I whistle long and high and plop down into the kitchen chair. “Yo! Stop it! I haven’t injured myself at practice. This has nothing to do with cheerleading.” At least I don’t think it does. “This isn’t like my other aching muscles. This is a knot under the surface. It’s got, like, mass to it.” My voice quivers on the last sentence.
Rushing to me, Mom rests my head on her stomach and hugs me to her as if I’m still a little baby that needs comforting. “It’s okay, Hayley.” She kisses the top of my head, and I feel safe and secure in her motherly embrace.
Dad stands and pulls his cell phone from his jeans and immediately dials a number. “Hey, Emma-Jean. This is Jared Matthews. My little girl’s got a lump on her leg that I’d like Dr. Colley to take a look at ASAP. Can he fit her in today?” He pauses and listens. “Really? That’s great. Thanks so much. We appreciate it. You know these cheerleaders. Have to keep them in shape.”
He snaps the phone off and looks back at me. “When did you first notice this?”
I bite my lip and try to remember. Things are literally a blur for me since making the squad, going to practice every day, fitting in with the Pops, and most important, hanging out—and making out—with Daniel. All I think about twenty-four/seven is cheering. I do the routines in my sleep. I practice the chants in my head. Every step I take reflects on how I’ll represent the school come the last week of August. Every image I have of myself includes a uniform, pompoms, and the school-colored Nikes.
“Not long,” I admit. “Like I said, practice has been so physical, I would know if I hurt myself.”
Mom shifts her eyes to Dad’s. “Maybe it’s a massive pimple under the skin that needs to be lanced.”
“Eww . . .” I try not to gag. “That is, like, totally gross, Mom.”
Just the phrase “needs to be lanced” makes me cringe.
Dad comes over and kisses me on the forehead, as well. “Emma-Jean said Dr. Colley can see you first off, so go get dressed and let’s head over to his office.”
I screw up my face into a grimace.
“What?” Mom asks.
“Cheerleader practice is at Chloe’s this week, and it starts promptly at nine.”
Hands firmly on her hips, Mom states, “Do I look like I care what Chloe Bradenton thinks?”
I laugh in spite of the sitch. Chloe’s so not going to be psyched that I’ll be late, but shit happens.
I text my captain.
GONNA B L8 2 PRACTICE. CHECK UP @ DR ’RENTS SKEDULD
Two minutes later.
NOT COOL. GET HERE AS FAST AS U CAN WILL DO. THX!
I’ll just pop over to Dr. Colley’s, he’ll tell me it’s nothing, give me a prescription for a pain killer or muscle relaxer, and I’ll be at Chloe’s in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, as my minister’s wife, Miss Agnes, says.
Yep. It’ll be that easy.
***
“There’s Miss Hayley,” Dr. Colley says as he enters the antiseptic, cold examining room. I swear you could hang meat in this room. “I haven’t seen you since that nasty bout with the chickenpox. Never seen a sixteen-year-old get them so badly.”
I smile weakly and try not to think of the deep scars on my hairline, the left side of my nose, and weirdly enough, each one of my boobs. “No, sir. That was pretty gnarly.”
Dr. Colley, in his late sixties, reaches out and ruffles my long hair. Then, he stretches his hand out to shake my dad’s. “Jared, good to see you, as always.”
Once we’ve dispensed of the howdy-dos, I tell Dr. Colley what’s troubling me.
“Put your leg up on the table there, Hayley, and let me take a look.”
I push off my tennis shoe and sock and extend my left leg on the examination table. Dr. Colley peers over his glasses and pokes and prods my entire leg. He presses the length of it from ankle to knee and notes how I squirm and grimace when he hits the sore spot.
“Well, you’ve definitely got a mass of some sort there.”
My eyes pop wide, tamping down the fear that’s threatening to strangle me. “It’s not going to keep me from cheerleading, will it?”
His smile broadens. “Are you a cheerleader over at Polk now? I thought you played the trumpet.”
“Used to.” I return his grin. “I’m on the varsity squad. I don’t want anything to slow me down.”
