“From now on, I want to be called Tess, not Tessie. Oh, and Tess is going to be spelled with one s, not two.” So declared my preadolescent daughter one day after school.

I smiled. “T-e-s, that’s very modern. It will take me a while to remember to call you that, since you’ve been Tessie since the day you were born.” She hugged me.

“I know, Mom.”

A few years later, thirteen-year-old Tes with one “s” and I were on our way to yet another doctor’s appointment. We both sat quietly during our drive. Today we’d get answers. Tes had endured eight weeks of robotic doctors and technicians, injecting, poking and prodding her through a myriad of tests, without really showing her any respect as a human being.

Tes lay on the cold metal table for an assessment by a grandfatherly doctor we had never met before. His manner was gentle and respectful. She chatted quietly with him, as he examined her abdomen and inner thigh one more time. Now why couldn’t he have been one of the doctors testing her during these past weeks?

The examination finished, Tes dressed quickly and a nurse directed us to the doctor’s office. I sat opposite her, squeezed into the small room. The doctor sat between us. The tiny room shrank as if the walls pushed inward. The doctor started to speak; I couldn’t take a breath.

“You’ll need to find a special oncologist; Teresa has lymphoblastic non- Hodgkin’s lymphoma.” When he said it, my eyes locked with Tes’s. Time froze. We stared at each other. My mind screamed. I needed the sound of his voice to stop. But like a machine running through a cycle, he kept slamming us. “She’ll need a regimen of chemotherapy and radiation,” the doctor said, looking at me. Then turning to Tes, “As you consider the radiation your oncologist will prescribe, Teresa, prepare yourself for the long term that you will probably not be able to have children. Radiation treatment will cover your entire abdomen. You have a decision to make.” Tes didn’t say a word; we just stayed frozen.

The doctor explained what I needed to do to locate a child oncologist. I kept thinking, you’re repeating yourself. I just wanted to leave, to be alone with Tes.

As we got in the car, I asked her if she’d like to go out for something to eat.

“No,” she said. “I just want to go home.”

After that, we rode along silently. I didn’t want to wait until we got home to talk. I quickly found a shady place to park, slamming the brakes and stopping abruptly. “Okay, sweetie; I can’t imagine what you’re feeling.” When I heard the nervousness in my voice, my anxiousness was apparent even to me. “I know my fear level is obvious and yet you’re the one going through this.” I reached over and touched her hair.