Charles was vehemently shaking his head no. Fran replied, “No, he’s not … not doing either of those.”
“Any major changes in his personality—from before the surgery? I’m not ruling out any changes. Charlie’s been asked to deal with a monumental change of direction in his life. That’s a significant adjustment for anyone, let alone a child. So it’s more a matter of how well he’s dealing with that.”
“He’s still Charlie, now isn’t he, Francine? Still the same Charlie.”
Fran had to agree. “He’s such a trooper. Sometimes I think he’s doing better with this than we are.”
“If that’s the case, then I think we should proceed with the surgery. We try to balance pushing Charlie’s body too far physically with the need for the urgency of treatment. We feel Charlie has the best chance if we surgically remove the metastases from his lung. Followed by aggressive chemo.”
“What does that mean? Aggressive?” Fran crossed her arms across her chest.
“We want to use multiple drugs. We’ll try several, in different combinations. It’s trial and error until we get the right combination.”
“How often?”
“Again, that’s dependent upon how Charlie responds. But probably two or three weeks of treatment followed by a week off.”
Feeling numb, Fran could only nod, but Charles doggedly pursued the doctor’s reasoning. He had obviously been doing his own research, and though clearly somewhat annoyed, Dr. Chang answered his questions calmly and with grace.
“Let’s focus on what’s most important,” Dr. Chang insisted, pulling the conversation back where she wanted it. “Charlie’s healing and treatment and getting a prosthesis … all of that will be affected by a positive attitude,” she continued. “That’s what is key here, what makes a tremendous difference. But he still has a long way to go.” She momentarily fumbled for an explanation. “It’s like he has to climb Mt. Everest. And yes, we’re all here to help him—you two especially bear that responsibility. But in many respects? He has to climb it alone.”
“Ultimately, it’s just him and God, isn’t it?” Fran said. “Charlie needs to trust God, to rest in his strength even more than his own.” Fran’s voice was small, seeing the reality of Charlie’s difficult journey from a new perspective.
Charles’s reaction, however, was the polar opposite: His face suddenly flushed bright red, and he balled his fingers into tight fists. With emotions tightly held in check and voice controlled, he still seethed, “No, it’s absolutely not just him and God. Charlie’s got all of us to support him. Me, you, the doctors, his teammates, other friends. Pastor Greg and his teachers. We’ll all prod him on however we need to. Because he’s certainly not going to merely sit back and rest—in God. In any way.”
Embarrassed, eager to diffuse Charles and the awkward situation, Fran smiled nervously. Placed a slightly trembling hand on Charles’s arm. “Yes, I … I obviously misspoke.” She turned to direct attention away from Charles toward Dr. Chang. “When do you want to do surgery?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
Not a sound from Charles, but Fran gasped, “That soon?”
“There’s no infection in the leg. The sooner we get this done, the quicker his body can completely heal. And the sooner we can begin the chemo.” Dr. Chang eyed the two of them for a moment, obviously debating. Then began, weighing her words as she did so, “Has Dr. Owens spoken to you about our observations of children who have cancer?”
Charles and Fran exchanged a tentative glance. “No.”
Dr. Chang pursed her lips, tucked her hair behind an ear. “They often exhibit this unnerving … sensitivity. It appears that, because they’re forced into experiences far beyond their years, they develop an uncanny appreciation for what’s truly important in life. And the children who are Christians—believers—demonstrate an amazing sensitivity to God that’s …” She stopped abruptly, taking in Fran’s openmouthed response. “What is it, Mrs. Thomason?”
“This is uncanny. Charlie and I just talked about that very thing.”
Charles raised an eyebrow in irritation. “When? You didn’t tell me this.”
“It was just after surgery; I simply forgot to tell you, Charles. I discounted it as … I don’t know … maybe an odd effect from the anesthesia. He’d had a dream about stars and was babbling on about being able to see them all so clearly. And I told him something my mother had said years ago—that people who see stars clearly can see God’s will more clearly too.”
