by Hunter Shea
“She’s fine.”
Andrew considered calling again.
“She’s fine,” he repeated. If he said it enough, he just might believe it.
It was time for the conference call anyway. He shot her a quick text and put his headset on.
I need a break before I break.
He smiled at Brandi and Luke as they passed by his cubicle, giving her a thumbs-up. But inside, he was a fucking mess.
Chapter Three
Kate always hated this part.
Doctors telling you to meet them in their offices out of the blue was never a good thing. Good news could be easily conveyed over the phone. They saved the bad news for the office.
Dr. Kendricks came in looking very much like a pudgy Einstein, his gray mustache peppered with crumbs. He slipped his glasses into the tangle of hair on his large head and sat across from her.
“How are you feeling?” he said, opening a file folder.
“Much better,” she said. She knew he meant the pneumonia. “I cough a little at night, but nothing like it was before. It doesn’t feel like someone’s sitting on my chest anymore.”
“Good, good,” he said, smiling. She’d been going to Dr. Kendricks since she was twenty. He was a nice man, a little scattered at times, but an excellent quarterback when it came to dealing with all of the specialists in her life. “You still have enough puffs in that inhaler?”
She nodded. “More than enough.”
“Good.” He closed the folder. “Look, what I’m going to say shouldn’t come as a shock. The pneumonia took a lot out of you. Putting aside the fact that you’ve been undernourished and dehydrated, this one really walloped your system. Your lupus levels, well, they’re off the charts. That’s the problem with your condition. You’re open to just about any virus or bacteria that comes your way which then weakens you enough to make your lupus flare up. And the worse it flares up, the more susceptible you are to illness and infection.”
He was right: this was about as shocking as learning that reality television had nothing to do with reality. Or that the earth was round.
Kate’s stomach still cramped up. “How bad is it?”
His elbow on the desk, the doctor rested his chin in his hand. He looked at her the way any father would a sick child. “We’re almost at the point where chemo is our best option.”
Nothing instilled cold fear in Kate quicker than the word chemo. Chemo meant losing her hair. It was vomit and cramps and utter exhaustion. It was taking her illness to a brand-new circle of hell, without any guarantees it would work. And if it didn’t – well, my dear, lupus didn’t give a damn. It was just dumb enough to knock off its own host.
“I don’t want chemo,” she said, sitting straighter in her chair. What she wanted was to bolt right out of there and pretend she hadn’t heard him.
“I know. And I don’t want to have to go that route. In fact, I’m going to do everything I can to avoid it. But you’re going to have to go through some pretty unpleasant treatments.”
“Fine. I don’t care. Whatever it is, I’ll just have to suck it up. When would they start?”
He rubbed his chin. “Today.”
“Today?” She felt her resolve quiver. “What’s the treatment?”
The doctor got up and sat on the edge of his desk, his hand on her arm. “I’m going to administer a cocktail of immunosuppressants and anti-inflammatory drugs. A couple of them are a bit experimental, at least for people in your condition.”
“I’ve been down that road before,” she lamented.
“Which means you know that this can work.”
“Just as much as it can’t.”
He hesitated. “That is true. But I’ve thought long and hard about it and consulted several of my peers, and I think this is the best option available to you right now.”
She knew that meant it was her only option, aside from the C word.
Sighing with resignation, Kate asked, “So are we talking some time hooked up to an IV, pills, or do I have to go inside some weird machine that drives claustrophobics insane?”
“It will consist of eight injections at the base of your spine.”
He looked pained to even say it.
Her hand went reflexively to her back. “Will I be numb?”
“I can numb the surface, but I’m afraid you’re still going to feel it. I promise we’ll do it as quickly as possible. I’ll finish with a painkiller that will keep you groggy for the rest of the day. You’ll be sore for a few days, and you might experience a persistent burning sensation, but that will eventually fade.”
Kate swallowed hard. She was used to pain. Burning, not so much.
“How long do you mean by eventually fade?”
He shrugged. “It’s different for everyone. It could be two, three weeks.”
“And when do I have to get my next treatment?”
“A month from today.”
“So I’ll be feeling better just in time to feel like crap again.”
He didn’t have to say it out loud, and to his credit, he didn’t. “There’s a gown for you in room one. Once you’re ready, Mary will bring you to the suite. I’ll be assisted by Dr. Martin. If you want to take a breather, gather yourself, talk to Andrew, that won’t be a problem.”
Digging her thumbnail as hard as she could into her palm, she said, “Might as well get it over with. Like pulling off a Band-Aid, right?”
He patted her shoulder. “You’ll get two lollipops for this one.”
“Promise?”
“Maybe even three. We’ll see how well you behave.”
Dr. Kendricks showed her to the examination room, an ugly hospital dressing gown wrapped in plastic waiting for her. She tore open the bag and stripped down to her underwear. She’d worn her lounging-around panties and bra, not expecting a paper gown kind of day. Kate was sure once she left the room, everyone would be able to hear her heart thumping in her throat.
