How to Save a Life (2 page)

“Jill, you’re going to be okay. You know that, right?”

“Of course.” I wave dismissively. “But better safe than sorry, right?”

“Right.”

I walk away, but once I’m inside the elevator, headed for the ground floor, I release the breath I didn’t know I was holding.

I’m so focused on telling myself not to worry as I cross the hospital’s main atrium on the first floor that I collide with a man who’s walking in the opposite direction.

“Oh, geez, I’m so sorry!” I exclaim, stumbling a little.

He reaches out to steady me, his left hand on my right arm. “Are you okay?” he asks.

I nod, shaken. “Totally my fault. I wasn’t paying attention.”

He smiles, and I’m momentarily struck by the way his green eyes seem to catch the sunlight filtering through the glass ceiling ten stories up. “I’m sure it was mine. I was watering.” He holds up a gray garden hose and nods at the sinewy tree with the narrow, winding branches and the dense leaves at the center of the atrium. “I get distracted sometimes.”

I glance at the tree, which I’m pretty sure was a gift from a donor. I’ve loved it since it was first planted here during an expansion of the hospital five or six years ago. A construction crew had installed new columns in the atrium, as well as stone benches encircling the central area, but it was this tree—which replaced an unassuming flower garden—that changed the whole feel of the hospital.

Life
. That’s what the tree makes me think of. It’s strong and thriving, always reaching for the sunlight. It provides the perfect message, somehow, for a children’s hospital that treats some of the sickest kids in the state.
Just keep living. Just keep reaching for the light
.

“Ma’am? Are you okay?” The gardener I’ve crashed into is trying to get my attention, and I blink, embarrassed. He must think I’m a total lunatic.

“I’m sorry. I’m fine.” I refocus on him and am temporarily thrown by the thought that his eyes are the exact same color as the leaves of the great ficus. How have I never noticed him before? “I was just thinking about how this tree is the perfect thing to welcome people to the hospital.”

He raises his eyebrows. “I couldn’t agree more.”

“Well.” Now I’m officially awkward. “Sorry again. And, um, have a good day.”

He laughs. “You too.”

I move past him toward the front entrance to the hospital, and despite the fact that I know better, I find myself turning around, just once, to see if he’s watching me.

He is. And as he smiles again and raises a hand, a silent good-bye, I can feel heat creeping up my neck and into my cheeks. I wave back and hurry on my way, wondering how it’s possible that I felt more in a single awkward interaction with a stranger than I did on my date last night with a perfect-on-paper guy.

“
D
R.
F
ROST WILL see you now.”

I’ve been waiting for thirty-five minutes for my appointment with Gerald Frost, Atlanta’s most renowned neurologist. I have to remind myself that even when he’d asked for the biopsy, he hadn’t seemed particularly concerned. Then again, there isn’t an ounce of warmth to him; maybe he isn’t capable of concern. “Don’t worry,” a nurse had said to me as I walked out of his office last week, visibly shaking. “He’s just very thorough. He orders follow-ups all the time.”

But now, as one of Dr. Frost’s PAs leads me back to his office instead of an exam room, the fear that I’ve been keeping at bay for the last several days suddenly rears up so powerfully that I have to stop and steady myself against the wall.

“Miss Cooper?” the PA says with concern, reaching for my arm to help steady me. I look at her, and in an instant, I know I’m not worrying about nothing. There’s pity in her eyes instead of professional detachment.

“It’s cancer, isn’t it?” I ask her, although it feels implausible. Aside from the headaches, I’m fine.

“I don’t know, Miss Cooper,” she says, looking away. “I’m sure Dr. Frost will explain everything.”

Five minutes later, I’m seated in a starkly decorated office when Dr. Frost, a sixty-something rail-thin man with gray hair, a narrow mustache, and wire-rimmed glasses strides in holding a manila folder. He shakes my hand briskly and settles in behind his desk.

“Miss Cooper, I have a bit of bad news,” he says without any preamble.

It seems he’s waiting for a response, so I manage to croak out, “Yes?” over the lump in my throat.

“I’m afraid that you have an aggressive glioblastoma. It’s actually quite extraordinary that you’ve continued to function without any major side effects aside from the headaches. It has to do with the location of the tumor, but to be honest, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

I stare at him. “You’re telling me I have aggressive brain cancer?”

“I’m afraid so,” he says, refocusing on me as some of the eager excitement seems to drain out of him. “Glioblastomas arise from the star-shaped cells, called astrocytes, which form the supportive structure of the brain. They’re supported by—”

“I know,” I say abruptly. “I’m an oncology nurse. I know what a glioblastoma is. What’s the course of treatment here?”

He blinks at me a few times, as if my direct question has unsettled him. “Miss Cooper, as I was beginning to explain, glioblastomas are generally very malignant and invasive. The median survival rate for these types of tumors in general is just shy of fifteen months.”

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 bald 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.”