Two Years Later
Leila
The groom is anxious as he waits for the rest of the procession to come forward so his bride can enter. This is the biggest moment of his life, and that feeling isn’t lost on him.
After what feels like hours of waiting, the best man and I make it to the front. The best man gives the groom a hug and then smiles at me. Throughout these years, I’ve enjoyed helping the groom get to this place more than almost anyone else. Anyone except the woman he’s going to marry.
The music changes and everyone stands.
The groom is starting to sweat.
His wife-to-be is stunning in her dress. It’s classy, but just revealing enough to get a couple of the parents in attendance to cover their children’s eyes.
The groom smiles when he sees this.
Today isn’t one of those things that just happened overnight. It took a lot of hard work and a lot of luck, but it’s clear enough that there’s nowhere else he’d rather be in the world.
The bride gets to the front and stands across from her fiancé.
She can see the nervousness in his body language, but she doesn’t seem worried. He smiles at her sweetly and she smiles back.
The judge starts the ceremony.
“Love is a powerful thing,” the judge says. “It can lift us up and it can make us feel and do things we didn’t know were possible. When two people love each other, as you do, every one of us finds ourselves uplifted.”
The judge is a bit long-winded, but the bride and the groom are too busy staring into their futures to mind.
“…we are here to celebrate the love of these two people, who have brought all of us together…”
After a solid 10 minutes of monologue by the judge, the best man nudges the groom, whispering, “Are you ready for this?”
The groom whispers back, “I’ve never been more ready for anything.”
“…now, take the ring and put it on her finger, repeating after me, I, Michael Jason Nielson…”
“I, Michael Jason Nielson,” the groom repeats.
The judge continues, “Do take you, Wrigley Samantha Moirea—Moire—Moireas—”
“Do take you, Wrigley Samantha Moireasdanach,” Mike jumps in.
“I’ve been practicing that all morning,” the judge says. “My apologies.”
The stumble is good for a laugh.
“To be my lawfully wedded wife,” the judge concludes.
“To be my lawfully wedded wife,” Mike says, slipping the finger onto Wrigley’s hand.
“And would you repeat after me, I, Wrigley Samantha, please state your last name.”
Wrigley’s smile is wide and beautiful and she giggles as she repeats, “I, Wrigley Samantha Moireasdanach.”
“Do take you, Michael Jason Nielson.”
“Do take you, Michael Jason Nielson.”
“To be my lawfully wedded husband.”
“To be my lawfully wedded husband.”
She puts the ring onto Mike’s finger and the two hold hands.
“Now, by the power vested in me by the state of New York, I pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
The two kiss and make their way back down the aisle, now as husband and wife. There may have been an order to the procession coming in, but on the way out, everyone just clamors to follow the newlyweds.
At the reception, an hour later, the best man sees me sitting at the bar, nursing a drink.
“That was a beautiful service,” he says.
“Yeah, it was really nice,” I answer.
“So, have you known the bride and groom for very long?” he asks.
“I’ve known the bride for a few years,” I answer. “The groom and I actually go way back.”
“Ah,” he says. “So today’s kind of bittersweet for you, then.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Well,” he says, “it sounds like the two of you have some history.”
“Oh, no,” she scoffs. “It’s nothing like that. We’re just old friends.”
“What are you drinking?” he asks.
“A tequila sunrise,” I answer. “I don’t drink that much anymore, but when I do, I don’t know if it’s the taste or the colors, but I just love these.”
“Mind if I sit with you a while?”
“Not at all,” I say.
“You know what I think is funny about weddings?” he asks.
“What’s that?”
“It’s so much buildup and the ceremony is always over so quickly.”
“I don’t know: that judge went on for quite a while. I’m pretty sure that at one point he compared love to a tollbooth.”
“Yeah,” he snickers. “I think I remember that part.”
“So, you’re saying you’d never want to get married?” I ask.
“I wouldn’t say that,” he answers. “I mean, I can understand the draw. I guess I just haven’t found the woman of my dreams yet.”
“Really?” I ask, smiling. “You look like the kind of guy who’s found dozens of women of his dreams.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he scoffs.
“It’s the tattoos,” I tell him. “They kind of paint you as a degenerate.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know that I’ve caught your name. Both the bride and groom told me, but I’m just terrible when it comes to people I haven’t had a conversation with.”
“Leila,” I answer. “Leila Tyler.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” he says. “I’m Dane Paulson. You know, I used to know a woman named Leila. She was into some pretty weird shit.”
