The Letter

by Mary Crawford

  “Who is planning to stay with you tonight?”

  “Would a paramedic work?”

  The doctor looks a little surprised. “Yes, of course.”

  Mallory holds up our joined hands. “Turns out this guy fits the bill perfectly. I promise to be good and not kick him out of the house if you let me go home,” she says with big, pleading puppy dog eyes.

  “I only wish all of my patients had such great postoperative care. Okay, I will print out my orders. If you have any questions about the postoperative instructions, please let me know. There is a number to call. I happen to be the physician on call tonight so you will be talking to me if you have a question. Come back in five days and if things look good, I will remove the drain. There should be an appointment already made on the discharge papers.”

  Before Dr. Stephenson leaves the room, I shake her hand. “Thank you for helping to save Mallory’s life. I can’t imagine my life without her in it.”

  Mallory sinks back into the pillows I propped up against her headboard. “Geez, I’m so sorry. I did not mean to puke all over your car.”

  “Seriously, don’t worry about it. Pain medication and motion can do that, especially post-op. Do you have any idea how many times I clean up biological gunk on any given day? I don’t even notice it anymore, honestly. I would have been more surprised if you hadn’t tossed your cookies.”

  “Does this mean I don’t get to eat? I’m still starving.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll feed you. You need food in your stomach when you’re taking pain medication. However, it does mean you’re going to start with some chicken and rice soup instead of a double cheeseburger with fries.”

  Mallory grimaces. “I don’t think I have any of that stuff around. It sounds too healthy to be anything I have in my pantry.”

  “I don’t think you quite understand the world you’ve entered. You remember telling my friends what you were planning to do this week?”

  “Yeah, why would that matter?”

  “I think I’ve already told you Jaxson is one of my best friends. But, you might’ve guessed when we went to the concert, there’s a whole group of us who are tight. I was recently adopted into the group when I started hanging out with Jaxson. It started out with a pickup game of basketball, now I seem to have adopted a whole family of friends. Anyway, a bunch of them all cook like they're related to Betty Crocker. Gwendolyn, Donda’s mom, is a lung cancer survivor, and she took it upon herself to make sure you had everything you could possibly need to eat.”

  “Oh no! Your mom told me at the barbecue that she’d make sure I had food too and you heard Edna this morning. By the time this is all said and done, I won’t be able to fit in my car — you’ll have to roll me down the street like a beach ball.”

  “Calories are good for you while you are healing. Besides, I saw your freezer in the garage. You can put it to good use.”

  Just then, Mallory’s stomach lets out a large growl. She winces in pain as she instinctively puts her arm over her stomach.

  “I’ll go get you an ice pack and then I’ll work on getting you some soup and crackers. Do you want some ginger ale?”

  She nods. “That would be nice.”

  “Mallory, if you need something, please ask. I am at your beck and call. You better take advantage of me while I’m here. I don’t spoil everyone I meet,” I add with a wink.

  By the time I come back with the soup, crackers and ginger ale, Mallory is sound asleep. I gently stroke her shoulder until she wakes up. “Mal, I’m sorry to do this to you but you need to eat.”

  “So tired.”

  “I know. I’ll let you go back to sleep after you eat, but I can’t let you get behind on your pain medication.” I try to help her get propped up against her pillows again. I cringe every time she winces in pain. I know it’s part of the process, but it doesn’t make it any easier to watch. She tries to pull her sweatshirt over her head, and yelps in pain as she lifts her arms up. “Wait! Let me help you, please,” I instruct as I set the tray down on the nightstand and carefully unzip the sweatshirt. I try to jostle her as little as possible as I slide her arms out of the bulky garment.

  Tears are sliding down her face. “I’m sorry Mallory. Did I hurt you?” I ask anxiously.

  “Look at me! I’m a mess! I can’t even eat or get dressed by myself.”

  She struggles to find a more comfortable position. After she settles down, I wipe her tears away with a Kleenex. “I wish you would cut yourself some slack. The only reason you’re not in the hospital is because your pretend husband is a paramedic. Otherwise, you would be having help with everything. Honestly, I’m afraid maybe we’ve pushed you a little too far too fast.”

