by Will Searcy
him to the doctor. We hated making the copay, but peace of mind was worth a hundred dollars when it came to our son.
The doctor’s office was dim and dingy. The waiting room was designed with four-year-olds in mind, so all the chairs were constructed of hard plastic and positioned too low to the ground to be comfortable. There were communal toys where coffee tables should have been, and they looked like a meeting place for chicken pox, measles, and the common cold.
Sam did not seem to mind. He played with a block set alongside a little girl with a runny nose. I caught him attempting to put the block in his mouth and snatched it away from him. It was silly parental paranoia considering Sam was already sick, but that did not stop me from dousing both our hands with sanitizer.
After a considerable wait, Doctor Alighieri called us into the back rooms. He had a large, hooked nose and permanent scowl affixed to his face. Doctor Alighieri scared Sam, and I have to admit, me as well. He guided us through the frigid hallway into Exam Room 1. Then, Doctor Alighieri left and promised to be right back. Sam shivered and said he wanted to go home. I told him to be patient. We waited.
Finally, Doctor Alighieri returned and examined Sam. He felt his forehead and looked into his throat; it was a little swollen. Doctor Alighieri looked into Sam’s ears and touched his cold stethoscope to Sam’s bare back; Sam flinched at its temperature. It was precious, so I giggled as fawning parents do. The stethoscope moved to Sam’s stomach and the slightest touch to his abdomen sent Sam jerking away in pain. Doctor Alighieri looked at me through a bushy eyebrow.
“Is this new?” he asked.
I was stunned. Sam had never lunged in pain like that in all his life. I was a good father. I took care of my son. I paid attention to him. I loved him more than anything in the world. I would do anything to save him from harm. I watched him every day, and he had never done that before.
After the exam, Doctor Alighieri said, “Part of his breathing sounds labored and that pain in his stomach concerns me. I’m going to send him for blood work and a chest X-ray.”
“Great,” I thought, “More copays.”
The Diagnostic Center starkly contrasted the pediatrician’s office. It was clean and modern, well lit with countless yellow bulbs in wall sconces. There was technology and science here that could conquer any infirmity. It had X-rays and MRIs. There were laboratories and medicines. Smart people had spent lifetimes of work to create a place like this. Its intelligence overwhelmed me with comfort. It was not that I was nervous. I knew doctors had to be cautious because of lawsuits, especially with children. I also knew that they received kickbacks from Diagnostic Centers such as this one. A little extra testing never hurt a doctor’s wallet, only mine. I did not dwell on that thought, though. In fact, I was tired. Normally, I would have been asleep for two hours by then. It was catching up to me.
Sam was scared of the X-Ray machine and the various clicks and clunks it made. I assured him that this machine would make him feel better. He was dubious. When it came time to draw blood, I had to bribe Sam with the promise of ice cream to get the needle within a foot of his arm. Tears bubbled in his eyes as the nurse cleaned the injection area with her wet wipe. He stared right at me as the needle went in as if I was an omnipotent power choosing to torture him instead of granting mercy. After we left, his promised reward did not make him forget. It is a an adorable sight to see a child alternate between whimpering and licking an ice cream cone, but Sam saw the treat for what it was – blood ice cream – and he would not afford me the courtesy of seeing him enjoy it. I could not help but chuckle to myself. He was such a smart boy.
The next morning, I was looking forward to catching up on my sleep when the phone rang. My wife had left, and it was customary for her to call five minutes after her departure to complain about something she had forgotten or to remind me of a chore I had to do. I answered the phone.
“What’d you forget?” I asked.
“Pardon me?” a husky voice responded.
“Sorry, I thought you were my … someone else,” I replied.
“Is this Thomas D. Demus?” the voice asked.
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“This is Doctor Abaddon. I was wondering if you might bring Sam by to see me.”
I paused. Doctor Alighieri had not mentioned visiting another doctor, especially so immediately.
“Why?” I asked.
“I have a spot open at 8:30 if that works,” he said.
“What’s this concerning?”
“My office is in the same building as Doctor Alighieri. I’ll see you soon.”