I smack him on the arm and say, “I bet she was not.”
“No,” he says, chuckling. “She totally was. She used to have this weird ass fantasy about being picked up in a bar by her significant other.”
“I think that sounds very romantic,” I say.
“Yeah, if you’re weird,” Dane answers.
“You’re pushing it,” I warn, but my smile breaks through. “What are you drinking?”
“I don’t know,” Dane answers. “To be honest, I’m not very thirsty right now.”
“Oh? I would imagine a guy like you would be going insane over an open bar.”
“Not really,” he says. “I find people who drink to be rather boring. You know they only drink to put on the illusion that they’re interesting.”
“Oh, ha ha,” I mock.
“That’s not why I came over here, anyway.”
“Yeah?” I ask. “Why’d you come over here, then?”
“Because I think you’re absolutely gorgeous, and I know this may sound a little forward, but would you like to find a closet somewhere and fuck like bunnies?”
“A little forward?” I snort. “Does that line ever work?”
“At least once,” Dane answers, “I’m hoping.”
I down my drink.
“You know what?” I ask, “why not. Maybe I can teach you a few things. You come off a little inexperienced with women.”
“I am,” Dane says, and takes my hand.
I walk in front of him for fairly obvious reasons, but we’re delayed a minute when the bride and groom rush over, arms outstretched.
“Help me,” Dane whispers. “Wriggles,” he says, turning just enough to hug Wrigley with his upper body while I generously ease my butt against his front while I hug Mike.
“Dane!” Wrigley squeals. “I’m married!”
“I know! Congratulations! You two are going to have such a wonderful life together.”
“Thank you,” she says, and leans into his ear. “Real smooth with the positioning there, chief. I’m sure nobody’s figured it out.”
She gives him a kiss on the cheek and a moment later, she’s putting her arms around me, ever so gently, but ever so effectively moving me just far enough away from Dane to expose his rather embarrassing situation.
With gritted teeth and a smile, he casually rests his hands over the offending bulge in his pants and says, “Thanks, Wrigley. I’m so glad you guys came over.”
“Hey Dane, thanks for standing with me today,” Mike says.
“It was an honor,” Dane answers.
Fortunately for Dane, Mike is happy enough with a handshake.
“Well,” I say, “I’ve got to head out to the, uh—”
“The car,” Dane interrupts. “She forgot something, and I’m going to help her look for it.”
“Don’t forget to lift the hood,” Wrigley says, beaming.
“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Dane says. “Congratulations, you two.”
We make their way through the reception hall and find the nearest unlocked door without anyone inside the room.
It’s a small room, full of flowers.
“Do you think Wrigley’s going to mind if we do it in the bridal suite?”
“I don’t mind,” Dane tells me, and we’re locked in a passionate kiss.
“Help me get my dress off,” I say.
“Leave it on,” Dane answers.
“Pantyhose?” I ask.
“Dealer’s choice,” he answers, kissing my neck and chest.
It’s a little tricky with Dane all over me, but I manage to slip off my pantyhose, and a moment later, I’ve got the front of Dane’s slacks open and he’s sliding my dress up my thighs.
I lean back against the wall and put one leg around Dane’s body, guiding him toward me.
He runs his tip against my opening, and I’m already so wet.
Dane puts himself inside and we let out a pleasured sigh together.
“You know,” Dane says, kissing my lips and neck, “we won’t be able to do it like this too much longer.”
“Shh,” I tell him. “You’re not supposed to know I’m pregnant. I’m not showing that much in this dress, and I haven’t told you that yet. I’ll probably wait until after you’ve got me to come a few times, so if you bail on me, at least I’ll have gotten something out of it.”
“You’re so fucking weird,” he says. “But I like that, whatever you said your name was.”
“Yeah,” I scoff between sharp inhales. “That’s attractive.”
I open the front of Dane’s shirt and kiss his smooth, firm chest.
“What does this tattoo mean?” I ask, pulling him tighter with my leg.
“It means ‘virile warrior,’” he answers.
I smack him on the chest, saying, “Oh, it does not.”
“Got it when I was 18,” he says.
“Gotta move,” I tell him. “Baby’s kicking.”
“Oh my God,” Dane gasps. “You’re pregnant?”
“Oh, shut up,” I say.
“Hold on, I wanna feel it,” Dane tells me.
He bends down and puts a hand on my stomach. Our daughter moves under his gentle touch.
