Radiate

by Gibson, Marley

  I try again. “Mom... can we talk about what happened back there?”

  The car swerves a little too much to the left, and a passing car lays on his horn. The driver mouths something at Mom while flipping her his middle finger. Lovely.

  “Oh dear,” she mutters, and rights the vehicle, slowing down a bit.

  Funny thing is, I’m not upset. And I’m not freaking out all that much. I just want to understand what the hell is going on. I need to know what’s next. What will tomorrow be like? Can I go to cheerleader practice? Can I just check into the hospital and let them cut this thing out?

  As if reading my mind, Mom wets her lips with her tongue and says, “That appointment never happened.”

  “What?”

  She nods. “That was only a formality. He’s just one doctor.” Then she sneers. “Besides, what does he know? I’ve never met such an arrogant, disgusting person in all my life.”

  “He was a dick,” I mutter.

  Mom snickers, knowing she can’t correct me when I speak the truth. Still, she gives me “the look.”

  “So, what do we do, Mom?” I pull my foot up onto the seat and wrap my arms around my leg, resting my chin on my knee. “I’ve got this... this... thing... growing inside me.”

  “I know exactly what we’ll do,” she says with a confidence returning to her eyes. She fumbles next to her and nabs her cell phone. I’d rather she not drive and dial—like the rest of the free world—but right now, I’m not going to speak up. It’s a speed dial number, and she sets the phone on speaker.

  On the third ring, I hear, “You’ve reached Dr. Roger Swonsky. If this is a medical emergency, please press zero to be transferred to my answering service. Otherwise, please leave your name, number, and a message and I’ll return your call as soon as I can.”

  Beeeeeeeeeep.

  Mom clears her throat again. “Roger, this is your sister. I need to talk to you as soon as possible. I know you’re two time zones behind me, but I don’t care how late it is. This is a family emergency.” Her voice catches momentarily and then softens into that of a small child. “Please call me.”

  She clicks End and tosses the cell phone down next to her. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of that before.” A confident nod follows as she pulls into the upcoming turn lane to take us into El Palacio’s.

  I let out a long sigh. Not in frustration, but in relief.

  Uncle Roger is Mom’s little brother. I say “little” in that he’s five years younger. Uncle Roger is also a doctor. Not just any random, run-of-the-mill doctor—he’s a radiologist. The dudes that stare at black and white images and come up with all sorts of discoveries and finds. According to the accolades I hear from Grandmother and Mom all the time, his specialty is detecting breast cancer in time to treat it. He’s like... renowned in his field.

  Throughout my life, Mom has called him for every sniffle, scratch, or wheeze. When Dad had that bout with bursitis, Uncle Roger got the call. When Cliff broke his collarbone skateboarding, Uncle Roger got the call. When Granddaddy had gall bladder stones removed, Uncle Roger got the call. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that’s who Mom called for reinforcement.

  I relax a little into the seat.

  Mom smiles. “Yes... Mexican food will hit the spot, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say, and breathe normally for the first time since we left the medical plaza.

  Dr. Alfred S. Maddox the Third, be damned.

  Mom just brought in the heavy hitter.

  ***

  Against my parents’ wishes, I go to practice the next two days and pretend nothing’s wrong. The pain in my leg is wicked, but I grin and bear it. I work hard on the new pyramid we invented, and I help spot the other girls doing their tumbling runs. Chloe doesn’t give me too much of a hard time when I don’t do the same. Instead, I practice my splits, which are essential for any cheerleader.

  When I get home late Friday afternoon, all icky and sweaty, I strip out of my clothes and wrap up in a soft, fluffy towel, ready for a cold shower and then a long, hot soak in the tub.

  First, a quick look at Facebook.

  I log on and read a status update from Shelly:

  THE STEP SUX. WON’T LET ME DO ANYTHING!!!!!!!! FML

  Fuck my life. A fave saying of my generation.