  I place the tray in front of her. “I can help you eat, if you’d like.”

  “No, I’ve got it. I’m just having a mini meltdown. I guess my new reality is starting to sink in. Rocco, I’ve got cancer. Cancer. You know, the thing people do telethons for. C-A-N-C-E-R! What did I ever do to deserve this?”

  “Nothing. You did absolutely nothing. No one deserves to get cancer.”

  Mallory takes a couple small bites of soup. She flinches in pain as she swallows. “I didn’t expect it to hurt.”

  “That’s just from the tracheal tube. The soreness will go away in a couple of days.”

  “Rocco, what if I made the wrong decisions? What if I should have done a double mastectomy in case all of this is much worse than it seems? I don’t want to have to face all of this again.”

  “Dr. Stephenson came highly recommended. She is a surgeon who specializes in treating breast cancer. If she thought your choices were ill-advised, she would’ve said something.”

  “There’s so much information to absorb. How do I know if I’ve made the right choice?”

  “We never know for sure. Medicine is a balance of science and art. We make our best guesses based on what we know. But it’s never perfect.”

  Mallory shoots me a sour look. “Really? That’s the best you’ve got. I thought you were supposed to be making me feel better?”

  I shrug. “One of the things my patients like best about me is that I’m honest — even when it’s tough news. I could lie to you, but in the end, it wouldn’t make you feel good or trust me. So, I’d rather tell you the truth. I wish I had some magical wand which could make this all go away or make sense. Unfortunately I don’t. The best we can do is face the cancer and its obstacles one day at a time with the best information we’ve got.”

  “You don’t think I made some horrible mistake by taking the conservative approach?”

  “Based on the test results I’ve seen and what Dr. Stephenson told me? I think you made a perfectly sound medical decision.”

  “Please tell me this gets better and I won’t second-guess this decision for the rest of my life,” Mallory pleads as she pushes the food away.

  “I think it gets easier the longer a patient is cancer free. But I’ve never met a cancer survivor who doesn’t spend at least some of their time looking over their shoulder and praying they stay in remission. It’s simply a fact of your life from here on out.”

  “Oh joy, lucky me.”

  “I’m sorry Mallory. I’m only trying to be realistic.” I tuck a blanket around her as I kiss her on the cheek.

  “Are you planning to be a stickler and make me follow the doctor’s instructions to the letter?”

  “That’s my intention, yes. Speaking of that, you need to take some pain medication. I’ll go get you some water and something to brush your teeth with.”

  Mallory rolls her eyes. “Fun times, I can barely wait.”

  “I’m the definition of fun times. Wait and see what I have in store for you,” I brag trying to restore Mallory’s trademark twinkle to her eyes. “Look what I added to your movie library,” I say as I click some buttons on her remote and bring up a list of movies on her TV.

  “What did you do? Buy me every movie Meg Ryan ever made?”

  I nod. “Pretty much. I fi
gured you’d have plenty of time to veg out in front of the television since I promised the doctor I would make sure you rest.”

  Mallory sighs. “Okay, maybe just this once I won’t complain about following the doctor’s orders.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  MALLORY

  THE LARGE VINYL RECLINER PRACTICALLY swallows me up as I slide into it. Rocco volunteered to take the day off so he could bring me this morning, but I refused as politely as I could. I can’t have everyone I know completely rearrange their lives for me. As nearly as I can tell, I’m in this for the long haul. Not everybody can drop everything while I fight cells so small I can’t even see them except on slides in the lab. Jaxson’s wife Donda dropped me off. She wanted to stay with me — but to me, she’s merely someone I play pool with every once in a while, and I’m not ready for her to see me at my worst quite yet. So, I told her I would call her when my session is finished.

  A new nurse with platinum blonde hair and sparkling green eyes pulls back the curtain. “Hi, I’m Gemma. How are you today? I’ll be your primary nurse during your courses of chemotherapy. If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask,” she says with a wide toothy grin.

