Rich glanced around at the boys. Noted the worry on their faces, many close to tears. “Well, my partner and I could use your help to lift Charlie onto the stretcher. Then I’d say he’s in the best possible hands until we hand him over to the emergency-room crew.” He gestured toward the group of boys anxiously milling about. “It’s your other players who will be needing you then, Coach.”
Coach Henry glanced the boys’ way, giving them an encouraging thumbs-up sign.
“Okay, Mom and Dad, one of you may ride with us. Decide who that’ll be.” Rich gave both of them a serious look, his voice a distinct command. He began organizing the men around Charlie, giving precise instructions to lift as gently as possible. “On the count of three: one, two, three.”
Charlie cried out in pain again and clutched his mom’s hand.
As the paramedics wrapped a blanket around Charlie, Fran gave her husband a steely look. In a tone that broached no argument, she firmly stated, “I’m going with him.”
Charles merely nodded back, followed Charlie with his eyes as they lifted him into the ambulance. As Fran climbed in, she didn’t glance back once at Charles. It was Liz, finally, who looked at him with a reassuring smile. “We’ll take good care of him.” And then Rich shut the doors.
Charles stood there, mute, seemingly paralyzed, until Pastor Greg squeezed his arm just above the elbow. “I sure don’t want to interfere, Mr. Thomason. But can I take you to the hospital? Would that be of help?”
Still unresponsive, Charles stared at him dumbly for a moment, as though not recognizing Greg. “Um, I have my car. I can drive myself.”
“Are you sure? We could get someone else to drive your car. To the hospital, I mean.” Greg still had a hand on Charles’s arm, was carefully choosing his words. “I just thought you might want someone with you right now.”
Greg watched Charles hesitate again, noted how the usually commanding man appeared incapable of making a decision. He forged ahead, taking charge of the situation. “Come on, my car’s right over here.” Greg steered him toward the parking lot, waving over Dave, Erik’s dad. “Hey, Dave. I’m going to drive Mr. Thomason to the hospital. Would you drive his car over later? Great. Oh, and Dave,” Greg said, glancing at Charles. He still appeared to be mute in his shock. “If you all would say a prayer for Charlie, I know Mr. and Mrs. Thomason would appreciate that.”
Charles forcibly blinked his eyes, rousing himself. “Oh, yes. We would. Thanks, Dave.”
Dave reached out to give Charles a quick hug before taking the keys from him. “Let us know if there’s anything else we can do, okay?” Motioning behind him to include the other parents, he added, “I know I speak for all of us. We’ll want to check on Charlie later at the hospital. And … do anything we can to help. Anything at all. Just let us know, okay?”
Charles nodded, mumbling his thanks and then, head down and shoulders hunched, followed Greg. For a man virtually always in the lead, Charles was nearly unrecognizable.
As they settled into Greg’s car, Charles seemed to collect himself a bit. Shaking off his lassitude, he ran a hand through his hair and rubbed his eyes. He cleared his throat before saying, “I do appreciate this, Greg. For a minute there, I couldn’t … think clearly. I’ve seen plenty of broken bones in my day. But never have I seen a break like that before. And for the life of me, I can’t figure out why.”
“Why it broke? Or why it broke that badly?”
“Both. He didn’t hit anybody. The goal post. Nothing. I can’t imagine why it would break from Charlie simply kicking the ball.”
“Doesn’t make much sense, does it?”
They drifted to other topics: church and the latest talk about expanding. Charles seemed eager to shift their discussion to safer subjects—anything but Charlie—and Greg understood his need to do so.
As they were turning into the hospital parking lot, however, Greg offered, “I want to tell you, Mr. Thomason—”
“Why don’t you call me Charles?”
“Thanks, I’d like that. Just so you know, Charlie’s one of the main leaders in the junior high youth group. He’s a great kid, all the way around. Really looks up to you. Wants to be just like you.”
Not meeting Greg’s gaze. “I would think he’d talk more about his mother.”
“Hmm. Nope. It’s you he’s generally focused on. Oh, it’s clear he loves his mom. The handstand routine? Says he does that just to make his mom laugh. Cracks me up. But it’s also no secret, Mr. Thomason—sorry, Charles—that you’re his hero.”
