Radiate

by Gibson, Marley

  The woman replaces the oxygen mask on my face. “Now, darlin’, you have to leave this on.”

  “Don’t want to,” I mutter, and the tears continue, flowing all by themselves. I have no control over them. The fiery pain in my left leg must be triggering them.

  “Now, now. Be a good girl,” she coos to me as though I’m six again.

  “No,” I say in a moan, not even knowing why. I shove the oxygen mask away a second time.

  Rayanne’s by my side to retrieve it once again. “There, there. I know this is all foreign to you, but with each step, things are only going to get better.”

  My eyes close at the thought, and I have to wonder if that’s really, honestly, true.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It is in moments of illness that we are compelled to recognize that we live not alone but chained to a creature of a different kingdom, whole worlds apart, who has no knowledge of us and by whom it is impossible to make ourselves understood: our body.

  —Marcel Proust

  Look who decided to wake up,” Dad says when our eyes meet. He’s standing over me, watching me sleep. There’s stubble on his face, and I can see he hasn’t been sleeping well.

  “I’m sorry, Dad,” I manage to eke out.

  “For what, Little Kid?”

  “All of this.” I gulp down a dry lump in the back of my throat. “You’re missing work. This is costing money.”

  He sets his index finger on my mouth. “Shhh . . .”

  His smile says one thing, but I know my dad. Dark shadows pool underneath his eyes. There’s a sadness in his face that’s, of course, understandable. However, it pains me that I’m the cause of his concern and worry.

  “How long can you stay?” I ask.

  “Only a little while longer. I have a lot going on at the store tomorrow.”

  My head throbs at the thought of what my medical bills must be racking up to be. I’m sure my parents have some sort of supplemental health insurance or what have you... who knows these days? It’s not exactly something they discuss with me over dinner. Does insurance even cover what’s going on with me? Is a private room more expensive?

  I burp rudely and expel some of the gas that was used on me during my three-hour surgery.

  Dad makes a joke out of it and waves the air around him. “Give me a little warning next time.”

  I try to giggle, but the movement shakes me infinitesimally and my leg cries out from the newly stitched area. “Sorry.” My eyes close again. “So sorry,” I mutter.

  Dad’s strong fingers find their way onto my forehead and he rubs, smoothing back my in-need-of-washing hair. “You have nothing to apologize for, Hayley. Your mother and I are making sure you have the best possible care. So is your Uncle Roger. He’s watching every move from San Francisco, talking to the doctors, and getting detailed reports on you. We’re fighting this all the way, baby.”

  “Will I be able to cheer?”

  “You’ll be able to do anything you want to do.”

  Eyes still closed, I can barely hear the words I’m asking. “How did I get cancer, Dad?”

  His hand strokes even more gently. “We don’t know, Little Kid. It really doesn’t matter. We just have to figure out how to get rid of it.”

  I lick my dry lips and then tug my eyes open. “I hope it doesn’t take much longer.”

  ***

  I don’t have to wait very long.

  After a heated canasta battle with Mom Friday afternoon (which she won in the end, mostly because I wasn’t paying attention due to texting with Daniel), Dr. Dykema enters my room with his team of interns and a sullen look.

  Seriously... do they teach them that facial expression in medical school?

  Dr. Tanner Dykema pulls an empty chair up next to my bed and stretches out in it. He’s quite tall, and his legs seem to go on forever.

  I try to lighten the energy in the room. “Why so gloomy, Doc?”

  For a moment, I think I see a crinkle of laughter in the corner of his goatee’d mouth. Not really, though. He’s all business.

  “Is everyone here at UAB treating you well, Hayley?”

  “Yes, sir,” I say politely. See, I was raised right.

  “You have an excellent staff here, Dr. Dykema,” Mom says. “It’s one of the reasons that my brother, Dr. Roger Swonsky, sent us here.”

  The doctor nods. “That makes me happy.”

  “So, do you have news for us?” I ask before Mom can.