She’d had two spinal taps in the past, and the pain had nearly driven her mad.
Now she was going to get eight needles, and she was sure they were long as an aardvark’s nose, jabbed into the base of her spine.
Ryker’s voice said, Find a happy place and hide there until it’s done.
Except there was no such thing as a happy place when you were being stabbed.
The first injection felt like she was being run through with a lance. Tendrils of white-hot fire sped up her spine, exploding in her brain. Her fingers and toes curled. Her lungs constricted. Before she could expel her held breath, the next needle slid deep into her.
Again and again and again, the two doctors stuck her.
But she did not cry. No matter what any doctor had done, violating her in more ways than she could ever have imagined, she refused to shed a tear in front of them. Her body might be weak, but her will could break a football lineman in half.
* * *
Andrew dropped his magazine on the floor the second he saw Kate walk into the waiting room. Her lips were pulled tight, her eyes glazed. She saw him rise and turned her attention to Kelly, the receptionist, telling Kelly in a strained voice that she needed to make an appointment for the following month. Kate took her appointment card, slipped it in her pocket, and headed for the door. He went to touch her back to give her support, and she hissed.
He didn’t ask why. Not in front of everyone in the waiting room, all eyes glued to the woman who looked like she was about to break apart.
Careful helping her into the car, he buckled her in and raced to the driver’s side.
What did they do to her now? he thought.
When he started the engine, Kate said, “Go slow. And watch for bumps. Please.”
She closed her eyes and settled her head against the seat. A lone tear trickled down her cheek.
It was a twenty-mil
e drive back to the house. He’d take it at a snail’s pace if he had to and ignore the bevy of honking motorists behind him. Jersey drivers were not known for their patience.
Merging onto the Garden State Parkway as smoothly and slowly as possible, he said, “Honey, what happened in there?”
She opened her mouth to answer, then stopped, waving him off. A small sob escaped her lips.
“It hurts so bad,” she said, whimpering.
Every muscle in Andrew’s body tensed.
He felt helpless, impotent, shut out. A million questions bubbled inside him, but he couldn’t give voice to them. Not while Kate was in this kind of pain. He’d have to go against every emotion he was feeling and wait for her to explain everything.
As they got off onto Route 9, Kate said, “I think I can breathe now.”
Andrew’s grip on the steering wheel relaxed slightly.
“Where’s the pain?” he asked.
She shifted in her seat. “My back. Man, they gave me the shots in my lower back, but my whole spine feels like it’s crumbling.”
“What kind of shots?”
They passed by a supermarket. Andrew had been planning to grab some food on the way home to make for dinner. That would have to wait.
“Lots of stuff with names I can’t remember.”
Kate opened the window, face tilted up toward the incoming breeze.
“How many shots?”
She’d had shots for her lupus before. Because her stomach had such a hard time metabolizing medication, especially the types of meds designed to treat lupus, she was often given an entire month’s dosage in a couple of injections.
But never in her back.
“Dr. K said eight, but it felt like a hundred.”
He opened his mouth but found he couldn’t find the right words to say.
She cried for a moment, turning away from the car next to them when they stopped at a light. “The best part is, he said it’s going to hurt for weeks. He gave me something to knock me out today, but after that, it’s just ice packs and pray for it to end.”
Andrew desperately wanted to take the pain away, even if it meant doubling it for himself. He never got used to seeing her like this. A sympathetic twinge in his back forced him to move up in his seat. He could only imagine what it was like for her.
“You at least feeling a little groggy now?” he asked.
She nodded, wiping away her tears.
“I’ll get you all set up when we get home. You want to be in the living room or the bedroom?”
“Living room.”
“You got it. I’ll make a bag of ice for your back.”
“Not now. I just want to sleep while I can.”
“Okay.”
“But have that ice ready. I think I’m going to need it when I wake up.”
They turned off Route 9, leaving the endless array of strip malls behind.
Andrew saw that she was getting very sleepy. Her eyelids drooped, her head rolling liquidly with each turn. Before she went out entirely, he asked, “Why did they give you eight shots in the back?”
Staring straight ahead, she said, “It was that or chemo. I’m beginning to wonder if I made the right choice.”
With that, she closed her eyes and fell silent.
Chemo.
Christ.
* * *
Four hours later and Kate was still asleep. That was a good thing. Let her sleep through the worst of it…if today was indeed the worst of it. Andrew had a sinking feeling it wasn’t.
The moment they’d walked in the door, it was as if Buttons knew exactly what had happened. Instead of excitedly tangling himself up in their legs, he kept his distance, whimpering as he watched Andrew help Kate onto the daybed. The beagle waited for Andrew to get her pillows set, cover her with a blanket, and turn Turner Classics on low. Once she was tucked in, Buttons sat beside the bed with his head propped on the mattress, his wet nose half a foot from her back. Kate went back to sleep in seconds, but Buttons stayed right there, his canine senses zeroed in on the source of her pain.
“You want to go for a walk?”
The beagle didn’t budge.