Charles’s head snapped around at that point, and he gave Greg a skeptical look.
When Greg turned off the ignition, he asked, “May I come in for a few minutes? Pray for all of you?”
“I’d appreciate that. So would Fran.”
They walked into the emergency room together, both immediately struck with the blatant need before them. Two small children, held by worried parents, cried pitifully, a weakened elderly gentleman sat slumped over in a wheelchair, several had bandages from wounds, others were ill with coughs or the flu. Charlie was nowhere in sight, admitted immediately due to his more serious injury.
At the receptionist’s station, Charles stopped to ask, “Charlie Thomason? I’m his father.”
“He’s just down this hallway, the fourth cubicle on your right.”
When the automatic doors swung wide, they could see Fran pacing in the stark bright light of the hallway, arms hugged tightly against her chest. She didn’t notice them until Charles put his hand on her arm. “What are they—?”
She jumped, startled. “Oh. Charles. Charlie’s had an X-ray already. I thought it was patently obvious the leg was broken. Wondered why they had to put him through that, but I guess they need to check everything. I had to sign permission forms for other tests too. A CT scan. Some kind of bone scan—can’t remember what. But Charles, they’re going to put a small amount of radioactive material in him for that one. What on earth? And of course they wouldn’t let me go with him …”
Charles turned white instantly, as though the blood had drained from his face. He reached toward her but was distracted by the approach of several doctors, their faces grave as they conferred quietly among themselves. And then they stopped before Charles and Fran. Suddenly, unnervingly silent.
One of the specialists cleared her throat and glanced from Charles to Fran to Greg, her face a mask. “Charlie’s parents?”
Charles reached out to shake her hand. “I’m Charlie’s father. Charles. And this is Francine, his mother. This is Greg Trent, one of our pastors at Oak Hills Chapel.”
They were shaking hands, practicing the proper etiquette, when Fran blurted out, “Where’s Charlie?”
And Charles demanded, “What’s going on, doctor?”
The doctor’s kind eyes settled on Fran’s direct look. In a calm yet authoritative tone, she offered, “I’m Dr. Lois Owens, the orthopedic specialist here. Charlie’s still undergoing some tests. We’re scheduling him for an MRI also.”
“But why—?” from Charles and Fran, nearly at the same moment.
“Let’s go into a consultation room, shall we? Pastor Trent, is it?” the doctor asked.
“Yes. I’ll just go out into the waiting room.”
“Actually, I think it might be good for you to join us.” She glanced toward Fran and Charles, seeking their approval. “With your permission, of course.”
Charles nodded. “Yes, that’s fine.” His voice sounded remote, devoid of emotion, as though his body and its responses were not acting in tandem. Leaving Charles awkwardly disjointed, disconnected from the situation.
“Right this way, please.” Dr. Owens directed them into a small room just off the corridor. She flicked on the switch, pouring the harsh fluorescent light into the white-walled room. Their senses were assaulted by the stale smell fr
om a room with no windows and little ventilation plus the lingering remnants of antiseptic and various medications. The telltale pungent scent of nearly all doctors’ offices and hospitals. The room was anything but inviting with its scuffed linoleum floor and worn furniture, but Charles and Fran were grateful to escape the exposure of the busy hallway.
Dr. Owens clasped her hands together, inclined her head toward Charles and Fran. Her features noticeably softened, conveying compassion.
“First, I want you to have the peace of mind that we’ve given Charlie pain medication. He’s not suffering physically right now and he’s resting comfortably.” She gave them the briefest of smiles before continuing, “But I want to get right to the point. It’s most unusual for a bone to break like Charlie’s has, so we were concerned about what we’d find.”
She took a quick breath and plunged on, “I’m so sorry to have to tell you we’ve discovered Charlie has a sizeable tumor connected to and just above his tibia, involving the knee also.”
Fran gasped, and Charles reflexively put an arm around her. Neither could take their eyes off Dr. Owens’s face.
