Dana's Valley (16 page)

But Mom's concern for Dana overrode any worries about Corey. She would have to take him back in hand once they had seen to the more immediate needs of Dana. Mom hugged us all a few extra times, and finally the car was pulling out of the driveway. I saw Dana wave one last time, and something about it made my stomach curl up in a ball. It was scary to see your sister go off to the city hospital for tests that might bring bad news. How were we to know what the verdict might be?

Then I remembered Mom's last words.
“Keep praying,”
she'd told all of us.
“Remember … we have an awesome God.”

That made me feel a little bit better.

Brett was allowed to drive me to the basketball game. I was named in the starting lineup. It was exhilarating. I played a fair game—for as nervous as I felt. Though I wished Dad were there to see me. We managed to win the game, but only by two points. Still—that was enough. In fact, the closeness of the game had made the win feel ten times better.

I had a hard time going to sleep that night. I don't know what was on my mind the most. The basketball game or Dana. My mind seemed to swing back and forth between the two. The good and the bad all mixed up. I tried to pray, but my thoughts kept wandering.

The next morning Grandma's voice called us for breakfast. With Mom gone, I had to make the school lunches, and I struggled with the job. The PTA at our new school was working on getting a lunchroom going that would supply hot meals, but so far it hadn't happened. I sure hoped it would be operating soon. What I could offer to Brett and Corey fell far short of Mom's usual creative cuisine.

The school day seemed to drag. I was tempted to see if Brett would drive me home before he went to his job, but I knew it wouldn't work. So I took the bus as I was supposed to. Corey traveled on the same bus, and I was afraid if I weren't there with him, he'd go and do something foolish for attention. He had taken to showing off among friends.

Things at home weren't much better. It wasn't the same having Grandma looking after us. Corey decided he didn't like the supper of pork chops and green beans, so he talked her into making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for him. I knew Mom would never let him get away with it, but I wasn't going to argue with Grandma, who said she thought it would be all right. This once.

That night I was brushing my teeth for bed when the phone call came. Dad told Grandma that Mom was feeling pretty tired. It had been a long day—and Dana's tests were just beginning.

I talked to Dad too. He asked questions about the big game, chores, and homework. I answered as best I could, but my heart was still a little sore from disappointment that he hadn't seen it. Then he talked to Corey. I noticed that Corey omitted any report on the peanut butter and jelly business. He did talk about school. Then he asked about Dana. If she was better yet. He sounded disap~pointed when Dad said she wasn't.

Then it was Brett's turn. He had already been listening to all the other conversations, so he didn't even ask about Dana. In fact, he didn't talk much at all. Just answered Dad's questions. Grandma took the phone again, and I turned and headed off to bed.

But I couldn't go to sleep. It seemed so strange to look across the room and see Dana's empty bed. I could hardly wait till they were all home again and things could get back to normal. I loved my Grandma Walsh and was thankful that she was there to take care of us, but it sure wasn't the same as having the family all together.

In the morning I still felt listless and ill at ease. Without Mom and Dad to make sure we kept up on the daily routine, it was easy to let things slide. Brett had already decided that the trash could wait another day, and I noticed Corey hadn't bothered to make his bed yesterday or this morning. Grandma hardly ever went upstairs, so there was little chance that she'd ever notice.

Strangely, I found that I had wandered to the piano and had taken a seat on the bench. I'd been brooding about Dana, and somehow I seemed closer to her there. Before I realized it, I was practicing. Not necessarily the assigned songs, but at least some of the ones I enjoyed. I even liked the sound of the scales, because it brought a little of the feeling that Dana was home again—the Dana we all used to know.

Before long the half hour had passed, and Grandma called that the school bus would be arriving. I gathered my school books and went to hurry Corey. Brett had already left.

It wasn't until I was seated on the bus that my mind began to plot. If I worked especially hard the next day, I could probably play the recital piece I'd been assigned weeks ago for Dana when she got home. She'd often chided me about not taking my piano seriously, and I was pretty sure it would make her proud to hear that I'd been serious for her sake. It was about the only thing I could think to do as a gift for her. So I determined that I would be ready.

When my parents finally returned with Dana, none of us could greet them with the usual excitement. We had already heard the diagnosis, and it had been grim. Mom walked Dana slowly in and got her seated at the kitchen table as Dad retrieved their luggage. We spoke of daily things, and Mom asked questions about how we'd done in their absence, but none of us really paid much attention to the conversation. I was watching Dana's face, wishing there was something I could say to her. It didn't seem the least bit appropriate to bring up the recital piece now.

There was little that I understood about the medical jargon Dad had reported over the phone. Many of the words I hadn't understood at all. The only one I had even heard before had been “leukemia,” and it had an eerie sound. I had never known anyone with that disease. Somehow, it seemed even more frightening than lupus had. At least the expressions on the faces of people who were old enough to understand had given that impression.

I'm sure Dana was scared too, but she had become difficult to read. She didn't say much, and she looked even paler than when she had left. I decided to save my questions until we were alone in our room.

When we retired that night, I mentally fumbled through the questions I wished to ask. Dana hadn't seemed anxious to discuss her experiences earlier, but I hoped to be able to coax her to open up a little to me.

I dropped down beside her bed, where she was already resting, and leaned against it. “Want to talk about it?”

“Okay.” Her eyes looked a little pathetic as she said, “I guess I don't mind.” It took her some time to gather herself and continue. “It was really scary. There were so many doctors and so much that I didn't understand. Once my blood tests came back, I guess everybody realized it wasn't lupus. That I had leukemia. I really didn't want to ask what that meant. I don't know much. But it's bad, Erin. It's really bad.” She lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling for a while.

