Love Always, Kate
d. Nichole King
Love Always, Kate
Copyright © 2014 by d. Nichole King. All rights reserved.
First Print Edition: April 2014
Limitless Publishing, LLC
Kailua, HI 96734
www.limitlesspublishing.com
Formatting: Limitless Publishing
ISBN-13: 978-1497385436
ISBN-10: 1497385431
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
For all those who’ve been touched by cancer.
Your strength is an inspiration.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 1
The expression on Dr. Lowell’s face said it all.
I sat back against the chair in his office, nervously playing with a lock of my thick auburn hair. Stretching it under my nose, I inhaled the coconut scent of my favorite shampoo. Already, I missed the sweet aroma.
“Your lab work came back, Kate.” Dr. Jackson Lowell’s eyes fixed on me then shifted to my parents. He paused. “The white blood cell count is twenty-two thousand.”
I didn’t have to glance over to know what my parents were doing. My mother’s eyes squeezed shut, and my father’s hand rubbed her back. The soft breaths escaping my mother filled my ears.
I stared blankly at my feet. What seemed like hours passed before anyone spoke.
“What options do we have this time?” Dad asked, his voice cracking.
I lifted my eyes to Dr. Lowell. His gaze drifted to his desk. He removed his glasses and laid them on top of my file.
“Another round of chemotherapy.” Turning his attention to me, he continued, “And we’ll need to put you back on the bone marrow transplant list.”
I nodded, not knowing what to say. The lump in my throat made it hard to breathe. I’d heard this spiel twice before, but it didn’t get any easier. Sitting up higher in my seat, I put on my brave face.
“When do I start treatment?” I asked, tucking my hair behind my ears. My focus stayed on Dr. Lowell. If I so much as glanced over at my parents, I’d break down. And I couldn’t do that.
“Monday.”
~*~
Leukemia had forced its way back in my life, and just like the last times, I needed my coping mechanism from the store—my new best friend since I didn’t actually have one. As soon as I left the hospital, I drove into the parking lot of Target.
I walked to the stationery aisle and saw it immediately. It didn’t have my name printed on it like my first one, and it didn’t have the intricate cover of my second. This one was perfect: black with a red rose on the front. Black for the cancer and the red rose for me defeating it.
When I got home, I collapsed on my bed and flipped it open.
October 29
Dear Diary,
One year. That’s it. One measly year of remission and now it’s back. I don’t know if my body can handle another round of chemo. Not only that, but can I mentally withstand the emotional turmoil that goes with it … again?
It’s not just about me, though. Seven years of on-again, off-again chemo treatments has taken its toll on my parents, too. They’ve sacrificed so much for me; how can I ask for more? I know it’s stupid, but I wonder what their life would have been like if they’d had a whole daughter instead of a broken one. They love me. I hate to disappoint them after all they’ve done.
My red hair has finally grown back and hangs past my shoulders. I don’t want to wake up every morning to chunks of it on my pillow. Already I miss the feeling of my fingers running through the tresses. What good is clean hair when it’s clogging the drain in the shower? Soon it will be gone. Every. Last. Strand.
I’m seventeen; I’ve survived leukemia since I was eleven. But I don’t know long I can keep fighting. I’m trying to be brave. I don’t want to die. I’ve never even been kissed.
I closed my eyes and fought the oncoming tears. Feeling sorry for myself wasn’t an option. Yeah, I had cancer—nothing I could do about it besides accept the fact. But that nagging voice in the back of my head kept pushing.
I felt fine. Maybe there was a mix-up at the lab.
Could the numbers be wrong?
Why me? Why again?
How could I feel so good, but have cancer ravaging my body?
Sighing, I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling. Yep, still white. I swiped the tears from my cheeks. I’d just started to have a life. And now, I was back to being an outcast. Life sucked.
Instead of wallowing, I attempted some meaningless tasks to keep my mind occupied. I got up and fluffed my pillows on the window seat. When I finished with that, I smoothed out my sheer curtains and picked some fuzz off the floor in the corner. It didn’t help.
During dinner, I noticed my mom’s puffy eyes. I hated the stress my disease caused. She tried so hard to be strong—to be positive. But those eyes gave her away. Fighting was my job, surviving was hers. Dad didn’t throw any chairs, a good sign that he was taking this lapse better than the last one. He sat quiet and reserved.
No one ate much. Our appetites, like our vacation fund, had disappeared with the test results.
The weekend moved slower than a funeral caravan—sorry, bad joke. Slipped into a daze, we all seemed to be dealing with the news by avoiding it, which was fine by me. Dad went to work in downtown Des Moines. Mom read her Better Homes and Gardens Magazine and worked outside in the flowerbeds. I penned a few pages in my diary before deciding to veg-out in the kitchen. I’d be puking my guts out soon enough, so I figured I might as well enjoy something sweet and totally unhealthy. I mixed up a batch of cookie dough and ate it by myself.