  “As a matter of fact, I do.” He removes my thick file out from under his arm and spreads it out on the bed next to me. “You see, Hayley, I don’t like to jump to rash judgments about what’s ailing my patients. I prefer that we explore all avenues, do the proper tests, and make sure we know what we’re dealing with.”

  “Haven’t we been doing that?” I ask.

  “Yes, we have,” he assures me.

  Good. I thought he was going to say something like we had to start from scratch. I would not like that.

  “Cancer is a stubborn competitor,” he starts. “In order for us to win the war, we have to also win the battles along the way. We have to understand our opponent, what it’s made of, and how we can defeat it.”

  I want to roll my eyes at the military references. Can’t he just spit it out?

  Instead, I nod and pay rapt attention.

  “Hayley, from our first operation on your leg, we discovered that the cancerous cells around your left fibula were benign.”

  Mom puts her hand to her chest and lets out a sigh. “Benign. That’s good.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Matthews. It’s a good start.” He turns his eyes to me. “Benign means the cells lack the ability to metastasize. However . . .” He pauses for emphasis, and that one word—however—hangs there like a white flag of surrender (to use his military reference).

  Mom gasps. “Roger was right,” she says in a whisper.

  Dr. Dykema continues. “I spoke with your brother about this... yes. You see, deeper into the lesion and closer to the tibia—the larger bone in your leg—the cells have the ability to metastasize, therefore, causing us much more concern due to the malignancy of the cancer.”

  Benign was good. Malignant is not.

  “I know cancer’s not good, period. But I have, like, a half-good, half-bad cancer?”

  Dr. Dykema leans forward more, his elbows resting on his knees. “The cells toward the inside of your leg are malignant, which means, if not properly treated, they can spread. Not just to your tibia, but to other areas of your body. These cells are deadly, Hayley.”

  My head pops to glance at Mom. She’s remarkably calm... considering. “Your uncle explained it to me this morning,” she says. “Your tumor isn’t an apple, nor is it an orange. It’s sort of... fruit salad.”

  Okay, I’ll never eat that again.

  The doctor explains more. “You have what is commonly referred to as periosteal osteosarcoma. I was actually one of the first to diagnose this disease back in the 1980s. It was rare back then, but, unfortunately, it’s much more common today. Luckily, we know how to take care of it better. It’ll require an extensive evacuation of the malignant lesion, possibly your left fibula, as well. We won’t know for sure until we get in there and see how much damage has been done to the tibia. After that, you’ll need chemotherapy and radiation treatment just to be safe.”

  “How long will that take?” Mom asks.

  “We’ll get her surgery scheduled for next week for the tumor resection, followed then by a week of chemo, and another week of radiation. Due to the mixed nature of this lesion, we don’t want to take any chances.”

  “Will you take her bone out?” Mom asks.

  “We won’t know until we open it up and see exactly what we’re dealing with.”

  Great... we’re talking at least three more weeks here from the sound of it. Three more weeks? And did he say that he’s taking a bone out? Is that even possible? Of course it is; otherwise, he wouldn’t say it.

  That means a longe
r recovery . . .

  More time on the crutches . . .

  And you can bet the farm that . . .

  “I’m not going to get to go to cheerleader camp,” I say mournfully. I know that’s not the most important issue on the table right now, but it’s pretty high up there for me. I was making it my goal to be out of here and on the bus to Pensacola for camp with the rest of the team.

  Not going to happen.

  I’ve failed Chloe. I’ve failed the squad.

  My leg has failed me.

  Mom taps me on the arm, drawing me back into the conversation. “Hayley, I know camp was important for you. Your health is what matters the most. We have to see this to the end.”

  “I know, Mom.” I turn to my doctor, needing him to not pussyfoot around the issue. “What’s the worst-case scenario?” I ask boldly.

  Dr. Dykema strokes his goatee. “Truthfully, Hayley, if the cancer has metastasized to a point where we can’t save your fibula or your tibia, we may have no other option than to amputate the limb to keep the cancer from spreading and to save your life.”

