Radiate (17 page)

“Seriously?”

“Your surgery was six hours and then you were in the recovery room for about an hour,” Dad continues.

“Dr. Dykema came out to see us,” Mom tells me. “He said he got the entire tumor out; however, he had to remove your fibula and part of your periosteal nerve.”

She’s speaking Swahili to me right now, although I did get the part about the tumor being gone.

“You’re gonna be okay, kiddo,” Cliff says from the end of my bed. Lily stands wrapped against him, smiling at me. I lift the corners of my mouth in recognition.

Someone’s missing, though. Or was that just a sedative-induced dream? “Where’s Gretchen?”

“I’m here, Hay.” Mom adjusts to make room for my big sister. Gretchen takes the hand Mom’s been holding and she squeezes tightly. “I’m here, Hay. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Thanks,” I say quietly.

Looking about, my entire family has aged while I’ve been under the knife. I feel like shit causing them such worry. Crinkles from loss of sleep surround Mom’s eyes. Dad’s beard has a day or two’s growth. Cliff and Lily seem as if they haven’t eaten a good meal all day. And Gretchen. She looks like the beautiful big sis I’ve always known, although it’s been about three years since I’ve actually seen her in person.

“You came.”

“As soon as Mom called to tell me what was going on. Had I known, I would have been here sooner.” I’m not too groggy that I miss the exchange between my mother and sister that shows my sister’s utter annoyance at being kept out of the family informational loop.

“Did you see my uniform?” I ask dreamily.

“Yeah! Mom said you’re a varsity cheerleader. You’ll be jumping and tumbling in no time,” my sister says with such confidence in her eyes.

Yes. My leg was saved.

However, I’m minus a bone.

And part of my nerve.

My leg has been saved.

Thank you, Lord.

The question remains, what in the world is next for me?

My help cometh from the Lord which made heaven and earth.
He will not suffer thy foot to be moved: he that keepeth thee will not slumber.

—Psalms 121: 2–3

I sleep through the night and wake up the next morning to find Gretchen, not Mom, sleeping on the cot next to me.

“Good morning, sunshine,” she says with a yawn when our eyes meet.

I stretch awake and feel less like I’ve been run over by a Mack truck. I still can’t move my leg since it’s all wrapped up in gauze and Ace bandages to keep it protected. It seems to be twice its natural size and feels like it’s made of cement every time I try to lift it. I’m not complaining, though, because it’s still there. Two tubes peek through the gauze where fluid is draining from my surgical area. I can’t look at it as the thought of something still stuck in my leg like that skeeves me out. Thank heavens I’ve been asleep when the nurses have come in to empty them. The only thing I can see on my left side is my big toe poking out of the bandage. It just stares at me, unmoving, like it’s not even mine.

Gretchen’s eyes follow mine, and she moves to grab her purse. She pulls out a bottle of vibrant pink nail polish and moves to the foot of my bed. Slowly, she spreads the shiny paint onto my big toe, bringing it to life.

After it dries, I giggle when she takes a Sharpie and draws a smiley face into the pink.

“There,” she says. “That’s a whole lot better.”

Rochelle sweeps into the room with a tray in her hand. “Now, I bet y’all someone in this room is powerful hungry.”

“That would be me,” I say in a hoarse voice.

“Oh no, sugar,” she tells me. “You can’t eat just yet. It’s too soon. We had a tray ordered already, so I thought your momma or sister would like it.”

I slump. “Oh. Sure.”

The nurse sets the tray on my rolling table. Then she presses a few buttons on the bed to raise me up into a sitting position. Each squeak and hum of the bed makes my body ache at the motion.

“We need to get you up walking the hallway soon,” my nurse tells me.

“I’ll help her,” Gretchen says.

Rochelle nods.

Gretchen sets about uncovering the plates. “Do you mind?”

“Go ahead,” I say, wishing I couldn’t smell the food. It’s just too soon after my surgery for me to eat. There are scrambled eggs, grits, and apple juice. She salts and peppers the eggs slightly and stirs butter into the grits. Taking the spoon, she dips it first into the eggs and then into the grits and holds it up to her mouth to blow.

“You still like all of your breakfast food mixed together?” she asks.