“We’ve called our pediatric oncologist, and we need to do more tests. Our resident oncologist, Dr. Joel Lee, is overseeing those procedures. Nothing is certain until a biopsy is done. But it appears to be osteosarcoma.”
“Oh, God,” Fran cried.
“That’s a type of cancer.” Charles’s voice was flat. Still removed from him. More so, his emotions.
Dr. Owens never let her eyes wander, her gaze intently shifting back and forth between Charles and Fran. “Yes. It is. We don’t know what causes it, and I want to relieve any guilt you might be feeling. I assume Charlie’s been complaining about his leg?”
Fran physically jerked away from Charles’s touch. She faced him with an accusatory glare, spitting out, “I knew something was wrong, Charles. I knew it. And yet you—” The charge was left incomplete. She closed her eyes, slumping in her seat.
“Fran, be reasonable. We had no idea,” Charles pleaded. “None at all.”
Dr. Owens reached out to put one hand on Fran’s clasped hands, the other on Charles’s arm. “Please … may I finish? I brought it up for that very reason. Parents almost always feel overwhelming guilt when osteosarcoma is first found. Especially in this manner, with a severe break. But it’s not your fault that you didn’t rush him to a doctor or the emergency room beforehand, since it’s very typical that symptoms are present for months before the diagnosis is made. You couldn’t have known. So please, please don’t carry that burden of guilt—and especially don’t … Let me put it this way: Charlie’s going to desperately need you—both of you.”
Fran began weeping softly, but Charles made no move to comfort her.
“What happens next? What kind of tests are you running?” Charles asked, calmly assessing the situation.
“We’ve sent some blood to be evaluated, and eventually, we’ll want to do a CT scan and radionuclide bone scan.”
“When will he go into surgery? Certainly you can’t leave him like this much longer.” Charles’s voice rose slightly in intensity. “I mean, you are going to fix his leg, aren’t you? Take out the tumor and then put pins in the bone, or whatever it is you do?”
“We won’t do surgery until Dr. Mia Chang gets here.”
“And she is?”
“The pediatric oncologist. She and I will make the determination about how we recommend to proceed.”
Charles leaned back in his chair, a defensive movement. He narrowed his eyes at her. “The determination of what, exactly?” The icy tension in his voice increased dramatically, appearing to fill every space in the small room.
“Mr. Thomason, it’s premature to speculate.” Dr. Owens’s voice was calm in contrast, almost patronizing. “We’re not even positive yet this is osteosarcoma. We’d do the biopsy first and then—”
Charles’s eyes suddenly grew wide and his body jerked reflexively as though he’d been slapped. “My God, no. You will not. I absolutely forbid it!”
Fran blew her nose, looked up at Charles with confusion. “What? What are you talking about?”
Dr. Owens and Charles stared at each other until Dr. Owens eventually looked away. Fran appealed for an explanation, glancing from one to the other, even to Greg. All three avoided meeting her gaze.
“Tell me what you’re talking about,” Fran ordered, her intensity causing any tears to temporarily subside.
Dr. Owens finally—and boldly—turned to Fran, though her voice was incongruously soft. “The possibility that Charlie’s leg may need to be amputated.”
Fran could feel the blood draining from her face. She felt light-headed, struggled to clear her thoughts.
Someone knocked, then stuck his head in the door. “Sorry to interrupt, but you’re needed out here for a moment, Dr. Owens.”
She turned back to Charles and Fran, and then to Greg. “Pastor Trent, maybe you could lead the Thomasons in prayer while I step out?” Greg barely had time to respond before she stood and seemed to add as an afterthought, “I’m a believer in the great power of prayer.” She slipped quietly out the door.
Greg twitched uncomfortably, the awkwardness and intimacy of the moment making him feel like an invading stranger. Recognizing Fran and Charles hadn’t had one moment by themselves to absorb the horrific news, he looked anywhere but at them; it was as though he were observing them naked—emotionally, spiritually. His pastor’s heart longed to provide comfort and encouragement. Give them a sense of hope and help them feel God’s love. But Greg was suddenly paralyzed, struck dumb. What could I possibly say to them, he wondered, that wouldn’t sound clichéd or trite?
