I feel like someone has knocked the wind out of me. “You’re telling me I have just over a year to live?”
“Er, no,” he says, looking back at his notes. “That’s just the median survival rate.”
I feel a small surge of relief. I’m young. I’m healthy. I’m going to fight this and be all right. “Okay, good,” I say.
“I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood me,” he continues in the same flat tone. “Your cancer has already spread. If you’d come to me sooner, well . . .” He trails off, spreading his fingers wide in a gesture of defeat. “But you didn’t. And now it has advanced beyond the point of turning back, I’m afraid. We could try temozolomide with radiation therapy, but although it’s ultimately up to you, it’s not the course I’d recommend. It would only be buying you a small amount of time, and the side effects would be unpleasant.”
“So what’s your recommendation?” I can hear my voice shaking.
He takes off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. “I suggest you reach out to your loved ones to make them aware of what’s happening. And then we can discuss hospice care to make the end of your life as comfortable as possible. I’m very sorry, Miss Cooper, but there’s nothing I feel I can do at this point. I could go on and on about potential experimental treatments, but frankly, I don’t think we have the time, and I feel I’d only be instilling false hope.”
“But—” I begin. “What are you saying? How much time do you think I have left?”
“A month. Maybe two at most.” He stands up as I sit frozen in place. “I’m very sorry, Miss Cooper,” he repeats. “Please call my office once you’re ready to discuss next steps.”
And then he’s gone, taking all my hopes and dreams with him.
2
I WALK OUTSIDE in a daze, emerging into an early Atlanta afternoon so bright that I have to momentarily close my eyes against the ridiculously cheerful sunshine.
I feel like I’m floating, like I’m not quite in control of my own limbs, as I walk across the hospital’s freshly mowed front lawn and sit down on a wooden bench. I remember when they put these benches in two years ago. Logan and I had watched their progress from the window of his hospital room, and I’d wondered aloud, Who are the benches for? Who has the time to sit on them? Logan had replied solemnly, People who are waiting.
Now I’m one of those people. But what am I waiting for? For the final days of my life to tick by? For the cells in my head to multiply and multiply some more, until they crowd out every piece of my brain that makes me who I am? Reach out to your loved ones, Dr. Frost had said. But who am I supposed to call?
My hand shaking, I pull my cell phone out and scroll through my contact list until I find my father’s home number. He’d walked away from my mom and me when I was four, and I hadn’t had much of a relationship with him since, unless you count child support and the occasional Christmas or birthday card. But my mother died five years ago after a short battle with breast cancer, so he’s all the family I have left.
I click on his number before I can second-guess myself.
“Hello?” A woman’s voice answers after two rings.
“Uh, Sharon?” I’m surprised by how shaky I sound.
“Jill,” my father’s wife replies, her tone as cold as it usually is with me. She’s been married to my dad for more than twenty years, and although we see each other several times a year, we’ve never had much of a relationship. “It’s the middle of the day. He’s out.”
I feel a familiar surge of annoyance. “Can you tell him I called?”
She sighs heavily, as if I’m asking her something absurd and troublesome. “Yes, Jill. I’ll tell him.”
I hang up before my voice can betray me any further. Then I slide my phone back into my pocket, sit back on the bench, and close my eyes. I’m dying. I’m really dying. The thought invades my head as if it, too, is a malignant starburst of cells, silently taking over my brain. I’m dying. How can that be true when I still feel like myself?
A month. Maybe two at most. It’s impossible, isn’t it? Wouldn’t I feel it if my body was already shutting down?
But I do feel it. It’s what made me finally make the appointment with Dr. Frost. Yes, the headaches have been going on for a while, and yes, I’d learned to live with them. But the dizziness, that’s new. The absentmindedness I’d chalked up to being overly busy and stressed: another symptom. Maybe the signs had been there for a while, and I’d just ignored them. If you’d come to me sooner, Dr. Frost had said. The thought makes my stomach lurch. Had I sentenced myself to death by failing to pay attention to what my own body was telling me?