“I really don’t think I’m ever going to get over that,” he says. “That is so amazing.”
The door to the bridal suite opens and Dane is quick to stand up. He’s facing the wall, but he’s still hanging out the front of his pants.
“Hey, you guys!”
Of course it’s Wrigley.
Dane mutters, “You wanna distract her a minute?”
I smirk. “We were looking for the bathroom. Would you mind showing me where it is?”
“It’s down the hall on your left,” Wrigley says. “So Dane, what are ya doin’ over there looking at the wall?”
“Oh, can we not do this?” he asks.
“It’s not like it’s anything I haven’t seen,” Wrigley quips. “I’m just kidding. I just wanted to let you two know that we’re going to be cutting the cake in about five minutes.”
“All right,” I tell her, “thank you.”
We hug.
I never thought I’d be so close with Wrigley of all people, but after hearing everything she did to help guide Dane and I together, all my enmity toward her dissolved.
“Thank you for everything,” I tell her.
“You’re welcome,” Wrigley says. “Thank you for introducing me to Mike.”
There’s the sound of a zipper going up, and Dane finally turns around.
“Five minutes, huh?” he asks. “Any chance I could talk you into making it 15?”
Wrigley and I both roll our eyes.
After the cake is cut and all remaining rice is thrown and the bride and groom are off for a weekend of marital debauchery, Dane and I get in the car for the drive home.
“You know,” he says, “I’m kind of glad you almost hooked up with that fireman.”
“Yeah?” I ask. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.”
“Why? What?”
“Will,” I say. “You know, I see him in the store every once in a while, and I was thinking: I know we’re married and all, but maybe we could stand to spice things up a bit?”
“Darling,” he starts, “we just had sex in my ex’s bridal suite. I think things are pretty spicy as it is.”
“I guess,” I yawn. “Still, though, you’ve made all of my other fantasies come true. Even ones I didn’t know I had until you brought them to life.”
“Yeah, I’d say I’ve gone above and beyond,” he says.
“Meh,” I say. “You’ve done all right, I guess.”
“Oh, come on,” Dane protests. “I gave up my job in the city so that we could be closer together.”
“Tell the whole story,” I answer.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You know, the part about how l’Iris started doing so well after Wilks took over that Jim hooked you up with the seed money to start your own restaurant right down the street from where we live.”
“I hardly see how that’s relevant,” he answers.
He turns on the radio.
“Seriously? You’re still on the death metal?” he asks. “Isn’t that going to make our baby come out with hooves or craving blood or something?”
“Metal is closest in relation to classical music, and everyone knows that classical music makes babies smarter.”
“Oh, it does not. That was just a misquote, saying…” he trails off into laughter.
“Look,” I tell him, gazing up at the sky through the windshield.
“What?”
“The stars,” I tell him. “There are a lot of them tonight.”
“Leila?”
“Yeah?”
“I love the fuck out of you.”
“Thanks,” I answer. “Dane?”
“Yeah?”
“Have you ever given any thought to joining the fire department?”
He laughs. “I’ll be your fireman.”
ESCORT
By Claire Adams
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 Claire Adams
The Last Time I Saw Me
Grace
“You’re not listening to me,” John Parker, my outgoing boss says, leaning back in his oversized office chair. “We just don’t have the kind of support we’d need for a move like this.”
“We’ll get the support,” I tell him. “It’ll take a little bit of time, but I’ve been working on this for a while, John. I know what I’m doing.”
I think he’s just pissed that he’s going and I’m staying.
I’m not too sure about the specifics, but I know that whatever the reason is that he’s resigning, it’s the kind of thing that could seriously damage our stock prices.
“Well, I know you’ve put a lot of time into this,” he says, “but we don’t have the resources, we don’t have the personnel. We don’t have the support, Grace. Ainsley’s not going to go for this unless you’ve got everything locked down tight, and we both know you’re not there yet.”
The problem is that I think we — that is, Memento Entertainment — should expand into additional markets. John, though, is of the old hat. He thinks that by staying small, we stay secure.
On the other hand, I think that staying small will only prevent us from growing to our potential.
“John, with a little investment and some good faith right now, we’re going to be in a better position to take on the big guys, and maybe we can stop being the station that people flip past on their way to NBC or CBS,” I tell him.