He pats my knee in a grandfatherly way. “My Stella was a cheerleader when she was your age. Just loved it. You will, too.” He pulls my chart, makes some notes, and then hands a piece of paper to my dad. “Jared, take her down the hall to X-ray. I want to get a better look at this. Might not be anything more than a calcium deposit, but let’s just be sure.”
“You got it, Doc,” Dad says.
An hour later—ugh, Chloe’s going to be pissed at me—we’re back in Dr. Colley’s office sitting in front of the large, wide computer monitor that shows a digital image of my left leg. And... eww... What is that?
Echoing my thought, Dad points to the globby mess that resembles white foam, and is attached to the small bone in my leg. “What is that, Doctor?”
Because it’s an X-ray, it’s black and white and a little gray. There appear to be air bubbles within the mass of goo that looks like the shaving cream I use to mow down my leg hairs. That can’t possibly be inside me, can it?
Dr. Colley lifts his glasses for closer inspection. “I’m not a radiologist, but to me, it looks like a calcium deposit. I’ve seen them before in our community’s athletes. It seems to be focused right here”—he points to the middle of the image that reflects my midcalf area—“around the left fibula.”
Right... The fibula is the small bone in the leg. Fibula, tibia, the big one, femur, the thigh bone, and patella, the kneecap. Look at me remembering tenth grade physiology. A calcium deposit. That doesn’t sound bad. After all, we need calcium in our bodies to build strong bones. Maybe I just got a little too much.
“What do I do about it?” I ask my doctor. I’m not terribly worried. As long as it’s not broken or fractured, I can keep cheering. If it’s something I can wrap in an Ace bandage or down a few Tylenol for, no big whoop.
“Jamal Ridgewood over at Polk Community College had one on his elbow last year. Didn’t slow him down any. He’s starting at running back for Maxwell State this fall.”
Selfishly, I don’t give a rat’s ass about Jamal Ridgewood. I want to know the prognosis for me. The scowl that’s surely on my face causes my doctor to move closer and set his hand on my shoulder.
“Hayley, just to be safe, I’d like to send you and your folks down to Dothan to see an orthopedic specialist,” he explains. “It’s the same one I sent Jamal to. He’s going to know a lot more about this than an old country doctor like me.”
“Just to be safe?” I question. Seriously, I can’t have conflicts in my cheering schedule like this. “Is it something I can do on the weekend so my captain won’t get annoyed at me? If I miss practice and stuff, I get demerits.”
Dad clears his throat forcefully. “Hayley, your health is the most important thing. Dr. Colley’s right, Little Kid. A second opinion is always a good thing.”
“Especially when it’s a possible athletic injury,” the doctor says.
“But this isn’t from cheerleading,” I state. “In fact, had I not been practicing so hard, I don’t know if I’d ever found this. It only pops out when Lora and I do our partner stunts.”
“Then it’s a good thing you made the team, isn’t it,” Dr. Colley says with a hearty laugh. “You’ll be back at practice in no time.”
I hope Chloe’s going to be cool with this.
The doctor writes down the name and number of the referral in Dothan—about an hour south of Maxwell—and hands it over to me. “Dr. Alfred Maddox. I don’t know him personally, but he retired not long ago from the army in Fort Rucker and set up a private practice. He’ll fix you up right.”
I stare at Dr. Colley’s messy handwriting, but all I can think about it that I’ll miss more cheerleader practice.
Dad must read my mind. “It has to be done, Hayley.”
“Okay, but nothing’s going to keep me from going to cheerleader camp.”
***
Late Wednesday afternoon, Mom pulls our Toyota Sienna into the medical park off Ross Clark Circle in Dothan. Chloe and the rest of the team weren’t put off by this appointment today since we practiced from nine a.m. until two p.m. A quick forty minutes down to the Circle City and we’re just in time to make Dr. Maddox’s last appointment of the day. I played the whole appointment low key with the cheerleaders and told only Lora what was going on. She was afraid she’d hurt me somehow, but I insisted that wasn’t the case. But what do I know? I’m not a doctor.
And I need to get back to Maxwell ASAP because Daniel and William are taking Lora and me to see a movie. Which one, I don’t know. Nor do I care as long as I get to spend time with the hottest guy in school.