  “A-a-amputate? You mean, like cut my leg off?”

  Mom reaches for me.

  My breathing stops.

  She’s already yelled at one doctor for using that word.

  “It’s a very extreme measure, Hayley,” the doctor says, “and one we don’t consider likely.”

  “Thank God for that,” I mutter, still too stunned to move.

  “I have operated on this type of cancer before with extremely positive results. So, let’s focus on that. Put your trust in me and I’ll take care of this.”

  “I can only really put my trust in God, Dr. Dykema. But I’ll give you some props, too.”

  He pats my bed and smiles at me. I have to trust him. He, like, went to college for eight years to learn how to do things, and he’s been a doctor longer than I’ve been alive. Uncle Roger sent me here because this guy is the best.

  My chest pangs with an adrenaline-filled anxiety much like what I experienced when Mrs. Ingram announced that I’d placed on the varsity squad. Only this ache is mixed with a powdery trepidation. I block out the worst case. It’s not a possibility. I won’t let it be.

  Nope. Not going to happen.

  Thoughts of another surgery, pain, stitches, sutures, needles, and X-rays. Am I going to glow after this? I have no choice in this matter. I’m helpless to the cellular attack consuming the bones of my left leg. Nasty, gooey, lesions that have wrapped around my bone and... what did the doctor call it? Metastasized? That just sounds so... wrong. I tamp down the hot, salty tears that threaten to spill from my eyes. What’s the point? It is what it is. What good would crying do? I need my wits about to me understand what’s happening inside me and how we’re going to make this right. I’m not letting cancer defeat me.

  No way. No how. Hell no.

  The doctor directs his comment to me. “I’m sure you have questions, Hayley, and I’ll do my best to answer them.”

  I’m sure he’s prepared to respond to all sorts of emotional queries. There’ll be time for that later. Right now, I need to let the experts do their job, so I can get back to mine.

  “No, sir,” I say, and then let out a gush of air. “I won’t make it to camp. Fine. I’ll get over that. I trust you to get me back on my feet in time for the first football game at the end of August.”

  “I’ll do my best, Hayley.”

  I have a new goal.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Love cures people—both the ones who give it and the ones who receive it.

  —Dr. Karl Augustus Menninger

  That night, Mom is stretched out on her cot fast asleep.

  I’m wide awake. It’s only nine thirty p.m.

  I draw my laptop up onto the bed and settle into the sheets.

  Double-clicking on the Skype button, I wait to see which of my friends might be online. I’m thrilled to see my partner seems to be available. I move the mouse over her name and wait.

  On the third ring, her happy voice fills my headset and her smiling face fills my computer screen.

  “Hayley! Oh my God! It’s so awesome to talk to you,” she says. “Look at you!”

  I’d showered earlier in the day and washed and dried my hair, so my appearance is decent. I even have some makeup on, thinking it would help me feel... like a normal person... instead of the sick girl in the hospital with periosteal what’cha-call it.

  I return a vibrant smile. “Hey, Lora! What’s going on?”

  “I have so much to tell you,” she starts. “Practice has been killer. Chloe got this choreographer from Maxwell State to come help us out on our dance routine. He’s been running us ragged with all these new dance moves. Holy crap, you’d think he was making us try out for the Pussycat Dolls or something.”

  Missing out. Missing out. Missing out.

  “Can you video it and e-mail it to me so I can start memorizing the moves?”

  “I’ll get right on it,” she says.

  I change the subject. “How are things going with William?”

  “Perfect,” she says, literally beaming at me. “We’ve been out four times. He is the best kisser I’ve ever known.”

  Memories of Daniel’s soft kisses click into my mind. “I hear that,” I say.

  I half listen as Lora prattles on about practice, the parties people have had, the new uniform fitting, etc. It only serves to make me feel like even more of an outcast than I ever felt before. I should be at home experiencing these things. I should be sharing these memories with her. Why am I stuck in this stupid bed just... waiting?