He hung up on his end, and I listened to the dial tone. Something was wrong. I looked over at Sam munching on his Cheerios. He seemed better. Happier. He told me his tummy was better so frequently I suspected he was trying to convince himself more than me.
When I checked the directory in Doctor Alighieri’s office building, my worst suspicions came true – Doctor John Abaddon, Pediatric Oncology, suite 316. Cold sweat attacked my neck and back. I looked down at Sam smiling up at me. He was oblivious. Innocent. My job was to protect that purity, to protect him, but my subconscious warned me I would soon fail. I squeezed his hand to feel he was still with me. Then, I hit the “up” button for the elevator.
“I don’t like it here,” Sam said after sitting in the exam room a moment.
“I don’t either, buddy,” I replied.
All I remember about the room was white. Everything seemed to be that color. The paper on the exam table. The walls. The floor. The cabinets. The door. White everywhere. Blinding me. Distracting me. I was a man who liked to think, but in that room, I could think of nothing. Nothing but time. How it dragged. How it tickled the hairs on the back of my neck. How it reminded me that it was the only barrier between that moment and when the door opened. How it agonized me and how I wished it would not stop.
I could not think, but I thought I should pray. It seemed the time for that. Since I was a believer, I believed it would make a difference. If I asked God, who was just, and genuinely prayed to Him, not like a wish to hit the lottery or my team to win the Super Bowl, but a real prayer, then He would answer. If I prayed about something important, He would serve. He would grant. That was what He did. That was why He was there. That was why I believed. That was why I prayed.
My prayer did not comfort me, but my mind told me to continue, so I did. I prayed until the moment time yielded and that white door opened with the cold wind of fate preceding Doctor Abaddon’s entry into the room. The doctor’s hair was dark, skin was gray, and eyes deeper than a well on a cold dry mountain. His expression told a story his lips would never do justice. My soul was crushed before he even said a word. I looked down at Sam, and his doe eyes peered into mine. I tried to smile, but it did not fool him. He shifted his gaze down to the floor and waited. This time, he did not shiver.
“Should we step outside?” I asked.
Doctor Abaddon hesitated, looking at Sam, and then said in the husky voice I had heard on the phone, “I’m not sure he’ll follow.”
My heart sank into my gut like a punch. I was wounded and vulnerable, and Doctor Abaddon smiled with as much grace as anyone could muster under the circumstances.
“We suspect your son has an undifferentiated embryonal sarcoma of the liver that’s metastasized to the lung,” Doctor Abaddon said as cold as the marble in a winter mountain quarry.
Sam looked up at me. I could almost hear the questions forming in his brain, so I ignored him and stared at the doctor. Sam waited.
“What’s that mean?” I asked, not caring if he thought I was stupid.
“It means your son has the fight of his life ahead of him,” Doctor Abaddon replied.
My heart sunk still lower. Doctor Abaddon walked over to the desk, pulled out the rolling stool, and sat. He rested a hand on his knee in an attempt at normalcy, as if this casual seating arrangeme
nt would turn our conversation into a chat amongst friends instead of an explanation of my son’s impending doom. I felt a lump in my throat.
“We have a great center in town with great surgeons,” Doctor Abaddon assured. “I’ll be the primary on this as we proceed. We can get him in as early as Friday, and I’m afraid time is our enemy.”
I snorted at the irony. Moments ago, time had been my ally. It had kept that door shut and this reality nothing more than a distant fear. It had kept my dreams afloat on a cloud in the sky. Then, time sided with reality and sent my dreams crashing down to Earth. The cloud dissipated, and the sky closed. All I could see was my broken dream at my feet.
“I’m afraid it appears this has been ongoing for some time,” Doctor Abaddon continued. “There’s nothing you could have done. These things always present themselves in different ways. I just wish he had started showing symptoms before –”
Doctor Abaddon caught himself. He swallowed his words and attempted to smile at me. I exhaled and dropped my face into my hands. I felt Sam’s gentle tug on my arm.
“Daddy?” he cooed.
I had to bite my lip to withstand the tears. I was tired. I had not slept all night. I was in no shape for this. I could not be strong. I could not. I needed to get out of there.
“What now?” I asked. “I mean, so surgery Friday? Fine. What do we need to do ahead of
