“How can you be so sure about all of this? Have you seen it?” Charles shouted at Dr. Chang.
“Charles, please,” Fran whispered under her breath.
“The pictures were very clear, Mr. Thomason, showing a spot on one of Charlie’s lungs. But it appears to be a limited stage cancer, which is good news. That means his prognosis is more encouraging.” She paused to let that information sink in, then continued, “I don’t want to rule out surgery on Charlie’s lung, as that’s the direction we may choose to go—followed by chemotherapy. For now, the tumor on his leg is our first priority. We don’t want to put him through any more trauma than is absolutely necessary. Besides a biopsy on the lung, the only surgery we’ll be doing at this point is his leg.” Dr. Chang’s demeanor changed from informational to compassionate, and her tone softened. “I know this is hard. I’m so sorry. So very sorry.”
The muscle in Charles’s jaw tensed. “And what’s the … the survival rate for …?”
“Please, Mr. Thomason,” she immediately interrupted. “We don’t have enough information yet. After Charlie’s surgery, after we get the tests back from biopsies, then we’ll discuss treatment. And Charlie’s future. Fair enough?”
“This is intolerable, doctor.” Charles’s eyes bored into hers, testing. Threatening again.
The doctor seemed unfazed. “The bone scan will tell us that and help us decide—once we’re in surgery, and can judge better—whether we can do the limb-salvage surgery. Or, if necessary, to amputate. We need you to sign some forms, give us permission to make that call while we’re in surgery.”
Charles’s stare intensified, an overt attempt to intimidate. His tone was eerily calm as he said, “Let me state this clearly: You will not take off my son’s leg. I will never give you permission to do that. And I demand you do everything possible to save his leg.”
“Charles—” Fran began, but Dr. Chang broke in.
“Please understand. Limb-salvage surgery could leave his leg severely deformed, and artificial limbs are now so advanced that Charlie might actually be more active with a prosthesis than with a disfigured leg. But more importantly, because we believe the cancer has metastasized, and depending on how adversely Charlie’s tibia and knee are affected, you could very well be risking your son’s life to not give us permission to amputate.”
Silence. Charles’s body was frozen, rigid in his anger.
And then Fran’s weak, hushed voice broke into the vacuum. “Where do I need to sign?”
Charles looked at her in disbelief, his eyes wide, mouth gaping. “You’re going to agree to this? Just like that?”
She pursed her lips—an attempt at a measure of control—but then a sob escaped as she cried out, “I want …” Fran swallowed, choked out the words, “I want … my son. I want my precious son.” Her voice broke completely then, and she let out a haunting wail. “I don’t care if he’s missing a leg. I don’t care if he’s deformed or without hair or whatever they must do to save him.” She waved a hand toward the doctors, an admission of their presence. “Don’t you get it, Charles? I want him alive. I want to hold him in my arms. I want to feel his heart beating. I want to watch him grow up. I want … I want Charlie.”
The room was deathly quiet except for the sound of her sobbing.
Charles dropped his head a moment, and then looked up, his face a picture of brokenness. The skin on his face went suddenly slack, eyes dilated, mouth hanging awkwardly open. He nodded meekly, the fight in him—for now, at least—dissipated. He watched Fran sign the papers, and then reached for the pen himself. “Is there a possibility …? Could Charlie—could he die during this surgery?” The pen shook in his hand.
Dr. Owens answered, “With any major surgery, that’s always a possibility. But Charlie’s vitals are stable. There’s no reason that should happen.” Compassion bathed her voice. “We intend to take the very best care of your son, Mr. Thomason.” She deliberately looked over to include Fran, too. “Mrs. Thomason. We know he’s your most treasured possession.”
“You mentioned Charlie possibly being more active? What could Charlie do with this … prosthesis?”
“One of our patients had his leg amputated two years ago,” Dr. Owens began, sensing an opening for encouragement. “He jogs, rides a bike, plays in the baseball league. He’s fourteen now, still growing. He needs to have the prosthetic device refitted often, but it’s amazing what he can do.”
