Emily’s birthday. She’s six-years-old today and I’ve missed it.
    I start to cry. I barely said hello to her this morning. I was cranky because I couldn’t have any coffee or anything to eat and Michael was a little late in picking me up to go to the hospital, so we had to rush to catch the ferry to Seattle. Elaina and Nick took care of getting Emily to school. I remember talking to the two of them as we hurried out the door. But Mathew? I can’t even recall really seeing my middle son this morning, let alone remember what he was wearing.
    And Emily? The birthday girl? Whose outfit for her birthday day is always paramount; this big event we plan for. I don’t even know what she wore to school today for her big day. I don’t even remember kissing her goodbye.
    Failure . It settles in.
    For her sixth birthday, Emily wants a castle cake — white, pink and purple with four spires and flags and fairies.
    I vaguely recall committing to all of this for her over a month ago. She wants pink and white balloons, everywhere . Her description of how the house should look. And anything, but pizza, could be served. Just a castle party, that’s all. Here I am in the middle of the day, her day , only now remembering that my only daughter was born six years ago today in this very hospital.
    Granted, I could use the excuse that my cancer may be back. That it may have, in fact, never have been gone. But, it isn’t my day; it’s Emily’s day. Perhaps, I could somehow blame this all on Robert and Carrie, too. They should have remembered. I am, after all, fighting breast cancer, but, I’m Emily’s mother. I should have remembered more than anyone else.
    I grab my cell phone and call the Red Balloon Company and beg them to help me. I tell them I need thirty balloons — ten white, ten light pink and ten dark pink; and I need them in an hour.
    Next, I call the Town & Country Market on Bainbridge. I tell the baker my dilemma. This is a crisis,” I say. “She’s turning six, but going on twenty. What can you do for me?”
    We come up with a plan. They’ll stack two sheet cakes together, add four ice cream cones for spires, and decorate with purple, pink and white icing. Dorothy, in the bakery, takes pity on me, when I tell her I’m calling from Swedish Hospital recovering from an outpatient procedure. Somehow, I start telling her that this is my second