  Poor Shelly. I know it’s hard for her with her parents calling it quits earlier this year and her father moving away to Mobile. Now she has to do split time between here and there. At least she’s close to Gulf Shores and the beach, although it doesn’t sound like her tether reaches that far. The whole Splitsville sitch was made worse when Shelly’s dad remarried about two seconds after the divorce was final. “The Step,” as Shelly refers to her, is only twenty-four years old and is fresh out of the ΠΦΨ sorority house at Maxwell State where her father used to teach. Now he teaches at the University of South Alabama and “the Step” does all she can to spend his salary and make Shelly’s life miserable. Imagine having a stepmom who’s only six years older! I understand why she says “FML.”

  But as I scroll through the status messages of friends and acquaintances and see their complaints of the day, I’m struck with a realization of how easy it would be for me to post an “FML.” Not just an “FML,” but a full-blown pity party diatribe all about me and my woes. Everyone would comment and “like” and tell me to hang in there, that they’re praying and rooting for me. I don’t need the sympathy, though. I can get through this.

  I mean, if anyone can say “FML,” I think it’s certainly me. It’s not necessary at this point. It’s cancer... so what? Big whoop. They cut it out and I’m back at practice in no time. Right? People get cancer every day. It’s on the news, all over the Internet; there are charities and fundraisers for this, that, or the other form of cancer. I won’t let it be an “FML.”

  Instead, I type in my update:

  44 DAYS UNTIL CHEERLEADER CAMP—PHS PATRIOTS ARE GONNA RAWK!

  Not a minute later, five of the twelve girls on the squad have either “liked” or commented on my status. I lean back and smile when I see “Chloe Bradenton likes your comment.”

  “Whattaya know?” I say to no one. Okay, Leeny’s asleep on my bed, so technically, she can join me in basking in a small victory.

  Then I see the chat window pop up. It’s Daniel!

  DANIEL DELAFIELD: HEY WHAT UP?

  HAYLEY MATTHEWS: HEY U!

  DANIEL DELAFIELD: HOW WUZ PRACTICE

  HAYLEY MATTHEWS: KILLER AS USUAL

  DANIEL DELAFIELD: CAN’T WAIT TO C U IN UNIFORM

  HAYLEY MATTHEWS:

  DANIEL DELAFIELD: PLANS 4 2NITE?

  HAYLEY MATTHEWS: NOT REALLY. HANGIN W/LORA AND ASHLEE

  DANIEL DELAFIELD: COME HANG W/ME

  HAYLEY MATTHEWS: SURE WHERE?

  DANIEL DELAFIELD: CHEEZBURGER PALACE @8

  HAYLEY MATTHEWS: U GOT IT!

  DANIEL DELAFIELD: C U THEN

  HAYLEY MATTHEWS: AWESOME TTYS! = )

  I click off the chat window and bounce up in my chair. Another night hanging with Daniel. Is there anything better? Nope. Not really.

  FML? Seriously?

  No way.

  Not when a cute guy is waiting for me.

  Cancer, bump, tumor thingy... whatever. I’ll deal.

  ***

  The smell of sizzling bacon and sweet pancakes tickles my nose early Saturday morning. Mom knows it’s one of my favorite meals of all time. I love the way the salty bacon mixes with the sugary syrup. An involuntary drool bolts me out of my warm, dreamy bed-cocoon, where I’ve been reliving last night’s make out session with Daniel. I walk zombielike down the stairs and into the kitchen to load up on the yummy goodness.

  “Well, good morning, Hayley.”

  I stop in my tracks when I see none other than Uncle Roger sitting at the table with a steaming mug of coffee in front of him and his laptop computer.

  “Hey, Uncle Roger,” I say, smiling. After a cheek kiss and a hug, I pause. “Oh my
God, it must be really bad.”

  He peers over his glasses. “What is?”

  “My prognosis.” I nearly choke on the words. “Mom called you, and now you’re here. It’s got to be the worst.”

  Mom walks into the kitchen with a huge basket of laundry under her arm. “Roger, Jared’s at the store until five, but maybe after then we can—Hayley! You’re up. Look who’s here.”

  “I know. I can see,” I say with a bit too much ’tude. Spinning back to my mom’s brother, I ask, “What made you come all the way from San Francisco on a Saturday to be in Maxwell, Alabama?”