“You’re delusional if you think we’re poised for that kind of an uptick,” he answers. “I respect your ambition, I really do, but at some point, you’re going to have to learn to be realistic. Otherwise, you’re going to end up driving the company under, or, best case scenario, someone realizes that’s where this thing is heading and they’ll have no choice but to fire you before it gets that far.”
John and I have always had friction.
I graduated from high school early: three years early, to be exact. I was 18 when I graduated college with honors, and rather than do what Mommy and Daddy told me to do and go for a higher degree in a more respectable field, I decided to use my Bachelor’s in Communications to get my foot in the door.
I can always get a doctorate in something boring when I lose interest in media.
Anyway, I’m not sure if our friction stems from the fact that I’m smarter than John and he knows it or that he was pressured into hiring me by Ainsley, a family friend and CEO of Memento Entertainment.
It very well may be a combination of the two.
“I’m just saying,” I start again, “if we purchase a few stations in markets where we don’t yet have a foothold, we can lay the groundwork for a lot more down the line. I’m not saying it’s going to happen overnight, but if it doesn’t happen sometime soon, we’re not going to be around long enough to-”
“What?” he asks. “We’ve been around for nearly 50 years, Grace. If we were going to go under, it would have happened by now. You’ve got to realize that our business model works because we don’t take unjustifiable risks. That’s why we’re still here and why so many of our competitors have lost out to the bigger guys over the years.”
“I get that we’ve got longevity,” I tell him. “What I’m saying is that we could have longevity and profitability.”
“Oh, come on, Grace,” he says. “What kind of car do you drive?”
“That’s not the point, John,” I start, but he picks up before I can continue.
“The point is that you’re pushing for us to do something that we’ve never done, and it’s going to kill the company if any single part of your plan doesn’t pan out.”
“Oh, we’ve moved into new markets before,” I argue.
“After a great deal of careful consideration and planning,” he says. “We never dove in somewhere without knowing just how warm the water was going to be.”
It’s a stupid metaphor. He’s only trying to cover the fact that his work at the company has been marked by advising our CEO, Ainsley Winters, and the rest of the members on the board not to run before we can walk.
We’ve been walking twice as long as I’ve been alive.
Still, I’m not sure if it’s what he’s saying or the way he’s saying it, but my palms are sweaty and I’m struck by a sharp feeling of terror and panic.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
“I’m fine,” I breathe, but my throat has gone dry. “We need to do something, John. If we stick with the same old approach, we’re going to get the same old payoff right until the moment when one of those companies whose jingles people actually recognize swallows us up and you can say goodbye to Memento Entertainment.”
I reach down and pick up my purse.
“Where are you going?” he asks. “We’re not done here.”
“I’m not leaving,” I tell him, and grab a piece of gum. Out of nowhere, my mouth tastes like I just finished eating pennies and blueberry pie. It’s not a good mix.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asks. “You don’t look so well.”
We’ve done this before. We’ve had this exact conversation before, only I can’t actually place when it would have happened. The feeling, though, is overwhelming.
My mind races as I think back, trying to pin it down, but I can’t think of anything that would fit.
“What the hell was that?” I shout.
John’s brow furrows. “What the hell was what?”
“It sounded like someone was trying to break…the door…with a…”
I’m dizzy and my head hurts, but my legs are numb and my vision’s gone double, so I don’t feel confident excusing myself.
“Grace?”
“I’m…fine…” I mutter, and that’s the last thing I remember.
After that, my consciousness is an infrequent series of pictures and words in a language that I’ve never heard.
I’m not in the office anymore, and for a while, I don’t know where I am at all.
There’s a man standing over me now, shining a light into my eyes, and I’m asking him, with great difficulty, what he’s done to me and why I can’t move.
He answers me, saying, “You’re in a hospital. You had a seizure.”
I try to respond, but it’s difficult for me to find my tongue to speak again.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
I look up at him, the world slowly coming back into focus. “I don’t…” I start. “What’s happening to me?”
“It takes a little time to regain yourself after a seizure,” he explains. “Do you remember anything?”
It takes some time to get the words out, but I tell him about the pictures, the unrecognizable sounds.
“Well,” he says, “my name is Dr. Jones. We’re going to get you in for some tests to see why this happened, but if you’re feeling up to it, I have some questions.”
“Okay,” I agree, trying to keep my eyes open. I’ve never felt this exhausted in my life.
“Do you have a history of seizures?”
“No,” I answer.
“Does anyone in your family have epilepsy?”
“No.”
“Do you have any numbness, tingling in your body right now?”