“Excuse me,” says a voice to my left, and I nearly jump off the bench. I hadn’t noticed that I had company, but there’s an old man sitting beside me now, his wispy white hair blowing in the breeze as he clutches a cane in his left hand. His eyes are red rimmed and his clothes are rumpled.
“Yes?” I manage.
“Do you have the time?” he asks, tapping his bare wrist.
I open and close my mouth a few times before I manage to say, “No,” although I do, in fact, have a watch on. But all I can think about is that my days are numbered, that my minutes are running out. Before I know what has hit me, I burst into tears—big, ugly, hysterical tears. “No,” I gasp between sobs. “It turns out I don’t have any time at all.”
Without a word, the old man scoots over until he’s just beside me. He puts an arm around me, pulling me toward him until I’m sobbing on his shoulder. “It’s going to be okay, dear. It’s going to be okay,” he murmurs over and over as he pats me gently. He has to be eighty, maybe ninety years old, so while I appreciate the comfort, I don’t believe him. He’s had decades and decades to live. I won’t have the same luxury.
Finally, I pull away, sniffling as I try to get ahold of myself. “I’m so sorry,” I say, wiping my eyes.
“Don’t be sorry.” He pulls out a handkerchief and hands it to me as I stand up. “More times than not, things are darkest just before the dawn.”
I try to smile, but it just makes me start crying again. I hurry away before I can embarrass myself further. I’m halfway across the lawn, heading back toward Atlanta Children’s, before I realize I took his handkerchief with me. I turn back around, but he has already gotten up and is moving toward the entrance of Atlanta Memorial. “Thanks,” I whisper as I fold the handkerchief gently and slip it into my pocket.
I PAUSE IN front of the entrance before going inside. “Get it together, Jill,” I say aloud. I sniff, wipe my eyes, take a deep breath, and walk through the front door.
The groundskeeper from earlier is still here, but he’s rolling the hose up now and tucking it into a cabinet near the welcome desk. He spots me as I make a beeline across the atrium.
“It’s you again!” he says with a smile.
“Yup,” is all I manage in reply before I reach the open elevator. I turn around as the doors slide closed, just in time to see him staring after me, looking confused.
The doors slide open on my floor, and when I get out, I’m relieved that Sheila isn’t at the nursing station down the hall, as she often is, because seeing her would entirely undo the composure I’ve managed to carefully patch together. I’m milliseconds away from shattering if someone looks at me the wrong way, so I keep my head down and avoid eye contact with everyone as I grab my iPad from behind the nursing station and head down the hall to check on fifteen-year-old Katelyn, who is essentially out of therapeutic options now that her leukemia has relapsed. Bone-marrow transplants and chemo no longer seem to be having an effect, and her doctors are at an impasse.
“Jill?” she asks as I enter, head down, pretending to be absorbed in my notes.
“Hmm?”
“What’s wrong?”
I look up to see her sitting up in her hospital bed, her collarbone too sharp and bony over the top of her hospital gown. She’s ba
ld thanks to her last round of chemo, her head smooth as an egg, but she’s still lovely. Radiant, in fact, despite her hospital-pale skin.
“Nothing, honey,” I say. “Actually, I’m feeling a lot better now.”
“Did you have another headache?” She’s staring at me like she can see right through me.
“I should never have told you about the headaches. That was pretty unprofessional of me.”
She rolls her eyes. “Jill, I see you more than I see my parents. You practically live here, and so do I. How would you not tell me about the headaches when anyone can see how much they bother you?”
“True. But I’m feeling okay now, thanks.” I smile. “So? How are you feeling?”
She shrugs. “Groggy. Nauseous. The usual.”
I lower the iPad. “Katelyn, you’re going to feel better soon. You always do, honey.”
She holds my gaze for a beat too long. “You’re right. It’ll all be over soon.”