Making friends required being around people—not hospitals. I’d missed so much school because of treatments that I enrolled in summer school to try and keep up. It worked, but only to get me into tenth grade—one year behind. Pretty much all the kids at school knew I had leukemia. They felt sorry for me, so they didn’t say anything. I don’t think they knew what to say. I was “the girl with cancer who used to be bald.” I understood.
“Hi, Kate,” Leslie said as I walked into the tiny hospital room Monday afternoon. I was on a first-name basis with all the nurses and staff members on the floor. “I really hoped I’d never see you in here again.”
“Me, too.” I sat down on the reclining bed.
My mother had allowed me to come by myself. Having her the
re wouldn’t make things any easier, and I was old enough now to go to my own appointments. No need for her to take the hours out of her week.
I squeezed my eyes closed as Leslie rubbed alcohol on my hand before inserting the IV. Watching made my stomach crawl. Feeling the needle go in felt bad enough, seeing it just reminded me how real it all was. The central line, my first of many visual reminders, would soon be attached to my chest.
“All done,” Leslie announced. “Dr. Lowell will be here in a few minutes. I’m sure you don’t, but I have to ask—do you have any questions?”
I had no questions. In fact, I could probably write a textbook of procedures by now.
I shook my head.
Leslie sat down on the bed next to me and ran her fingers through my hair. “Your hair is beautiful, Katie. I really like this cut on you.”
My hair fell in layers, framing my full, round face. “Thank you.” Last time, when my hair started falling out, Leslie sat with me, holding my hand as I cried. I knew it was just hair, but it was my hair. Soon, I’d look like a little bald old man. Wigs itched. I had one that matched my own hair color, but I hated wearing it. People stared when I went out in public because they felt sorry for me. And that was annoying. It wasn’t the stares or the whispers, or even the silence. I didn’t want people to feel sorry for me. I was a warrior. I’d beaten cancer twice, and I could do it again—at least, that’s what I told myself.
Dr. Lowell walked in and gave us a slight grin. He held my chart in his hands, but he didn’t look at it. He probably had it memorized. Another nurse, one I didn’t know, stood next to him. She was young and pretty with dark brown hair and a reassuring smile.
“Hey, Kate,” he said, flipping on the overhead lights. “This is Tammy. I’m sure you two will get to know one another soon enough.”
“Hi.” I nodded at her.
“So, are you ready?” Dr. Lowell asked.
“As ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.” Who was ever ready to be sliced open and have tubes put inside their veins?
Leslie patted my shoulder. “You’re my hero,” she whispered.
I slipped my right arm out of my bra strap and tank-top sleeve. The procedure happened while I was conscious, but I really wished they’d knock me out. Because of the local anesthetic, I didn’t feel pain. I felt the tugging, though. Oh, and I could hear the little tools and the clanking on the metal tray. Those sounds alone were enough to make me nauseous.
Leslie smoothed the skin on the right side of my chest with an alcohol wipe. The scent of rubbing alcohol would forever be burned in my nostrils, like someone’s initials etched on a silver flask—which I was pretty sure wasn’t used for rubbing alcohol.
“You’re going to feel some stinging,” Dr. Lowell said.
Stinging? I didn’t think stabbing someone with large needles multiple times in the chest qualified as “stinging.”
I took a deep breath.
Leslie held my hand, and I squeezed it harder each time the local anesthetic pricked me. Tears formed behind my lids, but I fought them back. I could be strong. This was nothing.
When Dr. Lowell finished, the bed started moving. My head slowly sank down as my feet began to rise. Next to me, Leslie never let go of my hand. Her soft expression gave me strength. I balled my other hand into a fist as hard as I could, then slowly let my fingers fan out. I concentrated on breathing steadily. My eyes stayed closed.
Dr. Lowell started working. I knew exactly what he was doing. First he’d insert the needle into a vein in my chest. Then, with Tammy’s help, he’d put a guide wire into the vein. Next, he’d cut one small slit in my chest and another in my neck. That part I didn’t mind. I felt nothing when they cut me. It was the next part I dreaded. Leslie knew that, being in Tammy’s position last time, so she grabbed the small white garbage can and held it up to my mouth—just in case.
Dr. Lowell slid the central line in the lower cut on my chest and came out at the slit in my neck. I felt the pressure it caused. My stomach started to churn, and my mouth exploded with saliva. I tried to hold back. Really, I did. But I couldn’t help it.
“Go ahead, Kate,” Dr. Lowell assured me.
I puked in the basket. Thankfully, the nurses on the third floor of Blank Children’s Hospital were used to people throwing up. Leslie wiped my mouth with a wet paper towel she’d grabbed before she sat down. She swiped my hair back and sighed. I nodded to her.
The rest of the procedure happened quickly. I didn’t open my eyes until the stitches around the new cuts had been put in place. Already, the central line felt weird, but I knew it would become just another appendage once I got used to it.
“All done,” Dr. Lowell said as he straightened out the bed. “Can you sit up?”