  I stare at her blankly for a few moments. “The person who put in my PICC line yesterday wasn’t so perky. Don’t you think it’s weird you’re so happy? You’ll be injecting poison into my body.”

  Gemma’s brows furrow. “I guess it is a little strange if you think about it, but it’s not like I’m randomly injecting you with weed killer or something. This is good poison, I suppose. It will kill off the cells which are killing you.”

  “Yeah, the bad cells, my hair, my eggs and virtually everything else,” I answer sarcastically.

  “I’m sorry about that. We’ll try to make it as easy on you as we can. Are you ready to get started?” Gemma checks my wristband. “Can you tell me your name?”

  “My name is Nariko Yoshida, but I go by Mallory Yoshida.”

  “Very good. Please look at your bracelet and see if we have it spelled correctly.”

  I wince when I see the white bracelet around my wrist with the barcode on it. You would think I would get used to it by now. Every time I go in for a test or procedure at the hospital I have to wear one, but it makes me feel like a lab animal undergoing some weird scientific experiment. I glance at it quickly and nod. “Yes, it’s correct.”

  Gemma scans my bracelet and looks around. “Are you here by yourself today? This will take a while.”

  I pat my computer bag beside me. “Oh, I know. I’ve been warned. I brought work to do. I gave everyone the day off from their babysitting duties. Someone will be by later to pick me up. I figured they didn’t need to watch my medicine drip in.”

  “After I get everything started, I’ll introduce you to some of the regulars. Talking with folks might help pass the time. The first thing I’m going to give you is a cocktail of anti-nausea medication. This might make you a little sleepy, but you’ll thank me for it later. I see your oncologist has ordered a combination of chemotherapy medications. One I have to give you inter-muscular, or as we call it IM, but the other will go through your PICC line.”

  “Will I be instantly sick? Under the best of circumstances, I have a touchy stomach. I can’t ride the rides at the fair — even the kiddie ones.”

  “The Zofran and other nausea meds should help with that, but most people have at least some reaction to the chemo meds. If one doesn’t work out, there are other options.”

  Gemma points to another machine beside me. I recognize it from when Andre had knee surgery. “Oh, that’s a Kodiak. Why would I need an ice therapy machine?”

  “There is anecdotal evidence that keeping your head cool during chemotherapy helps prevent hair loss. There’s a specially designed attachment which works as a cap. You can use it if you’d like.”

  I shrug. “I might as well. I have a feeling I won’t be one of those cute bald people.”

  “Just remember to take it off every few minutes and give your scalp a rest. We don’t want you to get frostbite.”

  “Lord knows I wouldn’t want that. What would I do if I had one more thing wrong with me?”

  Gemma giggles as if I said the funniest thing ever. She wipes the port under my collarbone with some alcohol. “This won’t hurt but you might have a funny taste in your mouth.”

  “My friend, Gwendolyn, who had lung cancer, told me she lost interest in food when she went through chemo. I hope that’s not so because my friends have made me enough food to last through the next century.”

  “Everybody reacts a little differently, but some people do find it difficult to eat.”

  “My friend Andre says he has that all taken care of. He’s already bought me some weed.”

  Gemma finishes injecting several vials of medication into my port. She holds her hands up. “Hey look, no judgment here. Everybody’s got to do what they gotta do, but run it by your team of doctors first. Some medications have interactions, including cannabis.”

  I look up at all the tubes hanging from the IV into my port. I’m suddenly feeling very claustrophobic. “I’ve got a dumb question. What if I have to go to the bathroom?”

  From the other side of the curtain, a voice asks, “Do you mind if I take this one? We haven’t had a rookie in a while.”

  “I suppose. But be gentle. Today is her first day. Remember what it was like when you first started?”