I check her BP and temperature and leave, feeling unsettled by the conversation, though I can’t put my finger on why.
Frankie, the sixteen-year-old with osteosarcoma, isn’t technically on my list of patients for the day, but I swing by his room anyhow, slipping on a mask before I enter to protect his suppressed immune system from my germs. He’s one of the most positive people I’ve ever met, despite the fact that his cancer is considered terminal. He both baffles and charms me in equal measure.
“Hey, Frankie,” I say, trying to sound chipper instead of shattered as I enter his room. He’s reading a tattered copy of War and Peace, his forehead scrunched in concentration. His chemo treatments are over, so his thick dark hair has begun to grow back. He has big green doe eyes, the kind girls would be going crazy for in a few years if he lived that long, and they always seem filled with wisdom. “Well, that’s not exactly light reading, is it?” I add, nodding to the book as I check his IV.
He looks up and smiles. “Just trying to get through all the classics.”
I give him a look. “I’ve never seen you reading before.”
He laughs. “You see me reading every day.”
I don’t say anything, because I have no idea what he’s talking about. I’ve known him for two years, and I’ve never seen a book in his hand before. He’s usually on his iPad, playing video games.
“I can tell you don’t believe me,” he says a minute later. “So ask me anything. Any classic.”
“Okay.” I rack my destroyed brain. “Fine. What town does The Great Gatsby take place in?”
“That’s easy. West Egg. It’s not a real place, though. Next?”
Okay, he got that one. But maybe he knew it from the Leonardo DiCaprio movie. “Who’s the main character of Pride and Prejudice?”
“Elizabeth Bennet. And that’s Bennet with one t. Next?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Othello’s wife?”
“Desdemona.”
“The narrator of Moby-Dick?”
“Ishmael.”
“Main character of The Scarlet Letter?”
“Hester Prynne. Two n’s.”
I stare at him. “When on earth have you had time to read all this stuff?”
“I told you. Every day.” He smiles then, his whole face lighting up. “When did you read all those books?”
“Forever ago, in high school.” My smile falters, because it suddenly occurs to me that I’ve had all those years since high school. Those are twenty-one years that Frankie will never have, and here I am, feeling sorry for myself because my clock is ticking at thirty-nine. Frankie’s clock is ticking too, except he hasn’t had the chance to grow up and probably never will. I swallow hard and look away.
“How’s Katelyn?” Frankie asks, snapping me back to reality.
“Oh, she’s doing fine. Why?” I feign ignorance.
“No reason,” he mumbles, going a bit pink.
“Right. It’s not like you have a crush on her or anything.”
He turns a shade redder. “I didn’t say that. Besides, she doesn’t like me.” And just like that, he’s back to being a teenager again.
“How do you know?” I wait until he looks at me. “Have you ever asked her out?”
“Out? Right, like either of us can actually go anywhere.”
“I mean it more like a figure of speech, goofball. But do something. Declare your love. What do you have to lose?”
He smiles slightly. “That’s what you’d do, Jill? In your love life?”
“I don’t exactly have a love life.”
“Yet. You don’t have a love life yet.”
“Yeah, well, let’s just say that I don’t see the possibility of one blossoming in the next month or so. It’s too late for me. But not for you, Frankie.”
He gives me a knowing look. “Jill, it’s never too late.”
THIRTY MINUTES LATER, after quick stops in the rooms of several other patients, I walk into Logan’s room.
“How’d it go?” he asks before I have a chance to open my mouth.
“How did what go?”
“The doctor’s appointment. How are you feeling?”
“Oh.” I look up to find Logan’s eyes full of concern. He holds my gaze for a moment, and I’m struck, as I always am, by how there’s something about his expression that makes him look wise beyond his years. Does fighting a potentially terminal disease do that to a kid? Make him somehow older, more intuitive, more mature? I see it occasionally here: kids who seem far more comfortable in their own skin than people two or three times their age. Logan is one of those kids.