I smile. “You remembered.”

“I remember,” she starts, “that we did that family breakfast at the church one Easter morning, and Cliff fussed at you for mixing your eggs, grits, and bacon all together.”

“Yeah, it embarrassed him somehow.” A bubble of laughter rises from me. “I told him it all gets mixed anyway.”

Gretchen loads another spoonful. “Exactly.”

I study my sister’s face while she eats in silence. I remember the small mole on the side of her nose. It’s covered with makeup. Her dark eyes are lined, and mascara touches her long lashes—lashes I always envied. Her brows are perfectly plucked, just like mine, since she’s the one who taught me how to pluck them when I was ten years old. There’s a tiny white scar at her hairline where she cut herself on a diving board when she was my age. She’s twenty-seven now. Ten years older than I am. Worlds apart.

I finally break the silence. “Why have you been away so long, Gretch?”

She fingers the plastic wrap over the apple juice. “Oh... you know . . .”

“Actually, I don’t. I haven’t seen you since I was fourteen.”

“I know.”

“You stopped answering e-mails.”

“I know.”

“And you don’t call me anymore.”

“I know!” she says, tossing down my spoon. “I’m sorry, Hay. It’s not you.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s family stuff, you know?” Her chin drops, and she studies the juice where it rests on the table. “Stuff I did when I was young and stupid and influenced by the wrong friends.”

“That was a long time ago,” I say. “What happened to bygones being bygones?”

Her eyes lift. “It’s not that simple, sweetie.”

“Well, it should be. I think y’all are all being stubborn asses.”

“Hayley!”

I watch Gretchen take the fork from the tray and scoop up more eggs into her mouth. I hope her appearance here at the hospital isn’t merely temporary. I want my sister back in my life. I need her—and the rest of my family—to help me get through the next phase of whatever this cancer has done to me.

“Where’s Mom?” I ask.

“She went to Cliff’s to get some sleep and to be with Dad. They texted that they’ll be here in an hour. They’re giving us some time together.” She opens the bagel and takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “I’m sure it’s been hell for Mom sleeping on that cot while you’ve been in the hospital.”

“She hasn’t left my side,” I note.

“Because that’s the kind of mother she is.”

“I know.”

“She feels it’s her fault,” Gretchen says.

“I know . . .”

“That she should have protected you better.”

“So you two are talking?” I ask.

“While you were in surgery. We... talked for a little bit, mostly about you.”

Something in Gretchen’s eyes tells me she regrets the distance between her and our parents and how whatever dirty laundry is there has put a wedge in our own relationship. The words don’t need to be spoken.

Gretchen moves the half-eaten breakfast away and pours me ice water in a plastic cup with a straw to help me keep hydrated. She then comes back to sit on the edge of my bed.

“Why don’t I wash and style your hair for you. I bet you feel gross, huh?”

I tug my hand through my greasy tresses. “Yeah, a little.”

“I’ll fix you up,” she says with a wink. “Let me go get a wheelchair and we’ll get you in the bathroom.”

My sister moves to the door and I feel her absence immediately.

“Gretch?”

“Yeah?”

“How long will you stay?”

Her eyes touch mine. “I’m not leaving until you’re out of here.”

***

Later that afternoon, the nurses bring in water bottles that I have to blow air into, making the water go from one bottle to the next. It’s supposed to help clear the anesthesia from my lungs so I won’t get pneumonia. It’s pretty funky and a little hard to do, but it has to be done. The last thing I need after all this time in the hospital is to get some other stupid illness that slows me down even further.

I’m working on the bottles for the third time with Dad supervising when Dr. Dykema and his team enter my room.

“There she is,” he says in a cheerful way, quite different than his usual holier-than-thou attitude. “Have you been up walking around yet, Hayley?”

“Um... no. I can barely move as it is.”

He comes over and checks the drains. “These can come out this afternoon, and then I want you up on your crutches walking the hallway.”

“You got it, Doc,” Dad says.

“So, what’s the prognosis?” Mom asks. Of course, she’s already consulted with Uncle Roger who’s told her what to expect, but she’s held off telling me anything and instead is letting me hear from my doctor.

“Yeah, when can I break out of here and go home?” I ask with great anticipation.