“My left side,” I tell him, “and both my legs.”
“All right,” he says. “I don’t think you had a stroke, your pupils are round and reactive, but we should know more once we’ve gotten you in for an MRI. For now, you should just get some rest, all right? The remote next to your bed has a red button on it; just press that if you need a nurse to come in and give you a hand with anything. Otherwise, just lie back and close your eyes. It looks like you’ve had a pretty rough day.”
“John…” I start.
“Your friend?” the doctor asks.
I nod.
“He had to go back to the office,” the doctor answers, “but he said he’d be back later to check on you. Why don’t you just get some rest?”
I’m scared and embarrassed, but I’m also exhausted. Even the suggestion of getting rest is enough to convince me to close my eyes.
When I wake up again, the doctor is standing next to the bed, saying they’re ready to get me in for an MRI.
They do their tests and get me back to my room, where John is waiting for me hunched forward in his seat, his clasped hands supporting his chin.
“Grace,” he says as I’m wheeled back into place, “are you all right?”
“I have no idea,” I tell him. “What happened? I mean, I know I had a seizure, but…”
“I don’t know,” he says. “One minute you were sitting there talking to me and the next, you were on the floor convulsing.”
I’m not entirely sure why those words make me cry.
“You’re going to be all right,” John soothes. “You can have as much time as you need. Just focus on getting better, all right?”
I would argue with him, but I’m still too tired to make much of a showing.
“If we don’t take risks,” I tell him, “we’re not going to survive.”
He just smiles at me. “Why don’t you just get some rest? We’re not going to make a move on anything for a while anyway, so you just focus on getting better so you can be back in my office, monopolizing my lunch hour soon, okay?”
My eyes start to close on their own, but I’m still muttering, “…got to get out there… people should know who we are…”
The last sound I hear before falling asleep again is John’s laugh.
***
I don’t know what time it is, but it’s got to be the next morning when I wake up, again with Dr. Jones standing next to my bed. This time, though, he brought a colleague: a tall, tan, almost statuesque man with a lab coat, covering what I’m imagining to be a toned upper body.
“Hey, I’m sorry to wake you,” Dr. Jones says. “This is Dr. Churchill.”
“No relation,” the other doctor says. I’m assuming it’s a reference to the British Prime Minister. “Grace, I’ve looked at your slides, and we’ve found an oligodendroglioma, stage two.”
I’m expecting him to say more, but it looks like he’s waiting for my reaction.
“You’re going to have to give me a little more than that, doc,” I answer, my throat sore. “I don’t think I can pronounce that, much less have any idea what that is.”
The doctor smirks, his hazel eyes intent on mine. “I’m surprised that I could,” he says. “Basically, it’s a small tumor in your brain. You’ve probably had it for years, as oligodendrogliomas are particularly slow-growing.”
“A brain tumor?” I ask. “You seem pretty calm about that. What’s the plan? Someone goes in and digs it out, or what?”
“Unfortunately, due to its location, surgery isn’t a viable option,” he says. “That said, I think we’ll be able to combat this with a mild course of oral chemotherapy.”
I think about those words for a minute.
“A mild course of chemotherapy?” I ask. “If I’m not mistaken, isn’t chemotherapy poison that’s just as likely to kill healthy cells as it is to kill cancer cells?”
“Chemo is serious stuff,” he says. “There’s no way around that, but I think that we can approach this with a five-day regimen, once a month. Like I said, oligodendroglioma is particularly slow-growing.”
“So the seizure shouldn’t worry me?” I ask. “That’s a relief. I was thinking that I had a major medical event because of something in my brain that shouldn’t be there.”
Dr. Churchill sighs and runs his hand through his short, black hair. “I know this is a lot to take in,” he says.
“How long do I have?” I ask. “I mean, assuming that the chemo doesn’t wipe it out entirely.”
“We’ve found that patients in your stage of oligodendroglioma have a very good shot of making it past 10 years,” he answers.
“Oh, good. I was thinking this might significantly shorten my lifespan, but hey, I wasn’t planning on living past the next decade, anyway.”
“It’s difficult to say precisely what’s going to happen in your specific case,” Dr. Churchill says. “Every case is different. I’ve seen people live out full lives with this diagnosis, and I’ve seen people who have had their lives considerably shortened-”
“So if you can’t tell me anything, why are you still talking?” I snap.