“You’re okay, right Hayley?” Mom asks sweetly.
“Sure. No big.” And it really isn’t. These appointments are more of a hassle than anything. I need to get over to Gill’s Uniform Company and get fitted for the new outfit the school is footing the bill for. They’re going to be the cutest! Blue and white double-colored straps that will “X” us across the back, white fabric with a flare in the front that shows the same blue and a red PA across the front. As we sit in the waiting room of Dr. Maddox’s practice, all I can do is picture myself in the new outfit, hanging out in the hallways of PHS with my friends, and maybe even getting to wear Daniel’s letterman jacket with it.
“Hayley Matthews,” the nurse announces from the doorway leading to the examining rooms.
Mom and I gather our things and follow the woman back to the starch white room. There’s a computer monitor set up, much like the one Dr. Colley had in his office, and a table with that crinkly white paper covering the leather padding.
“Why do they do this? I mean, you just rip and wrinkle it when you crawl up here.”
Mom stifles a laugh and then returns to serious mode.
Over the next forty minutes, I flip through two Woman’s Day, one Oprah, and a Good Housekeeping that are all at least four years old. Mom sighs heavily every five minutes but doesn’t say anything.
Finally, I hear shuffling and muffled voices outside the room.
“Tell Dr. Covington that I can tee off with him Friday morning at ten a.m. sharp.”
I roll my eyes, hoping a frickin’ golf date hasn’t kept me waiting like this.
The door opens, and in walks a petulant, short, bald man in a crisp white coat and black reading glasses hanging from a silver chain that circles his neck. Alfred S. Maddox III, M.D. is embroidered on the left breast pocket, and I see what appears to be a very expensive fountain pen clipped to the inside of it.
Without even making eye contact with me, Dr. Alfred S. Maddox III flips through my chart and reads aloud. “‘Hayley Matthews, age seventeen, complaining of severe pain in the left calf area. Preliminary X-rays show mass on left fibula. Possible athletic injury or calcium deposit.’”
He glances up at my mom. “Are you Hayley?”
I harrumph. As if.
Mom actually blushes for a moment and then indicates to me, the one who’s, like, sitting on the doctor’s table. Geesh, what’s this guy’s glitch.
“I’m Nan Matthews. This is my daughter, Hayley. Dr. Colley said you were—”
The man turns black eyes onto me and interrupts. “You’re Hayley, huh? Did you have new film taken yet?”
“No, sir,” I say, almost afraid of this guy. I have to remember, he was in the military and probably isn’t used to dealing with teenage girls. “We’ve been waiting for an hour to see you.”
“That’s how it is in the medical profession,” he says flatly. He snatches the phone off the wall and presses an extension. “Christine, do we have the pictures on this patient?”
He slams the phone back down and then returns to me. I don’t know whether to choose fight or flight. He stretches his hands out and feels the glands in my neck. Then, he places a stethoscope to my chest.
“Breathe in and out slowly,” he orders.
I do as I’m told, although I don’t know what the hell my breathing has to do with a ridiculous, inconvenient lump in my leg.
“How long have you had pain?”
“Since the second week in June,” I say.
The doctor tugs on my leg and does the same poking, pressing, and squeezing that Dr. Colley did. Only, he’s not so gentle and friendly about it. I yelp when he mashes the sensitive area too hard. “Ouch!”
He screws up his mouth into a combination of a contortion and a glower, and then he moves to his desk. A password is input and my name pops up on the screen. He clicks on it. Several images of my leg appear on the monitor. Side views, front views; the original picture Dr. Colley took two days ago.
“What do you think it is, Doctor?” Mom asks hesitantly.
He adjusts his glasses on the tip of his nose and drags his finger across the milky white area on the X-ray. His tongue clicks as he stares at the screen. “This doesn’t look good. Not good at all.”
The thudding of my heart actually deafens me. His harsh words reverb against my eardrum, obliterating inane thoughts of what to wear tonight on my date. This is real. This is now. This is happening.
Not good at all?
“How so?” Mom asks as she reaches for my hand.