  Uncle Roger peels off his glasses and rubs his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “Truth be known, Hayley, you did.”

  My shoulders slump in anticipation of more talk of surgery, treatment, and missing cheerleader practice, school, and football games. I won’t have any of it.

  I stab my fisted hands onto my hips, not in ready-to-cheer mode, but defiant as I’ve ever been in my life to adults. “Uncle Roger, if you’re here to tell me to quit the cheerleading squad, it’s not going to happen.”

  He slides a chair out for me. “Of course, that’s not why I’m here. I’m here for you, Hayley.”

  I bite my bottom lip in angsted shame and let out a sigh of relief.

  Placing the clothes basket into the laundry room, Mom then moves over to the counter to serve me up a plate of bacon and pancakes. It’s all hot and steamy, just the way I like it, and the flaps have butter swimming on top and over the sides. I focus my attention on the breakfast treats and take the offered chair next to my uncle.

  “Eat, sweetie,” Mom says.

  I plunge my fork into the food and scoop it into my mouth as if I’ve never eaten before. Nothing soothes worries like Mom’s homemade pancakes.

  Sitting next to me, Mom reaches for a Sweet’N Low packet to pour into her coffee. She stirs the liquid slowly, methodically, as if hypnotized by the black swirl. “I called Roger because cancer is his specialty. And, because we need a second opinion we can trust.”

  I nod in understanding.

  Uncle Roger slides his laptop to the middle of the table, up onto the lazy Susan so Mom and I can get a better look. “I got your X-rays from Dr. Colley and from Dr. Maddox so I could study them more and be sure of what we’re dealing with.”

  Seeing that gross, foamy-looking... thing that’s growing inside me makes the yummy pancakes turn to paste inside my stomach. I set my fork down and push the plate away.

  Mom’s concern is apparent. “Roger, we should have waited until she finished eating.”

  “It’s okay, Mom,” I assure her. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Uncle Roger pulls a laser pointer from his pocket and then enlarges the X-ray of my leg so that it’s full screen. I swallow hard as I listen to him describe what’s going on in my body.

  “I’ve been studying this nonstop since it was e-mailed to me. Right here”—he points to the middle of my fibula where the growth is—“appears to be a juxtacortical or surface tumor. They’re defined as those kinds of lesions that arise adjacent to the outer surface of the cortical bone. These surface tumors have the tendency to arise from any of the mesenchymal elements present along the bone surface or from the pluripotent cells found within the periosteum.”

  Uncle Roger has always been one to use big words that no one else understands. These apply to me, though, and the nausea begins to bubble up into my throat. He lost me after “appears to be . . .”

  But he continues. “In most cases, it’s hard to determine whether the sarcoma arose from within the periosteum or from other juxtacortical connective tissues. As you can see, there seems to be a variety of histological tissue types within here. Possibly caused by a viral infection or something of that effect. It’s hard to tell at this juncture whether it’s benign or malignant, so that’s why we need to approach this in a conservative, slow manner instead of resorting to intrusive surgical evacuation.”

  “What do you think, Roger?” my mom pleads.

  “This is merely a plain radiograph, so the lesion demonstrates heterogeneous ossification. To understand its makings more, you would need to conduct bone density tests, an MRI, more in-depth radiology. From a purely observational standpoint, I would say that it has the potential to be a high-grade osteosarcoma. Hayley’s demonstrated an enlarged, painful mass and swelling that is symptomatic of a high-grade osteosarcoma. The duration of the symptoms prior to diagnosis is relatively short because of the pain. Most patients catch it in one to six months of the lesion development.”

  My eyelid twitches from the stress, and my heartbeat accelerates. His words are a cacophony of confusion to my eardrums. It’s like being battered with wave after wave of unwanted information. I have to stop him. “Uncle Roger, I don’t really get anything that you’re saying to me. I mean, I’m not stupid or anything. I get it. There’s a big, honking lesion-thingy in my leg, and it’s so not a good thing. What do we have to do to get rid of it?”

  Mom takes my hand and squeezes it as we both focus on my uncle’s suggestion.

