Radiate (16 page)

I watch as the ceiling panels pass by overhead; a fluorescent light breaking up the tiles every now and then. We stop, and I hear the
ding
of the elevator.

“We gotta go,” one of the orderlies says.

“We love you, Hayley.” Mom kisses me.

“I’ve got my watch set, Little Kid. I’ll see you when you get out.” Dad squeezes my hand.

Cliff and Lily layer kisses on my forehead.

Gretchen stretches out over my chest and hugs me to her. “I love you so much. Everything will be fine, Hay. I’m here for you.”

Our hands entwine, and I sense the energy and love from her pouring into me. Fingers drag smoothly against each other as we’re finally separated. The wheels begin moving, and soon the tang of my sister’s sweet perfume is but a memory. My skin tingles in a good way. I’m still covered in my family’s love like an additional blanket on top of me.

Everyone has told me it’s going to be all right. Why should I be worried, then?

When the elevator reaches its floor—
did we go up or down?
—I am being wheeled down another long corridor and into an area where a sign says Hospital Personnel Only. Double doors automatically open for us, and I’m pushed into a room full of people dressed in aqua scrub suits, masks, and hats. Gloved hands begin handling me, sliding me from the gurney onto the operating table.

“It’s so cold in here,” I say through chattering teeth.

A nurse with lots of mascara around her hazel eyes smiles down at me. “We have to keep the temperature low for sterile reasons. Don’t worry, we’ll get you more blankets.”

I hear the clang of instruments being placed on the metal tray. Knives and stuff that are going to be slicing into me. Gack... Why am I thinking of things like that? Is there going to be a lot of blood? How will they clean it up? What will they do with it? Will I need a transfusion?

These are all questions I
should
have asked Dr. Dykema—or at least Dr. Stanislovitis—when I had the chance. Stupid me!

My eyes shift up, and I squint hard at the intensity. Gigamonic circular lights shine down on me. It’s like a dentist’s light on acid. I blink as I try to stare past it. Nothing but gray and white walls, hospital staffers, and the antiseptic smell of sterile cleansers.

My arms are shaking. My legs are quaking. My body quivers from head to toe.

The trembling isn’t just from the temperature. I’m downright scared. Shitless. It’s all finally hitting me. The first two surgeries were a simple piece of piss. This one is major.

What happens if Dr. Dykema opens up my leg and the tumor has taken over too much? Will he really take my leg? The nerves? The bones? I never thought of it before, but will I be able to walk again? Will I be able to cheer? Why hadn’t I pressed these issues more? Was I truly in
that
much denial?

The nurses attach sticky pads with cords on them on each of my boobs and one right under my left one. Then they roll me to my side and place them on my back, as well. Some sort of monitors. There are so many of them now that I can’t keep them straight. I just want them to keep putting blankets on me.

My pulse trills against my temple. My eyelids twitch in anticipation. When I’m back in place on the stretcher, I do my damnedest to slow down my frenetic heartbeat that now I hear echoing throughout the operating room.

I try to focus on what the angel said last night.

Everything will be just fine.

Similar words my sister whispered to me.

Everything has to be fine, and I’ll be cheering again in no time.

I’ve earned this. I can’t lose it before I’ve experienced it.

Fear shifts in my veins to utter frustration. This is the stupidest summer I’ve ever experienced. And it’s absolutely the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever had to deal with. Cancer? At seventeen? Are you kidding me? I’m not going to be one of those people who has to have a benefit for them to raise money so they can get back to their regular life. I’m a cheerleader. I will cheer myself up. I
will
overcome this!

The angel said I would.

I know Mom and Dad had to sign a form giving Dr. Dykema permission to “do whatever is necessary” to save my life. However, no one is taking my leg.

No. One.

The medical staff flits around me connecting this, that or the other tube or wiring. Machines beep, whir, and hum. Are they all attached to me? So much technology.

My nose twitches. A fiery itch.

I pull my hand from under the covers and scratch away.

“Don’t do that, Hayley,” the nurse instructs in a calming voice.

“I have to . . .”