Dr. Chang smiled. “That is amazing. But here’s my reason for bringing this up: Charlie’s a bright child, obviously. I have the impression he was pretty intuitive even before he got cancer. But he’s going to be even more so now … have this ‘sixth sense’ … whatever you want to call it. Bottom line is that he’s going to pick up on things.” She paused, looking from Fran to Charles. “Lots of things. And anything that might interfere with our patient’s recovery, Dr. Owens and I are concerned about.”
Charles stared back at her, returning her steady gaze. Finally, breaking the tension, he stated matter-of-factly, “Fran and I will take that into consideration, Dr. Chang.”
They started toward the room, but Charles reached out to stop Fran. “Let’s agree on something before we go in. Charlie’s to only hear positives—that the surgery will get rid of all the cancer.”
Dr. Chang broke in. “I can’t promise that, Mr. Thomason.”
“Are the odds good you’ll get it all?”
“Tests show we have an excellent chance, but—”
“Then you can tell Charlie exactly that, can’t you?”
She smiled, solicitously. “That’s what I had planned to tell him.”
Fran reddened; she closed her eyes and sighed. But Charles, either oblivious to or ignoring Dr. Chang’s gracious nuance, had already charged into Charlie’s room.
After Dr. Chang told Charlie about the surgery, she waited patiently, granting him time to absorb the news. Then she gently asked, “Are you worried about the pain, Charlie? Because we can help you with that.”
“Yeah. Some.” He swallowed, as though deliberately ingesting his fears. Charlie looked from Fran to Charles, his parents flanking the sides of his bed. “But I can do this, I know I can. Right, Dad?”
Charles gave his son a thumbs-up sign, his face glowing with approval. “Of course you can, son. Of course you can.”
The hospital room sizzled with the exchange between the two, the hidden expectations. Stripped to its core, the connection between father and son was palpable in its vulnerability and cry for the most basic of needs. Survival. Acceptance. Love.
Then Charles’s voice knifed into the void and Fran visibly started. “So, tell them again, Charlie. Tell Dr. Chang the surgery tomorrow is a go.” His dark eyes bored into his son’s hazel ones.
Charlie obeyed. “Let’s do it. I want to get it over with, I really do. It’s that much faster I’ll get the chemo started and done. And that much sooner I’ll get my leg.”
“That’s my boy.”
According to Dr. Chang, the surgery the next morning went extremely well. She reassured Charles and Fran the doctors were hopeful they’d gotten all the cancer and that Charlie’s prognosis looked excellent.
Fran thanked God for his goodness.
Charles praised Charlie for his courage to go ahead with the surgery, and then charged him to work even harder to recover.
Point.
Counterpoint.
With Charlie wedged squarely in the middle.
The next few weeks presented Charlie with one seemingly insurmountable challenge after another. He sailed through the lung surgery only to learn that infection had settled into his stump. It was a devastating blow. After the infection healed, he began chemotherapy—which sent him reeling from its considerable side effects. It appeared
to be two steps forward, three back, until Charlie hit the fifth week after his initial diagnosis and surgery. His youth and overall excellent health kicked in and he began winning small battles. Charlie was released from the hospital, and from then on, progress was amazingly steady.
Though rehabilitation was a grueling process, Charlie attacked it like he would have charged for a goal on the soccer field. His rehabilitation team insisted he was their best patient ever—way beyond his years in maturity, determination, courage, focus. So that Charlie would gain the greatest possible mobility with his prosthesis, they put him through a punishing workout of various exercises—stretching, water and resistance therapy, weight training. Any increase in how far Charlie could stretch his severed limb brought a grin of victory. Each quarter pound more he could lift produced an exuberant fist-jab. Efforts by Dr. Owens to properly shape his limb as it shrunk to its more permanent size—to ensure the prosthesis would fit well—evoked stoic decisions on Charlie’s part to simply endure. That was all anyone could ask of him during that particularly painful part of his therapy.