  “I’ve made several calls, and you have options. These types of tumors should be approached aggressively, with wide surgical resection. You could come to San Francisco and I could refer you to a colleague of mine who specializes in orthopedic cancers. Or, you could go to the Mayo Clinic, which is world-renowned for its cancer treatment.”

  San Francisco? No way. That’s on the other side of the country! “Where’s the Mayo place?” I ask.

  “It’s in Rochester, Minnesota.”

  My eyes roll from the information. “California? Minnesota? I can’t be that far away. I have practice, and camp, and—”

  “Hayley!” Mom snaps at me. “This is your life.”

  I cower in the chair, still not believing the severity of this... this... cancer that’s attached to me. I won’t let it get the best of me. I mean, medical technology is at its best these days. I’ll go to the hospital, they’ll do a few tests, cut it out, and I’ll be back to cheerleading in no time.

  “Any place closer to home?” I ask Uncle Roger calmly.

  “The Mayo Clinic has a location in Jacksonville, Florida, which is closer.”

  “That’s about six hours from here,” Mom says.

  I continue to gnaw on my bottom lip as all of this unfolds around me. “That’s so far.”

  Uncle Roger lays his hand on my arm reassuringly. “There’s one more option, Hayley. I’ve got it on good authority that there’s a doctor that specializes in not only orthopedic cancers, but juvenile cases. His name is Dr. Tanner Dykema, and he’s been written up in Cancer magazine for his accomplishments. He approaches each case methodically and slowly, being conservative about surgical options and postoperative treatment.”

  Slowly? No, I need a doctor that’ll do this quickly. “Where is he?” I ask.

  “The University of Alabama in Birmingham. UAB, my alma mater,” my uncle says with a broad smile. “It’s only three hours, and your brother is in the area. Your parents will have a place to stay while you’re in the hospital, and your dad can drive back and forth to Maxwell.”

  “Your dad wanted to be here for this, but he had to be at the store. He and I agree this is the best option for you. We don’t want any rash decisions. We need to find out exactly what this is and how to treat it,” Mom says.

  “I know it’s hard to look at this in any kind of positive light, Hayley,” Uncle Roger starts, “but you’re very lucky. I believe you caught this in time, and your parents are getting you medical treatment right away. Back in the eighties, these types of cancers were rarer and the options were fewer. However, progress and technology are on our side, and Dr. Dykema and his team will get you fixed up in no time.”

  I certainly hope so!

  I hang my head, thinking of the lost time with my cheerleader practice. It’s a necessary thing, though. We’re talking cancer here. Not a cold or the flu or a pulled muscle or a sprain.

  This is my time . . .
my time in the spotlight . . . my time to shine. Nothing’s going to slow me down for long.

  Lifting my chin, I turn to Mom. “I trust y’all. And I know I’ve got to get this done. Just promise me that I’ll be back in time for cheerleader camp.”

  “That’s not up to me,” Mom says. “It’s up to you, Hay.”

  “When do we leave for Birmingham?”

  “Monday morning,” Uncle Roger says. “I’ll make all the arrangements.”

  “The sooner the better,” I say.

  Suddenly my spirits perk up, and I sense the adrenaline zooming through me, perhaps rushing toward the unwanted guest in my leg, ready to do battle.

  And fight like hell, I will!

  Chapter Eight

  The human spirit is stronger than anything that can happen to it.

  —C. C. Scott

  Chloe is pissed at me.

  Like I chose to have cancer and go to the hospital.

  “Am I supposed to hold your spot for you?” she asks me in the snarkiest way imaginable Sunday afternoon at Madison’s house. Mrs. Ingram and my mom called a special meeting so I could inform the team of what’s going on with me.

  “Um... yeah,” I say, dumbfounded.

  I don’t know what I expected from Chloe. Perhaps that she be human, if that’s possible? I certainly didn’t expect tears from her like I got from Ashlee, Ashleigh, and Tara. The other girls surrounded me and hugged me, saying they’d pray for me and that I can beat this. Cancer’s not an everyday word at PHS, so to hear a cheerleader has it really rocks the house.