I don’t remember how our fingers got tangled, only that I’m clutching hers as though my life depends on it.
“Well, I can tell you it is definitely not a calcium deposit.” Dr. Maddox sighs and squints at the image. He toggles between the pictures and leans in to get a better view. His finger taps the screen over and over, pointing at the mass that’s gathered around my bone.
Slowly, he turns to face us. Mom’s standing next to me; her grip on my hand tightens. I think it’s more for her benefit than mine. This guy’s just a jerk and doesn’t know how to deal with civilians. I’m not worried. It’s no big deal. Right? I’ve been perfectly healthy my whole life aside from a cold here and there and the occasional flu that got past my yearly vaccination. Of course, there was the horrendous, god-awful bout with chickenpox last year, but everyone gets those at some point.
This is just par for the course for a cheerleader who’s tumbling, running, and dancing all the time.
Mom gulps hard, though, and I begin to share her trepidation.
My eyes implore hers to not let this be bad. It can’t be. I won’t let it be.
“Mrs. Matthews... Hayley . . .” the doctor starts. “Bedside manners are not my forte, as you can imagine coming from thirty years in the army. I’m going to be very honest with you and not sugarcoat things.”
Now I gulp.
He stares directly at me. “Hayley, I’m afraid you have malignant cancer.”
“Cancer?” Mom shrieks, clutching my hand so tightly that it hurts.
“C-c-cancer?” I manage to say.
“Yes,” the doctor affirms. “The only way to save you is to amputate the leg.”
My ears ring.
Tears sting the back of my eyes.
My world goes dark.
Chapter Seven
In time of test, family is best.
—Burmese Proverb
Cancer!
Cancer?
Cancer.
C-a-n-c-e-r.
Can. Cer.
I roll the word around inside my brain to try and wrap some sort of meaning around it. Especially in conjunction with me.
Me. Cancer. Leg. Tumor. Cancer. Bump. Malignant.
Amputation?
Surely I didn’t hear that word. That was merely my imagination running away from me while sitting bored to death in that rude doctor’s office. All I can remember is staring at the poster of undersea life, noting the angel fish, sharks, dolphins, pelicans, starfish, eels, barracuda and all the other species I couldn’t identify on the vibrant blue image. All of the sea
creatures living in harmony and peace... at least for one moment as the artist captured their images. No larger prey consuming the smaller ones. No overaggressive amoeba overtaking some plant life or fish that couldn’t fight it off.
That’s what cancer is, though. An intruder in your body that seeks to conquer all. A disease of epic proportions that can alter your life—or even frickin’ end it.
I stare out the windshield. Unblinking.
The asphalt passes by in waves, the fingers of white lines twisting and swaying, doing their best to confuse my already muddled mind.
Mom clears her throat, a near-deafening cannon in the silence of my anguish. “So, what do you say we stop at El Palacio’s and pick up a whole mess of chicken enchiladas? You know how much your dad loves their food.”
I slice my eyes over at her hands death gripping the steering wheel to the point that her nail beds look the color of Valentine’s Day red hots.
Cancer.
Malignant.
“Um... sure, I guess,” I say, still stunned. I don’t even remember leaving the doctor’s office. All I recall is Mom turning beet red and grabbing the impolite doctor by the sleeve of his coat and hauling him out of the examining room. From the small window in the door, I could see Mom reading him the Riot Act, her eyes beady with anger.
“We should get some sopapillas, too,” Mom adds as she switches lanes.
A dull headache begins to tippy-tap over my left eye. My eye twitches in response. “Sure. We can do that.”
Don’t you want to talk about what just happened? What did happen?
I muster up the courage. “Mom, what did—”
She stops me with her hand. “Come to think of it, we’ll have your grandparents over tonight, too. Daddy loves their queso and chips. You know they make all their own? Absolutely delicious.”
Sure, have Grandmother and Granddaddy over so we can shock them with the news over beans and rice. “Mom . . .”
I see a glisten in the corner of her eyes. The tension in her face, obvious by the vein in her neck, makes me want to reach over and hug her. But I’m belted in. And she’s driving.
Radiate Page 5