Every advance was not without price. Each was bought with intense pain. And then mined by Charlie as a resource for more progress.
Chemo, however, was a different challenge. Try as he might, Charlie could not face it with a positive attitude; it succeeded in defeating him every time. Though he took drugs to alleviate the nausea, vomiting routinely followed his treatments. As a result, he lost his appetite. Then he lost weight. Soon afterward, he lost his hair—all of it. His face looked flat without eyelashes or eyebrows to give it dimension and definition.
In Charlie’s estimation, he looked like a freak. So he avoided mirrors at all costs, ducking beneath the one in their home’s entranceway. Keeping his eyes averted when standing over a sink in a bathroom. On the rare occasions he did catch a glimpse of himself, he would frown and smirk, vowing never to cut his hair once he was done with chemo. And though the members of his soccer team wanted to shave their heads in support, Charlie vigorously opposed the idea. They were actually disappointed when he’d argued that he didn’t want to look at any more bald heads. “Mine’s enough to deal with,” he insisted. “I’ll think I’m looking in a mirror everywhere I go if I have to see you guys hairless too. Thanks—but no thanks, guys.”
Another side effect was susceptibility to infection. Though Fran was like a drill sergeant in protecting Charlie from anyone with infectious potential, he still caught colds and viruses. Which put him into a vicious cycle, for once he became ill, his treatment would be delayed. The longer he went without the treatment, the longer his chemotherapy would need to last, making him susceptible to infection for that much longer.
Charlie also discovered his rehabilitation exercises and determination to get around independently meant constant accidents. Bumps into table edges, intense pressure on his limb while using the weights, even falls were inevitable, according to Charlie and his dad. According to Fran, these mishaps were to be avoided at all costs. Due to Charlie’s shortage of blood platelets from chemo, he bruised easily. And bled profusely even from minor cuts. The combination of rehabilitation and chemo was Murphy’s Law waiting to happen.
And every struggle of Charlie’s was profoundly telling on Fran.
Fran and Charles had made a bargain to put aside their differences for Charlie’s sake, and for the most part, they had kept it. Putting him in the middle—causing Charlie even more hurt—was enough of a deterrent that they swallowed back words. Kept raging emotions in check. And generally avoided direct confrontation. It was taking a mounting toll on both parents, the damage internal. Neither was consciously aware of the explosive force that lay hidden, waiting to erupt. Ultimately threatening to destroy the fragile ties that bound the three together.
One particular bout of postchemo nausea ravaged Charlie’s body even more than usual. Though his stomach contained nothing more to expel, the convulsive heaves continued to engulf his entire body, hour after hour, until Fran could stand it no longer. She simply held him to her, and cried. When Charles stayed away, completely avoiding Charlie’s bedroom and bath, she was appalled by his lack of empathy.
Once Charlie was so exhausted that he finally fell asleep and she could leave him for a while, Fran stormed into Charles’s office, where she found him filling out reports. Calmly, methodically working as though he hadn’t a care in the world.
She attacked him with words. “How can you possibly be so uncaring? Don’t you feel an ounce of compassion for your son when he’s suffering like that?” she threw at him. “I swear you have about as much ability to feel as a sociopath.”
Charles pointedly put down his pen, faced his irate wife. Trying to keep from reacting, striking out with anger, he calmly responded, “Francine, evidence of love is not merely through tears.”
She crossed her arms, a subconscious barrier between them. “But just once … just once I wish you could let Charlie see that you feel … something, for God’s sake.”
“You have no idea what—” and then, knowing that he was failing at his resolve to remain calm and detached, he stopped. “Know why I came in here? To pray for Charlie. You were holding him; praying felt like the only thing I could do. And maybe I … let’s just say there are things you don’t know, Fran.”
“Like what? What is it that I don’t know, Charles? Enlighten me, will you?”