A rubber-gloved hand comes down on my nose. “I’ll do it for you.” She scratches for a moment and I’m fine.

It returns, though, and so does my hand, scratching away at the annoyance of this whole procedure. Fidgety frustration. Itchy irritation.

“I’ve got it,” the nurse says, removing my hand once again.

The third time I reach for my nose, another person steps in to strap my hand down to the operating table.

My brain screams!

Echoes of panic fill me like I’m those caged animals at the zoo. Let them be free. Let me be free. Don’t tie me down.

Yet the words won’t leave my mouth. My tongue is heavy with the sedative.

I don’t want this to be the end for me.

I don’t want to lose my leg.

I don’t want to... die.

I want to run. To escape. To bolt as far away as possible.

I will my feet to move and my legs to carry me out of here.

Nothing.

My body has betrayed me.

Or perhaps it knows what’s best.

How can losing a bone, or, God forbid, a limb, be best?

What is the lesson in all of this?

Why me?
Why me, God?
Why not Chloe Bradenton?

No, I shouldn’t think that. Why anyone?

I want to run. I want to escape. I want to disappear to a deserted island where no one can threaten me with surgery, chemo, amputation, cancer. The salt air will heal me.

In my mind, I’m fighting the hospital staff tooth and nail. I’m flailing about, screaming for my freedom and insisting that the diagnosis is incorrect. It really
is
just a calcium deposit exactly as Dr. Colley first said. I’m shaking, I’m screaming... but only in my head.

In reality, a small groan escapes my parched lips.

Before I can even wrap my muddled brain around this procedure any further, a masked man with amazing crystal blue eyes leans toward me. Even though I can’t see his mouth, I sense that he’s smiling at me. Then, I see the darker eyes of Dr. Dykema, so confident and assured in himself.

“Good morning, Hayley. We’ve got a long day ahead of us,” the doctor says. “You just go to sleep, and I’ll take care of everything.”

I think I nod at him. I’m not sure.

The blue-eyed doctor tells me, “I’m going to put you to sleep now, Hayley. Just relax.”

Easy for him to say. He’s not the one strapped to an operating table.

He continues in a comforting voice. He almost sounds like Dad, which makes me take a deep breath and release the tension in my muscles. Dad is near. Mom is near. Cliff and Lily are with them. And Gretchen came home. They’re all waiting for me.

Dr. Blue Eyes continues. “I want you to count slowly from a hundred to one. Can you do that for me?”

Another nod.
I think so.

The overhead light reflects brightly on the tip of the silvery needle he holds up. The syringe is full of a clear liquid that is headed into the tube on my hand.

“Hayley, you’re going to feel a slight burn, but it’s nothing to be worried about. Start counting.”

“Ahhhh-hundruuuud... ninnney-nine . . .”

“Good girl.”

Searing heat moves into my hand and up my arm. It’s as if the liquid has on a new pair of cleats and is running through my body as fast as it can... going where?

“Ninnney-ayyyyyyte . . .”

My ears ring from a phone call I cannot answer.

Buzzing. Darkness coming.

The magic elixir closes the curtains around my eyes. I am helpless to stop it.

God, please take care of me.

The blackness encompasses me.

Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.

—Buddhist Proverb

U
gh.

Where am I?

Owwwwwwwwww .
.
.

There are no words to describe the excruciating pain ripping through my body. Okay, so
excruciating
may be good enough. I try to wrap my brain around which particular adjectives my English teachers would want me to use here: agonizing, unbearable, terrible, awful, severe, sharp, painful, and just down right
hurting.

Oh right. I’m in the recovery room.

I have no idea what time it is.

Or what day it is.

The oxygen mask is, again, tight on my face. My face is wet again. Tears, no doubt—tears I don’t realize I’ve even shed.

I go to lift my hand; it feels as if it weighs fifty pounds. My fingers brush against the annoying oxygen mask, sweeping it off my face and away to the side. A nearby nurse places it back over my mouth and nose. I go through this dance with her a few times before she tucks my arms back under the covers and scolds me.

“This helps you wake up.”

Wake up. From a dreamless sleep.