“The worst thing was how much blood they took,” she finally continued. “I thought I wouldn't have any left by the time I got home. Just look at my arms.” She drew them from under the covers and showed me the marks where the needles had gone in.

“Did it hurt?” My eyes were welling up with tears.

Dana nodded. “Every time. I tried not to think about it, but it was hard. I had to stay in the hospital too. Mom and Daddy had thought we could all stay in the hotel together and just go back and forth from the hospital, but the doctors said they wanted to monitor what I was eating and begin records of my other statistics, so they had to admit me.” It was strange to hear her use medical terms. It didn't sound at all like the words that should have been coming from Dana.

“I felt like a lab rat, the way they poked at me and did things without even asking if they could, or even telling me what they were doing. And it was even worse when they tried to make me laugh. I never felt like laughing—not once—the whole time I was there. And it was awkward to have someone trying to make me.

“It was so much worse when Mom and Daddy weren't there. At least they didn't leave very often. I think they had to go talk to the doctors sometimes. But they even took turns staying with me at night just so I wouldn't have to be alone. Erin, I don't think I could have slept at all if I'd had to spend a night there alone.”

I tried to swallow, but my mouth had gone dry.

“There was one needle—you just wouldn't believe how long it was. They put me out before they stuck it in me, but I saw it before I fell asleep. They stuck it all the way into my hipbone. It still hurt when I woke up. And I just hung on to Mom and cried. I know that sounds like I was a baby, but that was one time I just lost it.”

We were both crying now. I wished with all my heart that I could do something—anything—to make it easier for Dana.

“But I don't understand. How come they were wrong? They thought you had that other thing—lupus,” I finally managed to ask.

“I don't know. I don't think anybody knows for sure. My lab tests might have been wrong. It's even possible that the lupus turned into leukemia, or something like that. I didn't ask many questions about that because it doesn't really matter. I've got
this
for sure.

“They've started me on some different medicine. One makes me very nauseated. And my nosebleeds are even worse at night now. I wake up and can hardly breathe. And the aching is even worse. Sometimes I hurt so bad I can't sleep. Pretty soon I'll have to go back to a specialist and start chemotherapy. I hate that. From what Dr. Rutherford described, it's just awful. They inject stuff into me that kills all the cells in my body that make new cells quickly. But it doesn't just kill the bad cells. It also kills cells in my stomach, and my mouth. Dr. Rutherford said it would make me nauseous and I'd probably get mouth sores and stuff. I'll have to go to a different hospital a long way from here, and I'll have to go back three times a week for five or six weeks.” Her voice took on a strange pitch. “Erin, they told me my hair might fall out.”

All I could do was stare at her in horror. Dana's beautiful hair! I couldn't even imagine her without it.

Word must have gotten around quickly, for we soon started to get plenty of phone calls. Then Pastor Dawson came to visit, and he looked very somber, not even attempting to tease Corey like he normally did. The next thing I knew I was opening the door to casseroles and loaf cakes. That scared me even more. That was usually what Mom did when someone in a family had died. I kept thinking about what Dana had whispered across the room that night in the dark … about dying. It had sounded preposterous then. Now it took mental effort to keep it out of mind.

Next our youth pastor came and talked to my folks. He said that the youth of the church were remembering Dana in prayer. I heard them discussing the details of Dana's situation and then, for the first time, heard them use the word “cancer.” Surely leukemia wasn't the same thing as cancer. I knew about cancer. Trisha Morgan's grandma had died from it. So had Mr. Perkins, my sixth-grade science teacher, and Jessie Landry, who had been only in her thirties at the time. If everyone had exclaimed over and over that Mrs. Landry had been so young to have fallen prey to this disease, how could cancer possibly have touched Dana? Cancer was a frightening word—far worse to me than leukemia.

“But God can do wondrous things,” I heard over and over, “and these days treatments are curing many children with leukemia.” I clung to that … with my whole heart. We just had to pray. I started praying even more and more fervently. I begged God to make Dana better—and by the end of basketball season in February too. It looked as though we might make the finals. I was sure she'd want to see the playoffs. Why not pray for that? God could do it. This time, I was determined to believe hard enough. No more vague prayers. I was ready to be specific. If God commended the friends who had carried the paralytic man to Jesus and then ripped off a roof just to get them together, then I would do the same for Dana—figuratively speaking. If prayer was what was lacking, I would pray like I'd never prayed before.

I secretly hoped that we'd waken one morning to see her bouncing through the house as she used to do—completely restored. But, in the meantime, the treatments proceeded. Mom and Dad were talking to doctors again, and Dad was searching the Internet to discover as much information as he could about Dana's condition and the medical procedures that would follow.

“Well, you know they've made considerable advances in chemotherapy. And the new drugs can counteract many of the side effects,” I heard Mom say to Mrs. Ramsay, the prayer coordinator, who was calling again for an update. “I'm told that it's not as bad as it used to be.”

I listened while I unloaded the dishwasher. Mrs. Ramsay must have been talking, because Mom was listening and saying, “Uh huh,” and periodically nodding. Mrs. Ramsay was a nurse. I figured she probably knew much more about this than Mom. “Well, yes. They do. Yes. They can. … We realize that they can go further if they need to, but we're praying that the chemo will be all that's necessary. Sometimes it is … yes. She's to start the first series next week. The sooner the better, of course.” Mom looked spent, but she labored through the conversation dutifully. “No, we're not looking forward to it, but it's certainly better to be able to begin some type of treatment. … I don't know if Dana really knows what to expect. The doctor said they'd talk to her on the first visit. … Yes … I'm dreading it. … Well, thank you.” Mom wiped a tear and drew the conversation to a close. “We're really learning again how important it is to be part of the church family. It's so good to know that folks are praying. We need your prayers. Yes … thank you. We appreciate it so much. Yes … we'll keep you informed. Bye now.”