Leslie, still holding my hand, helped me up. I felt dizzy and light-headed. The room began to spin. I shook my head, and Leslie guided me back down. Feeling the burn rise in my throat, I squeezed Leslie’s hand twice—our code. It was the price you paid for having the hospital nurses as your best friends. As soon as I rolled to the side, Leslie had the wastepaper basket ready. The worst part wasn’t the upchuck, actually; it was the lingering bile aftertaste.
I released my grip of Leslie’s hand and swung both of my arms over my eyes. Inhaling deeply, I let the air out in a small stream. I just needed a minute.
The first time, Dr. Lowell had showed me a video of the procedure, and I panicked. I’d almost run from his office screaming. And I would have … if I hadn’t passed out first. When I came to, the central line had already been placed.
The second time, I cried and threw up during the entire procedure. All things considered, I aced it this time.
I reached down and touched my new appendage involuntarily. I knew what it felt like, but my hand went to it anyway. Feeling it there, protruding from my chest like a lamp cord, made everything more real. Until now, it hadn’t been hard to convince myself that the last few days were just a dream. In a dream, you can pinch yourself and wake up. Now that I had needles and wires pushed through me, I couldn’t pretend anymore. This was real.
“Are you ready to head down to X-ray?” Dr. Lowell asked.
I sighed and let Leslie help me up. Dr. Lowell had a wheelchair ready. I hated being rolled all over the hospital, but honestly, I was in no condition to be walking. I sat down like a good patient and allowed Leslie to wheel me down to the second floor where the technicians would X-ray my new decoration, making sure of its correct position. I had no doubt of its perfect placement, though. Dr. Lowell was one of the best pediatric oncologists in the nation. That’s why we’d moved here.
After confirming the line’s faultless position, Leslie taped it down. She wheeled me into another small room with a couple of reclining chairs, a bed, and a sixty inch TV hanging on the wall. I moved myself to one of the leather recliners and got comfortable. My black diary lay in my lap, ready for my next entry. Leslie attached the chemo drip to my newly placed central line.
“Apple juice or orange juice?”
“Orange.”
“You need to drink it all, Kate,” Leslie warned. “I know you. No one else is here today for you to give it to, and I hate cleaning out wastebaskets filled with juice.”
I rolled my eyes. “Fine. I’ll drink it.”
“And I’m bringing you some crackers, too.” She walked out the door before I could argue.
Alone, I opened my diary and read the last entry. I needed to write about how I felt, but right now, I just felt numb—and a little hungry. Even though I didn’t want to admit it, I was thankful to Leslie for offering crackers. I hated inconveniencing her.
I toyed with my pen, bumping it on the paper and then sticking the end in my mouth. I didn’t know what to write. My mind was blank. No, I didn’t want to be here. Yes, this really sucked. That’s all I had. Maybe I could blame it on my empty stomach. I felt detached—another reason to side against the dream—like a ghost watching a complete stranger. There was no connection. That was probably what t
hey meant by an “out-of-body” experience.
The click of the door brought me back from numbness-world. Maybe the crackers and orange juice would help stir some real emotion to write down.
“Thanks, Leslie,” I said, looking up.
My heart had never technically stopped before, that I knew of (and I’m pretty sure I’d know that), but at the sight of him, I wondered if it just had. It was like one of those movies where the woman dies, and the super-hot guy started performing CPR. Then, her heart suddenly began to beat, her eyes flew open, and the first thing she saw was the man of her dreams giving her mouth to mouth. Unfortunately, the gorgeous dirty-blond with sapphire eyes standing in the doorway wasn’t kissing me. The rest of it was accurate, though.
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t know anyone was in here.” He smiled. “Hi. I’m Damian.”
Chapter 2
November 1
Dear Diary,
Damian, Dr. Lowell’s son, is volunteering at the hospital. Apparently, he got lost and ended up in the chemo room with me. I didn’t mind. At. All. Granted, his sandy-blond hair is spiked with too much gel, but he looked hot. Way hot. Even in his oversized sky blue scrubs.
He stayed in the chemo room long enough to ask my name and where the storage room was. His eyes kept darting to the chemo drip hanging from the IV pole beside me. I don’t know, maybe since he’s the son of an oncologist, I expected more. He seemed uncomfortable, like he didn’t want to be there. I guess I can’t blame him for that.
I wonder how often he’s there. If I’ll get to see him again. Yeah, I know, it’s stupid, but I can’t seem to help myself.
Is it too much to hope that maybe, just maybe, he could look past the cancer and see me?
~*~
On Thursday, I almost skipped into the hospital. That was a first. As I walked down the hall to the dreaded chemo room, I kept glancing around, hoping to catch some glimpse of spiked blond hair. I saw nothing. No sign of over-sized sky-blue scrubs, either. I noticed that the spring in my step disappeared, and I entered the chemo room, ready to be hooked up like a hose.
Love Always, Kate Page 1