  The curtain pulls back and I’m face-to-face with a young woman who looks to be a little younger than me, but she is completely bald and her left leg is amputated clear up to her hip. She waves at me. When she smiles, there is something vaguely familiar about her. “Hi, I’m Sheila. I have chondrosarcoma.” At my confused look, she elaborates. “It’s a form of bone cancer. It affects the cartilage around your bones.”

  I must have involuntarily given her the same look people have been giving me since my diagnosis. She chuckles. “It is what it is. I’m here because my family wants me to fight it. But my doctors are a little more realistic. The chances of surviving it are pretty slim. It was way advanced by the time the doctors figured it out — so, basically I’m only doing radiation and chemo to make everyone else happy.”

  “Wow, that’s a lot,” I comment, not knowing what else to say.

  “Sadly, it’s not the first time I’ve done something for my parents I probably shouldn’t have,” she mutters. Raising her voice, she asks, “So, what are you in here for?”

  At first, her blunt question takes my breath away. It takes me a moment to compose myself as I realize this is the first time I’ve actually had to utter these words out loud to a perfect stranger. Everyone else I’ve told has been a close friend or relative — unless you count Rocco. In my mind, he doesn’t count because he’s the one who first told me.

  In as steady of a voice as I can muster, I answer, “I have invasive ductal carcinoma.”

  “What stage?” Sheila asks.

  “1B” I stammer.

  “You’re lucky. I’m Stage IV. I’m probably not getting out of here alive. Mine has metastasized into my pubic bone and it’s pretty much inoperable. It’s only a matter of time.”

  Gemma clears her throat. “I think you were planning to answer some basic questions to make life easier around here for Mallory,” she redirects.

  “Oh yeah. If you have to take care of business, your IV pole is on wheels; there are a couple of bathrooms over there on the wall that’s painted that beautiful cheery yellow color. They like us to stay in this room so they can monitor us all in case somebody feels dizzy or something. Speaking of that, if you don’t feel well while you’re in the bathroom, there is a light attached to a string you can pull and it will summon a nurse. For Pete’s sake, if you have a problem, yell for somebody. There’s enough of us out here we can get somebody far quicker than the alarm system.”

  “Okay, I’ll remember,” I say as I try to cover my nervous grin. Gemma looks like she’s regretting her decision to let Sheila give
me the scoop.

  “I heard you tell Gemma you’re planning to get a little work done. Don’t be surprised if your brain feels a little spacey and you don’t feel like doing much. Most of us just shoot the breeze or play games. We try to bring a bunch of gossip magazines or watch bad reality TV — nothing too serious. We have an ongoing game of Monopoly. But nobody actually keeps score. We basically do it to pass the time. We sorta have an unwritten rule. You can be brutally honest here about how things are really going and we won't say anything to anybody. This is like a confessional. You don’t have to try to be strong here — we all know what it’s like.”

  “You mean like my boyfriend,” I pause and correct myself, “‘husband’ having an apoplexy every time I sneeze? It’s crazy! I had allergies like forever before I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Sneezing does not mean I’ll die tomorrow. He acts like it’s the end of the world when I sneeze. I mean I love that he likes to take care of me, but it’s driving me nuts!”

  Sheila laughs out loud. “Yeah! Our confessional is exactly for stuff like that. It’s perfect for those times when you don’t want to be critical of the people who care about you but it’s driving you bat–flip crazy. You can feel free to vent here … totally guilt free.”

  Gemma chuckles. “I can see the two of you have a lot in common. I’ve got to go check on some more patients. Your call light is attached to your chair. If you need anything — and I mean anything — just buzz me.”

  “Is it all right if I eat in here?” I ask. “I was too nervous to eat this morning. I’m sure I’ll get hungry before the day is over.”

  Gemma grins at me. “Of course, you can eat anything you want to. If you’re hungry for lunch, I can order something from the cafeteria.”

  “Words to the wise — don’t bring your favorite foods. It’s like a Pavlovian dog thing. You’ll start to associate your favorite foods with throwing up. It gets ugly. Just don’t do it. I learned the hard way. I can’t even stand to eat anything with chocolate or coffee anymore and they used to be my favorite foods.”