“And what name do all the kids call him?” Charles’s voice was thick with cynicism, but pain veiled his eyes.
Dr. Chang spoke up. “Actually, you might be surprised by that. When our patient’s hair fell out from chemotherapy, every boy on his baseball team volunteered to shave his head too. And when the idea spread to his class at school, every male teacher and boy in his class also shaved off his hair. Every single one, Mr. Thomason. Does that sound like ridicule to you?”
Chastised, feeling awkward, Charles mumbled, “I’d … I’d like to see Charlie now.”
The doctors nodded, and they all filed out silently—but not before Dr. Chang reached over to squeeze Fran’s hands. For a fleeting moment, through that vulnerable gaze, Fran caught a glimpse into the doctor’s soul—the hallowed ground of the suffering of other children. The horrors of chemotherapy and radiation and amputation. Hope accompanied by setbacks and heartbreak. And death, despite all her valiant efforts. Dr. Chang sighed deeply, and then Fran stared at the doctor’s back as she hurried down the long hallway.
Greg lightly touched Charles’s arm. “I need to give my wife a ring, and then I’d like to call Pastor Perkins—if that’s all right with you, so that he can be praying?” Greg gave both Charles and Fran a firm hug before he watched them walk away from him.
Instinctively, they reached for each other’s hands.
Charlie’s room contained various medical machines with paraphernalia spaced all around the walls. But the area where the bed should be was starkly bare.
The emptiness was a stab to Fran’s heart, and she picked up Charlie’s soccer shirt. Putting it to her face, she breathed in her son’s smell. Without consciously realizing it, she swayed, humming a nursery song.
Charles stood beside her and whispered, “I can’t believe this. Why Charlie? Out of all of those boys, why our son? He should be out there playing soccer right now. Not here in this … this …” He glanced around the room, grimacing. “Certainly not here in this pathetic, ugly hospital. Waiting to have his leg …” He let his voice trail off, and then put his head in his hands.
“Maybe … maybe he’ll still be able to do those things,” Fran whispered. A wistful statement, not given with much hope. In her mind’s eye, Fran saw Charlie with an ugly, awkward metal leg that stuck out at an odd angle from his shorts. Pictured his sitting on the sidelines, reduced to merely cheering on his teammates. The image nearly broke her heart.
Head still buried, Charles took a deep breath. Exhaled. “I want my son too, Francine. I want him to live.”
“I know that, Charles. I know.” And she then willingly brought back the imagined picture of Charlie. Recognizing that at least he was alive in that vision.
Charles moved to the other side of the room, observing her. With his feet spaced wide apart, arms folded across his chest, he said through gritted teeth, “I will fight this, Francine.” His entire body went rigid. But his eyes were nearly burning with intensity. “Whatever we face, we will not give in to it. Not ever. And Charlie will fight this too.”
“Fight what, Dad?” Charlie’s voice sounded groggy, weak. “Did we win the game?” As orderlies rolled Charlie’s bed back into its place, Charles and Fran moved to either side of him. Fran gently took Charlie’s hand in hers—it was bruised from the IV, and Fran frowned at the tender spot—while Charles gripped the bed’s railing. The paraphernalia of IVs hooked up to a tall, gangly pole, various monitors beeping and h
umming, and several nurses tending to the positioning of each line distracted Charles. His eyes took in every machine, every line attached to his son. He blinked rapidly and then gripped the bed rail so tightly his knuckles turned white.
Charles leaned in close, deliberately attempting to keep his voice steady and calm. “We were just talking about your recovery, son. How we’re all going to fight to get you well. Your mom. Me. You, too.” He cleared his throat, coughing lightly. “Get you back out on that field before you know it. Running and … and …”
Fran reached across Charlie, putting her other hand on Charles’s arm.
“How long they sayin’ before I’m outta here, Dad?” Each word getting a bit more slurred.
“We don’t know for sure yet, Charlie. But your mom and I will be helping you every single step. Deal?”
“Yeah, sure. Deal.” He yawned, and asked in barely distinguishable words, “Did we win?”