Charles picked up his pen, returned his attention to his work. She could see the familiar muscle tensing in the firm line of his jaw. “I really don’t think details are necessary.” He shrugged his shoulders. “You do what’s necessary, that’s all.”
“Like your father did?”
He jerked his head up to spit back, “Don’t ever throw his actions back at me again. I am not like him. When you lose both your parents, you become what you have to. To survive.”
Stung, remorseful, Fran instantly softened. “I guess I really don’t … you’ve never told me much about your dad’s death, Charles. I know your mom died in childbirth when she had you, but your dad?” Probing gently, she said, “I don’t know anything, really. But I’d really like to hear more. Please, Charles?”
He lifted his pen into the air, casually waving off the suggestion. “Water over the dam. No sense revisiting any of it. He got cancer and died. End of story.”
“What kind of cancer? How old were you then? And can you tell me how that made you feel?”
Slowly, Charles lifted his gaze to meet her eyes, frowning.
“Okay, so you don’t want to talk about that. But what about your aunt and uncle? The ones who raised you?”
“They were wonderful—you know that. You’ve met them. Fran, this is going nowhere …”
She sat down, taking a deep breath and willing herself to not react defensively. “Charles, so many times in the past I’ve attempted to get you to talk about this. There was no compelling reason before—besides the fact that I just wanted to get to know you better. What’s affected you … made you who you are today. It feels like … like we have this huge barrier between us, and I want so much to know. And now—now there is a compelling reason: Charlie. For his good—and because you love him—won’t you tell me more about your dad? Please, Charles? For Charlie’s sake?”
Charles put down his pen and pushed away from the handsome cherry desk, leaning back in his leather chair. He narrowed his eyes as he gazed out the large picture window that overlooked their front yard. “Dad got cancer of the kidney. Pretty devastating today even—but back then? It was a death sentence, effective almost immediately. He died after only three months.”
Understanding flooded Fran’s mind. “Oh, Charles. I’m so sorry.”
Charles chuckled. “A tad late.”
“Charles, I—”
“Not fair. I’m sorry.” He ran a hand through his hair. “See why I don’t like to talk about it? Brings out the best in me, h
uh?”
“How did you …?”
“Feel? I was just a kid, Fran; heck if I know.”
“But Charles … children have feelings too. I mean, just watch Charlie. Listen to him.” Fran stood and walked to where she could be in Charles’s line of vision, look him in the eyes. “He’s oozing fear and insecurity and frustration and sometimes anger and—”
“And what difference does it make?” he snapped. Charles leaned in, coming within inches of Fran’s face. “Ultimately, Charlie still has to suck it up, Fran. To get well, to fight anything, you gotta just do what needs to be done. Life is hard. Life is hard and it’s tough and it certainly isn’t fair. So you deal with it.” He turned, scooting his chair back beneath the desk. Picked up his pen and immediately went back to work.
Fran shook her head at him. Sighed disappointedly. Knowing she’d been dismissed and the subject was closed, she walked out of his office, closing the door firmly behind her.
By the last week in April, Charlie was ready for his big test, the biggest in his life, in Charlie’s estimation. He was to visit the prosthesis facility for the first time. In his mind, he’d earned this day. The dedicated exercising, correctly using his pressure bandage (though in the warmer, humid days of spring he’d ached to rip it off and leave it off), constant care of his suture line—keeping it clean, applying ointments and moisturizers—and elevating his stump at the slightest sign of swelling had all combined to a successful outcome. Finally, Dr. Owens had pronounced him ready for this next step. Charlie couldn’t wait to visit the company that produced the “technological marvels”—as Dr. Owens put it—that would get him upright again. At the same time, he was cautiously skeptical, attempting to restrain expectations to protect his hopes. Protect himself.
Located in a suburb of Chicago—not far from home—the offices and plant that made the prostheses proved far beyond what Charlie could have imagined. When the clinicians walked Charles, Fran, and Charlie through the facility, the technology appeared to be right out of the future.
Bridge to a Distant Star Page 17