  “So, what’s going on with, you know... your leg and stuff?” she asks. It doesn’t sound as if Lora can actually bring herself to say the C word. I understand. Saying it out loud makes it real. Gives it power. Spreads the word.

  I take a deep breath. “It’s cancer, you know, and that can mean a bunch of stuff.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like more surgery and”—I swallow hard—“and I suppose if they can’t fix it, I could lose my leg.”

  My ears ring just hearing the words. Syllables I never thought I’d utter.

  “Oh, Hayley... don’t say that. It’s not going to happen,” Lora screeches.

  I lay out the details of what Dr. Dykema told us about the surgery and follow-up treatment. Lora’s face is ash white even on the computer screen as if she’s taking it worse than I have.

  “It’s not a big deal,” I stress, trying to believe the words myself. “I found it, they X-rayed it, they’ll take it out. Voilà... and I’ll be back in business in time for the first game.”

  “I really hope so, Hayley! Chloe’s been bitching about the ‘vacant spot’ on the team. I’ve just been working with Tara and Ashleigh on stunts and things, so I’m cool with stuff.”

  “What do I tell the team?” Lora asks. “Everyone’s asking how you are. Have you seen all the posts on Facebook?”

  I smile weakly at the camera. “Y’all are great. Just keep praying for me.”

  “You know, if there’s anything you need from me, I’m here for you.”

  I smile at my friend. “Thanks, Lora. I’ll be back in my cheerleading shoes in no time!” I have to be. It’s not an option.

  “Oh, speaking of shoes,” she says. “Get this. You know my Uncle Ross? Ross Scott, who owns Game On sporting goods?”

  “Yeah, you’ve mentioned him.”

  “He donated new sneakers to the whole squad. Any name brand we want!”

  “That’s fantastic,” I say. “Was there a vote?”

  She nods. “Chloe got overruled. She wanted the Reeboks, but we found some Nikes with red swoops that will look awesome. Especially with the new uniforms.”

  “I can’t wait! Make sure you get some shoes for me.”

  “Size seven?” she asks.

  “Seven and a half,” I say, smiling. “Why did he donate them?”

  “He went on some massive mountain-climbing thing in Tibet. He
said it was like a spiritual calling for him to do something for the team.”

  I snicker at the thought of anyone from Maxwell, Alabama, going to Tibet. Maybe I should take a journey there myself.

  Just then, my Skype rings out.

  “Daniel Delafield is calling. Answer?”

  Hell yes!

  “Lora! It’s Daniel... Can you hold on?”

  “No way, girlfriend,” she says with a giggle. “Go talk to him. I’ll keep praying for you.”

  “Thank you!”

  I straighten up in bed and foof my hair, bringing the long tresses over my shoulder to cover up the mint green hospital gown. This is the medicine I need. A strong shot of Daniel.

  “Hey, Daniel,” I say, nearly bouncing in the bed.

  “Look at you,” he says back. His hair is wet, like he’s just gotten out of the shower. I can almost smell the shampoo and soap on him.

  “Look at you!”

  “I’ve missed you, Hayley.”

  His words make my chest contract and expand. I drop my eyes down as I feel a blush sneak up on me. “It’s nice to be missed.”

  “Have you talked to the doctor lately? When can you come home? Anthony’s having a pool party second week of August when his parents are out in Reno on vacation.”

  “Man, I hate that I’ll miss it,” I say. Then, I tell him about my upcoming surgery, leaving out the part about possibly losing my leg. It’s not that I think he’s shallow or anything, but he’s a boy and they don’t get things like a girlfriend does. “So... another surgery and they’ll take it all out.”

  His voice softens and his eyes drop. “Damn, Hayley... I’m so sorry you’re having to go through this. It totally sucks.”

  “Yeah, it does,” I agree. No matter how many times I tell the prognosis to friends or family, regardless of how I spin it, it’s still one thing: cancer. It has to be defeated before it conquers me. “Please say a prayer for me,” I ask softly.

  Daniel’s eyes are soft and full of concern. “You know I will.”

  “Maybe we can do something when I get home. Before school starts.”