There was no sense trying to pry him from her side, either. Kate had her guardian angel.
Carrying Kate’s things to the bedroom, Andrew saw that there was a voice mail from her brother, Ryker. There was also a text. Not wanting to pry but curious as to why the double whammy, he opened the text.
Hey sis – just checking up on you. Back from our latest adventure and have lots of funny stories. Had a weird dream about you on the plane. Just let me know you’re all right.
Knowing Kate might be out of it for the rest of the day, Andrew shot a quick text to his brother-in-law, letting him know she’d had a new lupus treatment and he’d have her call him tomorrow. Andrew placed no value in dream messages, but Ryker was new agey enough to get all worked up if someone didn’t tell him all was well.
Okay, Kate-kinda-well, which wasn’t well, but it was better than the alternative.
Falling down the forbidden-thoughts rabbit hole, he recalled the day Kate’s surgeon had told him the abdominal surgery they needed to perform only had a ten percent success rate. The infection in her digestive tract had turned gangrenous. It was basically a Hail Mary pass. Ten percent was better than the one hundred percent prognosis that she would die within a week. He’d given the doctor the go-ahead and stepped into Kate’s room. She’d been surrounded by her mother and brother. Things had been so bad, even his mother-in-law sat vigil.
“Are you crying?” Kate had said, her eyes barely open, voice so soft and weak, it was like talking to a ghost.
He hadn’t realized she was awake, much less that he had tears in his eyes.
“Nah, just cutting onions,” he’d said, bending down to kiss her forehead.
“Are we home? What’s for dinner?” she’d said, fading before he could answer.
He’d never told anyone the chances of her surviving the surgery. What was the point? Unburdening himself wouldn’t have made him feel any better; it would just upset her family.
Yes, she had survived the fourteen-hour surgery, and that was a memory to celebrate.
Don’t you have work to do?
Yes, he did, and it would take his mind off things.
Andrew sat at the kitchen table with his laptop, filling out his sales reports, all the while keeping an eye on Kate. The sense of helplessness only fueled his stress. He decided a little day drinking was in order. It took the edge off and made dealing with the slew of insipid emails a tad easier. Every little thing was a crisis. These assholes don’t know what a real crisis is, he thought. He was on his fourth Lone Star when he realized it was dark out and the work day could officially be put to bed.
After he fed Buttons, the dog reluctantly taking a few bites before going back to his spot beside Kate, Andrew heated up leftover pasta and ate it over the sink.
He had energy – nervous energy – to burn. The thought of sitting and watching TV or reading a book seemed impossible. He needed to move, to sweat the alcohol from his system, to discharge the electric tension running through his body.
After writing a note and placing it on the coffee table, he changed into his sweats and headed out for a quick run.
The whole concept of running was ridiculous to him. Running in circles was what chickens did to kill time. He didn’t run to stay healthy. Yes, he needed to take care of himself so he could take care of Kate, but that wasn’t why he punished his legs, back, and lungs.
Before running, Andrew had denied to everyone, including himself, that he was stressed and overwhelmed with being a caregiver. Confessing his anxiety would be tantamount to admitting that he wasn’t fit to provide for Kate and nurse her back to health. Denial was a hell of a coping mechanism. He assumed if he didn’t speak or
think his darkest thoughts, well, then they’d never be made real.
It came as no shock that that was not the way to go about things.
Andrew quietly closed the door and headed toward Locust Street. He wasn’t so much a jogger as he was a mad sprinter. His worn sneakers pounded the sidewalk slabs, while his heart rate accelerated.
You can’t outrun chemo, man.
Mr. Hanson waved at him from his car.
Oh yeah? Watch me.
All of the apprehension and stress had burst out of Andrew one day when he was out with friends at a Chinese restaurant. Kate was in the hospital for her third week, and there was no sign of her coming home. Despite everyone asking how they could help, Andrew said he had everything in hand. He ordered one of those fruity drinks that had a dozen different types of booze in them, and practically chugged it before their appetizers arrived. He thought he was having fun, a pleasant distraction with friends during a particularly trying time. It was nice to be away from the hospital, far from the beeping machines and antiseptic smells, and with that sense of relief came guilt. How dare he enjoy himself when Kate was trapped in that hospital bed? Beneath his smile and jokes, he began to simmer.
Then the man at the table next to them asked him to keep his voice down.
Andrew snapped.
The next few moments were still a blacked-out blur, but everyone who was there had filled him in on the embarrassing details. Without saying a word, he got up, grabbed the table next to them, and flipped it over. Plates, food, drinks, and cutlery flew in every direction. The man who had politely asked him to chill out ended up on the floor. Andrew attempted to stomp his head and thankfully missed. Before he could try again, he was wrapped up by his friends, Brent and Mitchell. They dragged him out of the restaurant, Andrew screaming all the way that he was going to rip the man’s head off – in front of his terrified family, no less.
An automatic sprinkler popped up from a lawn, dousing him in cold water. Andrew veered into the street, running hard, breathing harder, the soles of his feet starting to ache.