The doctor scratches his goatee, which means he has something very important to say. “I wish it were that simple, Hayley. You see, your tumor was malignant to the point where it had reached your tibia. I scraped the side of your tibia, but in order to be sure we got all of the cancerous cells, we’ll be following up your surgery with chemotherapy and radiation treatment.”

I sigh. Dad presses my shoulder to calm me.

I’m thinking my newly set goal of making the first football game may be a pipe dream.

“We have you scheduled for five days of chemo, followed by five days of radiation.” He flips through some notes on my chart. “Also, your recuperation and rehabilitation could take some time. I have a physical therapist arranged for you, and our team of psychologists is here for you in case you need to talk about any mental demons you’re facing.”

I can’t help but snort my laughter. “Dr. Dykema, the only problem I have is that PHS’s first football game is in two weeks.”

“You’re not going to make the first game,” Dad says.

My face falls. Tears threaten to pour from my eyes.

Mom’s face scrunches up. Dad speaks up again. “Do you think you’ll really be up to cheering, Hayley? That’s going to be very tiring for you.”

“Yes, sir,” I snap out. “I can do it.” Then I pause with the realization and glance up at my doctor. “You’re not telling me I can’t cheer, are you? Because you can’t tell me that. You can
not
tell me that.”

Dr. Dykema frowns at me. “I didn’t say that. I believe the exercise will be very good for you. However, I don’t want you running or jumping on that leg.”

“That’s hard not to do if you’re a cheerleader,” Mom says.

“That’s cool,” I assure them. “I won’t run and when I jump, I’ll do everything on my right leg.” I continue pleading my case. “Can’t I do rehab stuff back home?”

Dr. Dykema nods. “Your parents and I will talk it over and work something out.”

“They have a great gym at her school and a new conditioning coach for the football team. I’m sure he can help,” Dad says. “Maybe we can talk to a physical therapist, and then we can put her on a work out regime there.”

“That’s possible,” the doctor says.

“How are you feeling after the surgery, Hayley?”

I look at my doctor, unsure of the proper answer to this question. “Um... sore. Tired. Hungry. Impatient.”

He gives me a long blink over his reading glasses. “All very valid feelings. I’m talking more about depression, anger, and those sorts of things.”

I have had moments of depression and self-pity. Who wouldn’t in this situation? I always seem to talk myself out of it, though. What more could a psychiatrist do for me? “No, sir. Honestly, I just want to get home and back to my life. That would be the most awesome therapy for me right there. This—this thing is now out of me, so the best thing for me to focus on is being able to walk and run and jump again.”

“I have to be very honest with you, Hayley. I had to resect a portion of your periosteal nerve as it was woven into the tumor.”

“What’s that?” I ask before my parents can.

“It’s the nerve that aids in lifting your foot and moving it from side to side. There’s no guarantee that you’ll be able to walk normally again.”

I hold my hand up. “I’m not hearing that,” I say sternly. “I will walk just fine. All I need to do is exercise and stuff. I will walk, and I’ll do it like I always have.”

Dr. Dykema actually smiles at me, and then he turns to my parents. “You have a very strong girl here. We’ll work with you on a fitness schedule for at-home rehabilitation. Our therapists are available twenty-four/seven if you ever need them.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Mom says. “We’ll keep that in mind.”

Not that I’m perfect or Miss Goody Two Shoes or think it’s bad to talk to a professional or anything—that’s not it at all. I merely want to get back to my life. It’s
really
that simple. I could scream or cry or throw things. That’s not going to change anything.

“Two more weeks, huh?” I ask.

He nods.

“I’m going to miss cheering for the first game. That totally sucks.”

“It can’t be helped,” the doctor says.

“It’s an away game, Hay,” Mom notes. “You’ll be there for the first home game, though, and that’s more important.”

“I suppose,” I say, trying to breathe through the pain of actually missing a game.

Dr. Dykema pats the bed. “I am working to get you out of here. In the meantime, follow your nurses’ directions and get moving up and down the hallway.”

“Yes, sir,” I say.

“I wish all of my patients had your attitude, Hayley. Recovery is mostly a mental thing. You’re going to need to keep up that positive attitude to fully recover.”