“Jill?” he prompts.
I force a smile. “Oh, I’m fine. Don’t worry. Everything’s okay.”
“You’re not telling me the truth.” He says the words gently, without breaking eye contact. They’re not an accusation as much as they are permission to tell him everything. But I don’t want to. He’s ten. I’m his nurse—and perhaps the closest thing he has to an adult friend. I can’t burden him with this.
“Oh, Logan, you worry too much.”
“I know what your doctor said.”
The words hang between us as I stare at him. I laugh uneasily. “Logan, I don’t know what you mean.”
He beckons me closer, and he doesn’t speak again until I’m standing by his bedside. He reaches out one tiny, pale hand and rests it on my arm. “How much time did he give you?”
I can feel the blood draining from my face. “W-what?”
“How much time?” Logan repeats calmly.
“Logan, I—”
“It’s okay.” He begins stroking my arm, and his gentleness is enough to chip through my armor. Before I know it, tears are streaming down my face.
“I’m sorry,” I gasp. “I’m so, so sorry. I shouldn’t be crying in front of you.” I begin to turn away, but he tightens his grip.
“Stay,” he says. “And don’t say you’re sorry. What you’re feeling is totally normal.”
The words make me cry harder. He pulls me toward him and gives me an awkward hug as I sob into his tiny, bony shoulder. Finally, I sniffle and pull back, straightening myself out as I clear my throat.
“I’m so sorry, Logan. I don’t know what came over me.”
“Stop apologizing,” he says. He pushes his covers off and swings his legs over the side of the bed. He’s wearing gray sweatpants and a Spider-Man sweatshirt, and the clothes seem to swallow him, making him look even tinier than he really is. “Come on,” he says as he slides to the floor.
“Logan, you should be in bed. You need your rest.”
He’s already halfway to the door. He turns and gives me a look. “I’ve got all the time in the world for rest. Right now, I need you to come with me.”
AGAINST MY BETTER judgment, I follow Logan out into the hall, where he makes a beeline for the elevator. Sheila is stan
ding at the nursing station, but she has her back turned as I hurry after Logan. He grins and hits the button for the first floor as the doors slide closed.
“Logan!” I’m still shaken by Dr. Frost’s diagnosis, but I’m beginning to pull myself together, and I’m realizing how stupid this is. “You’re not supposed to be exposed to all the germs out there. I’ve got to get you back to your room!”
He laughs. “Jill, I do this every day. So far, so good.”
I stare at him. “You take the elevator downstairs every day?”
“You could say that.”
“I’ve never seen you do that.”
“Yes, you have.”
The doors slide open into the lobby before I can reply, and Logan grabs my hand and pulls me out. He leads me straight to the gnarled, beautiful tree in the middle of the atrium. Despite myself, I glance around, looking for the cute groundskeeper from earlier, but he’s nowhere to be seen, and his gardening tools seem to have vanished.
“Logan, what are we doing here?”
He smiles, and without answering me, he takes a small step forward, reaches out to touch the narrow trunk of the tree, and closes his eyes. “One day more,” he murmurs.
Nothing happens. I raise my eyebrows at him as he smiles and backs away. A handful of leaves flutter to the ground.
“Your turn,” he says.
“My turn for what?”
He nods toward the tree. “Your turn to ask it for another day,” he says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
I laugh uneasily. “Um, you’re talking to the tree?”
“Very observant. Come on. Do it.” His eyes are bright, and he looks happy, but he’s not making sense. I put a hand on his forehead, expecting to feel the heat of a fever, but his skin is cool. “Just put your hand on the tree, like this,” he says, demonstrating with a flat palm against the bark, his fingers splayed. “And say, ‘One day more.’ ”
“One day more?” I repeat dubiously.
He nods. “Yes. But you have to touch the tree when you’re saying it. You’re asking the tree.”
How to Save a Life Page 2