“I don’t know, son. I’m convinced we did, though. Momentum had switched back to us for sure.”
Charlie smiled, his only acknowledgment. Eyelids heavy, he drifted back to sleep.
Personnel were bustling around them, prepping Charlie for surgery, an unwanted reminder to Fran that they’d soon be taking him away again. “Charles. Maybe we’d better pray now?”
In case Charlie could hear, he thought carefully about what he would say—more so, would not. “Take care of our son, Lord, please. We’re so grateful for—” His voice faltered, and Charles waited until he could speak calmly again. “Thank you for Charlie, and for all he means to us. We know he’s in your hands. In your name, amen.”
When Charles opened his eyes, he discovered Charlie staring up at him. “It’ll be okay, Dad. Don’t worry. I’ll be okay.”
An orderly moved to the head of Charlie’s bed. When Fran finally tore her eyes from her son’s peaceful face, she reluctantly saw it was time to release him. She placed her palm on his cheek, putting her lips right next to his ear. Whispered, “I love you, Charlie. With all my heart.”
The nurse gave Fran a reassuring pat before they wheeled Charlie down the hallway.
Charles and Fran watched until they disappeared around a corner. She and Charles simultaneously reached out again, holding hands as they walked silently to the waiting room. But that slight physical touch was the only connection made, for each heart was an entity to itself. Two islands surrounded by a sea of pain.
Charles and Fran sat in a back corner of the waiting room, oblivious to the low lighting from several lamps, the shadows created by the softened hues in the twilight of the day. The window blinds were still open, allowing some outdoor lamps from the hospital’s parking lot to pour in more light. But the result was a contrast of bright and subdued, illumination and gloominess, a chiaroscuro painting. A television, tuned to a twenty-four-hours news station, was turned down to its lowest setting. Next to them was a coffee station—clearly in need of a cleaning—a profusion of used, stained cups, rumpled napkins, and opened sugar packets, sugar sprinkled everywhere. Charles slumped in a chair; Fran stretched out on a couch. Neither spoke. The only sounds were the low voices of the newscasters, Fran’s occasional sighs, and the hiss of the coffeemaker.
Earlier, Charlie’s entire soccer team, along with the parents, had come to visit. The usually boisterous boys were subdued as they waited to hear about Charlie’s condition. When informed about the seriousness of the injury—though not of the cancer or possible amputation—they were even quieter in their shock. Above all, Charles didn’t want their sympathy—didn’t want that for his son. So he thanked them for their concern and asked them to continue praying, encouraging the sober boys by insisting Charlie would come through surgery just fine.
At the sound of the door opening, both Charles and Fran instantly stood—Fran’s body rigid, attention focused on the two people who possessed information that would shape the remainder of their lives. Charles, towering over the two diminutive doctors, leaned toward them in a way that appeared to fill all the air around them.
Dr. Chang took a step backward. “First let me reassure you that Charlie’s doing just fine. All his vitals are good.”
“And his leg?” From Charles.
“I’m so sorry. We did everything possible to try and save it, but Charlie’s leg had to be amputated above the knee.”
Fran began sobbing hysterically and Charles groped toward her, taking her hands in his. Soothing, hushing, imploring, “Francine, Francine. Please, Francine.” She wouldn’t look up at him, only stared down into her lap, crying despondently. Her grief had become a vortex, despair feeding upon itself.
Charles attempted to reach her again. “Lennie.”
She quieted then. Looked up at her husband, a shadow of recognition mixing with sorrow. Fran hadn’t heard the endearing name in years.
When they were dating, Charles said she reminded him of his grandmother’s tea set—Lenox bone china. Fragile, delicate, beautiful. So he’d given her the pet name, calling her Lennie in moments of tenderness, and then later when she’d suffered her first miscarriage. After that, Charles discarded the name, deciding it only encouraged her to fight less. To surrender far too easily, giving in to defeat and failure. And miscarriage after miscarriage.
“You’re not keeping anything from us, are you? I mean, is Charlie really—?” Fran asked, fearfully.