Through clipped words, Charles spoke up, interrupting Greg’s ambivalent thoughts. “Well, I suppose you should pray, Greg. Before these supposed doctors come back.”
Fran fixed a reproachful glare on him. “Charles. How can you not appreciate—?”
“Just stop it, Francine.” Charles winced with apparent disgust as her nose dripped and she reached to dab at it. “Yes, I’m angry. That these doctors would even consider … amputation? I mean, how antiquated can you get? Certainly no respectable doctor does that sort of barbaric thing anymore. And no son of mine is going to be a … a cripple. I’ll threaten to sue if she mentions it again.”
“And if Charlie’s life is at stake, Charles? Think about the ramifications of what you’re saying.” Fran turned toward Greg, saw that he sat leaning over with his head down, staring at the floor, hands clasped in front of him. “Greg,” her voice hoarse with entreaty, “please pray for us now. We desperately need …” She let the words trail away.
When Greg straightened up, Fran saw tears spilling from his eyes too. His display of compassion touched her deeply, and she blinked back a flood of new tears. Greg coughed. Wiped unashamedly at the tears as he frantically thought, God, I don’t have the faintest idea what to say. Help me, please, Lord. Aloud, Greg replied, “It would be my privilege.”
The suffocating room felt like a cavern to all three of them. Every sound—the irritating background buzz of the overhead fluorescent light, the squeak of Charles’s sneakers on the linoleum floor when he drew his feet beneath him, the crisp rustle of Greg’s windbreaker jacket as he switched positions in his chair, and Fran’s sniffs—all appeared magnified. For a few seconds, those sounds so occupied Greg’s thoughts he could concentrate on nothing else.
With trepidation, he began, and after several long moments of prayer in which Greg simply admitted their desperate need for God, he fell silent, and the room remained still until Dr. Mia Chang entered—a tiny, demure woman, but obviously well respected by the manner in which the other doctors deferred to her. All attention turned to the oncologist. And the ominous sheaf of papers she held.
Charles and Fran appeared to be holding their breath, their faces glu
ed to Dr. Chang’s, seeking any sign of hope. Their unmasked vulnerability was uncomfortable for Greg to witness, but unlike Greg, the doctors had observed it many times before. They weren’t inured to its effects; blatant suffering still pricked their hearts, especially in relation to children. But they had learned to function in spite of it; the success of their jobs depended upon that ability.
“I’m sure you have questions for us. We can’t answer them all yet.” Dr. Chang glanced at her watch. “We need to wait for the results of the bone scan.”
Charles’s impatience made him terse. “We’d like to know. Is it cancer?”
Dr. Chang lifted her chin, answering him directly, voice unwavering. “We won’t know for sure until we get the results of the biopsy. But unfortunately, everything points to a diagnosis of osteosarcoma. And it appears to have metastasized to Charlie’s lungs. I am so sorry.”
For the moment, Fran had no more tears. This can’t be happening, she heard her mind repeat, over and over. It’s not real. This can’t be happening to us.
Charles’s denial came in another form; he became an automaton. Facts—black and white responses devoid of emotion—would serve to delay making this information personal. Pertaining to his son. His pain. He clenched his jaw, sat more upright. Leaned toward Dr. Chang as though he were about to threaten her.
“How do we cure it?” More of a demand than a question.
“We treat it”—substitution of the word treat lost on Fran, but not Charles—“by first of all, surgery. We’ll remove the mass and the affected bone. Then, we’ll start a course of chemotherapy. We may also need to use radiation therapy.”
Charles’s eyes bored into the doctor’s. The shift from nonfeeling, robotic responses to seething anger was so abrupt that Charles himself was taken by surprise. But he’d been thrust back into his childhood, was once again the insecure eleven-year-old. His vision was filled with hazy memories of his father—the sight of his emaciated, pallid arm next to his robust one. His inability to do more than barely squeeze Charles’s hand. Sounds … moans and pitiful cries that he heard through the wall of his bedroom. He remembered breakfasts of cold cereal, sitting alone at a Formica table. Bleakness. Hopelessness that somehow resided still in the memories of all his senses.
Bridge to a Distant Star Page 13