Yeah, it was a little rude, but let’s be fair: this guy just told me that I might not be alive in 10 years. I get that it’s not his fault, but that doesn’t make this any easier to swallow.
“We’d like to go ahead and get you started on your first course of chemotherapy right away,” he says. “That way, we’re on top of it, and it’ll be that much sooner before we can get a better idea which direction this is going to go.”
“Five days?” I ask. “I have to get back to work. I can’t sit here for the next five days while you pump toxic shit into my veins. I have things to do.”
“I really do think it’s best that we get on top of this as soon as we can,” he says. “That said, if you’d like to schedule a time in the coming days that would be better, like I said, this is a slow-growing tumor, so a few days shouldn’t make that great a difference.”
“You’re really inspiring that confidence,” I tell him. “The problem is that I don’t really think a few days is going to be enough of a wait. Why don’t we just all go back to our lives, you can give me a prescription for something that’s going to prevent any more seizures, and we can call that good?”
“I know you’re scared,” he says, “but the sooner we start your treatment, the sooner we’ll have some clearer answers. And I know that I’ve said a few times that this is a slow-growing tumor, but it’s already progressed far enough that you’re having seizures-”
“Seizure,” I interrupt, “singular. What you’re telling me is that I have a brain tumor that it’s in a place where you can’t just go and dig it out, and that even with chemotherapy, you’re not sure how much time I may or may not have left on this planet, so if it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll-”
“It’s your choice whether or not you consent to treatment,” Dr. Churchill says. “This is the best course, in my medical opinion. If we sit back and do nothing, your oligodendroglioma is going to continue to grow unabated, and yes, I’m going to prescribe you something to help prevent seizures, but that’s not going to treat the underlying cause. So, it’s up to you.”
“You know, you’re kind of sexy when you’re frustrated,” I tell him.
It’s a deflection, sure, but I don’t feel the slightest bit comfortable making this decision right now. I don’t know if I ever will be, but right now, I want to make him feel just as uncomfortable as I feel.
The problem is, that’s not really possible given the current situation.
“Thanks?” he says, looking to his colleague who, for some reason, hasn’t yet left the room. “But I think we should talk about your treatment.”
“You said oral chemotherapy, right?” I ask.
“That’s right,” he answers. “It comes in a capsule that you can take at home.”
“So, it’s less effective than the needle-in-the-arm stuff?” I ask.
“Not necessarily,” he answers.
“I thought people came to the hospital when they were taking chemo,” I retort. “Tell me it’s not my particularly rosy demeanor that’s made you decide to send me home instead.”
He smiles with a mouth full of straight, white teeth, saying, “That’s not it at all. I just think that this is the course that would be best in this situation.”
“Then why do other people come in when they get chemo treatment?” I ask.
“There are a few reasons,” he says. “First and foremost, when IVs are involved, it’s best to have as close to a sterile environment as possible. Outside of a sterile or mostly sterile environment, all kinds of nasty things can enter the system through the IV site, and especially with something like chemo that has a profound impact on the white blood cell count, that’s not a risk that’s really worth taking.”
“But oral chemotherapy doesn’t have that problem?” I ask. “I mean, I know there’d be no injection site or whatever, but the white blood cell count — that wouldn’t be knocked-”
“You’ll still want to be careful,” he interrupts. “Stay away from people who are sick, have recently been sick, or are at risk of getting sick — you know, like parents with sick kids and that sort of thing. There are some other things that you’ll want to know before we send you home, but first, I’d like to answer any other questions you may have.”
“Is the treatment any better than the disease?” I ask.
“We’ve found that chemotherapy can be very effective for people with oligodendroglioma,” he answers.
“You didn’t answer my question,” I tell him.
“Chemo’s not without its risks,” he says. “There are side effects, and you’ll need to contact me when or if they happen to you. That said, I’m confident in this course of treatment.”
“Is the treatment any better than the disease?” I ask again.
“With any treatment, it’s important to weigh the risks and the benefits,” he says. “In your case, I feel confident in this course.”
“Yeah, you’ve said that a few times,” I scoff. “You still haven’t answered my-”
“It’s not going to feel better,” he says. “Most people on chemo, oral or intravenous, have serious side effects, many of which are not very pleasant.”
We go on like that for a while. He tries to convince me that chemo’s the way to go and I try to avoid the reality that I’ve got this thing growing in my brain that may or may not kill me before I have a chance to settle down and maybe squeeze out a kid or two.
I’m only 24 years old.
This can’t be happening.