It seems as if only moments ago I was being told to count down from one hundred, and now I’m here.

I try to move. Anything. Nothing reacts to my brain waves.

Am I paralyzed?

No, I lifted my hand before.

I attempt to send a message from my mind to my legs. However, there’s a heaviness weighing me down.

A man appears next to me pushing a bulky machine. I can’t exactly describe it except it’s gray and ominous looking. He moves my covers aside and they block my view of what he’s doing to me. Whatever it is, it sends roaring pain through all of my extremities.

“Ouch!” I cry out. A lead apron is draped over me.

The nurse is at my side. “It’s okay, sweetie. He’s just taking some new films.”

“Oh... okay . . .”

It’s anything but okay. Tears cascade out of my eyes, dripping down into my hair.

Hummmm .
.
. click.

Hummmm .
.
. click.

Hummmm .
.
. click.

So many X-rays. It must be good, though, if he’s taking pictures. My leg has to still be there, right?

He slides the machine away, removes the apron, and covers me back up. I think I pass out from the pain.

When my eyes lift again, I don’t know how long it’s been. I’m in a perpetual fog. A density that surrounds my senses from smell to sound to sight. To my left, the moans and groans of another patient fill the air. I wonder what this person is in for. Is he okay? Will he survive? I’ve survived to arrive at this point.

Of course, I’m breathing and alive, but am I whole?

My stomach plummets like a falling elevator. I remember the waiver my parents had to sign, and I begin to tremble uncontrollably. Slowly I slide my hand down the left side of my body, inch by torturous inch. A groan escapes from my windpipe as I try to lift myself. There’s a mound of blankets over me, warming me, yes, but weighing me down and keeping me from shuffling about.

My hand only reaches to my kneecap... which is still there. My thoughts scatter, and I can barely keep them organized from the metronoming of my heartbeat.

Okay... I’ve got to get a message down to my left foot.

Move.

Move!

I’m telling the toes to wiggle, but are they doing it? Are they even still there?

Terror fills my lungs. My heart hammers away in my chest to the point where I feel as if the next beat could be the last. I breathe in the antiseptic aroma of the room through my nostrils, overtaking the freshness of the hissing oxygen.

Sheer panic takes over. Flashed images of living life in a wheelchair or hobbling around on a prosthetic leg amp up my dread. I can’t cheer if there’s nothing to cheer about.

My chest heaves up and down and my groans increase. I know I’m freaking out; yet I can’t calm myself. I take the oxygen mask and chuck it across the room.

“Help me! Please... I want my leg back! Please . . .”

The nurse rushes to my side with the abandoned mask in her hand. “Shhh... there, there now. You’re just fine. Just fine.”

Through my uncontrollable sobs, I manage to get out, “My leg. I can’t reach down far enough. Is my leg there? Please... please tell me . . .”

The kind nurse smooths my hair away from my face and dabs my tears with the back of her hand. “Shhh... you’re just fine, Hayley. Your leg is still there. You came through the surgery just fine. Dr. Dykema removed the tumor and your fibula. Now just calm down and breathe.”

Your leg is still there.

Her words flit through my head.

I still have my leg.

I’m going to be okay.

Exhaustion and relief coat me in yet another blanket of warmth, and I relax into the bed, secure in the fact that I’ll be able to cheer after all.

Thank you, God. Thank you for saving my leg.

***

“There’s my girl,” Dad says to me, who knows how much later.

I lift heavy lids to find my dad standing over me. I’m back in my hospital room where everyone is watching me and waiting. I try to form words, but my throat is arid. Instead, a long sigh releases from my chest.

Dad waves his hand in front of his face. “Phew! I’m going to pass out from all that gas on your breath.”

I try to laugh with him. Everything hurts too much. Even my eyelashes feel sore.

“Hey, baby,” Mom says from the other side of my bed. I crane my neck to meet her gaze. Her hand moves to mine and our fingers entwine instinctively.

My mouth opens. Nothing. I lick my lips and swallow hard at the dry clot. “Wh-wh-what time is it?” I finally eke out.

“It’s almost five thirty,” Dad reports.