Dr. Chang reached over and took Fran’s hands between her own. “He’s fine, Mrs. Thomason. We wouldn’t withhold vital information about a patient’s health, so you can be assured that Charlie’s doing well. He truly is.”
Charles blurted out, “How long for the recuperation? Before he can have a prosthesis fitted?”
Dr. Lee brought his hands up as though holding off a rambunctious child. “Mr. Thomason, Charlie’s going to need time to heal. And with chemotherapy, well, you have to give this process adequate time. Give Charlie time.”
Dr. Chang was nodding her head in agreement. “The stump must fully heal. The sutures, the inevitable swelling. And this is based on the assumption that we’ll have no problems like an infection along the way. We’ll get to a fitting as soon as possible, Mr. Thomason. Dr. Owens will help us determine when the time’s right.”
“Listen to me.” Jaw set, Charles’s tone was intense, nearly threatening. And although he was looking at Fran, his comments were also directed toward both doctors. “We’re going to fight. And we will beat this … this cancer. Next year at this time, I promise you Charlie will be playing soccer again.” Charles pointed his index finger into the air. “One year from this day”—with each word, he stabbed out again for emphasis—“Charlie will be out on that field.” Point made, he leaned back, crossing arms over his chest.
The doctors exchanged knowing looks, but they refrained from responding and instead directed their comments toward Charlie’s recovery in ICU and how long before he’d be released to a room. “Charlie could be in the ICU for two to several hours,” Dr. Chang said.
“Yes, so we encourage you to take a break. Get something to eat. You need to keep up your strength—for Charlie’s sake,” Dr. Lee implored. And then after reassuring them once more, the doctors left Charles and Fran alone again.
Neither spoke. The silence was such that anyone passing by would’ve thought the room empty—except for the two frozen forms and the vestiges of temporary residence scattered about: newspapers, a coat and sweater, lipstick-smudged coffee cups and reading glasses.
A nurse finally directed them to Charlie’s room around midnight, when they made the decision that Charles would drive home and settle things there, bringing back a change of clothes for Fran. He trudged out to the dimly lit parking lot with a list of things to do, people to call, and various items to bring to the hospital. He hated the thought of not being there when Charlie was brought to his room, but nurses assured him Charlie would be so groggy that he’d be
barely conscious.
Fran was sipping a cup of coffee when she heard voices just down the hall. She rubbed sleep-deprived eyes and ran a hand through disheveled hair, prepared herself as best she could. Aides and nurses pushed open the door. Wheeled in a tiny, pitiful form enveloped in a huge bed, swathed in bandages, hooked up to even more lines, wires, and machines than earlier. The shock of it all caused Fran to draw a quick breath.
Standing back, Fran could only peek at Charlie as she anxiously waited for the nurses to get the IV adjusted, blood pressure pump and heart monitor readouts set up, and begin preparing to elevate Charlie’s leg. The stump, Fran thought to herself. Tears threatened again but she willed them away.
The nurses were so busy at first they largely ignored her. Finally acknowledging Fran’s presence, they began coaching her. “His IV bag is nearly empty,” the nurse pointed out. Her words were clipped, movements efficient. “When it’s empty, it will start beeping, this button flashing. Here’s Charlie’s call button to the nurses’ station. Let us know when that happens by pressing it. Got it?”
In Fran’s grogginess, she concentrated hard to take it all in. “I think so.”
“Normally we’d be teaching Charlie about this, but he’s pretty much out of it still. I’m hoping he’ll sleep fairly well till morning, though we’ll need to keep taking his vitals throughout the night.”
The nurse continued adjusting various lines, a catheter bag, and the sling system which held up his stump.
“Before I leave tomorrow morning, I’ll show you the pressure garment. You’ll need to know how to remove it yourself before Charlie can leave the hospital. Then you’ll have to clean the wound and reapply the wrapping.”
Fran nodded at her, suddenly overwhelmed by it all. I haven’t yet absorbed the fact that my son’s had an amputation, she thought frantically. How can I remember all these steps?
Bridge to a Distant Star Page 14
