Dr. Helm sets his computer down on the counter and sits in his roller chair. He takes off his glasses and spins around to face us.
“Who is this?” he asks, pointing at Coy.
“That’s my son-in-law,” Dad says before we can speak up.
My eyes nearly fall out of my head. “I—” I begin, trying to clean up the disaster my father just made, but Coy cuts me off.
“I’m Coy, sir. It’s nice to meet you.”
The doctor looks at the three of us. He finally lets it go.
“So, Joe, how have you been feeling?” he asks.
Dad shrugs, moving the candy around his mouth. “I’ve felt better. Felt worse. You know how these things go.”
“I do,” Dr. Helm says. “How has he been eating, Bellamy? Drinking? Sleeping?”
“About the same,” I say, fighting through the tightness in my throat. “He eats a few bites of soup here and there. Some yogurt. Melon—a lot of melon. He wants a hamburger now and then, and I make it, but he only eats half of it, maybe.”
Dr. Helm nods. “Well, that’s all okay as long as he’s eating something. But I’m going to give you a prescription to pick up that will boost his appetite a bit. Okay, Joe?”
“Whatever you say, Doc.”
Dr. Helm grins. “What about you, Bellamy? Are you doing okay? This isn’t easy for you either.”
Coy squeezes my hand.
Every female in the universe knows never to ask how you are doing when you feel like your life is a violent roller-coaster ride. But, somehow, I keep the tears back.
“I’m doing okay. Better lately,” I add, my voice dropping.
“That’s great. I’m glad to see you’ve gotten married or …” The doctor clasps his hands together in front of him. “Whatever this is. I know you like to do it all on your own, but it’s important to have a support system. I’ve been telling you that for months now.”
“She has one hell of a system,” Coy speaks up. “My family lives next door. Now that she’s actually family, she’s going to have so much support she’ll beg for it to stop.”
Dr. Helm laughs. “Good luck to you. This one …” He whistles through his teeth, making us all laugh.
Our laughter subsides as Dr. Helm picks up his computer. He places it on his lap and pulls up a screen.
The fun in his features washes away and is replaced with his doctor face—the one that makes me feel like he tricked me into relaxing and that he’s about to end my world.
I scoot to the left of my chair out of instinct. Coy must notice because he leans forward and to the edge of his chair so that we’re even closer.
“Your blood work and PET results came in,” Dr. Helm says, clicking around on his screen. “We have some good news and some not so good news.”
“Give me the good news first,” Dad says. His voice is tight and controlled. His face blank and prepared. “Let’s hear it.”
“Well, your blood counts look good. I’m surprised,” he says. “Looks like Bellamy is quite the nurse. So, good work on that.”
“Thank you,” I say, although it feels weird to thank him. I let it go.
Dr. Helm sighs. “Now for the bad news.”
I look at my father. He stares straight ahead at Dr. Helm. His hands lay flat on the wheelchair rails; his feet are balanced against the floor. I can only imagine what he’s feeling and have wondered so many times if I’ll feel that way too.
But I push that out of my head and focus on what the doctor says next.
“While the cancer has not spread—and that’s more good news,” he says, “it also hasn’t shrunk. And we were hoping that we’d see it recede this time after having used the new chemo we’ve been trying. Remember?”
I nod. “So, what does this mean?”
“Well, we have two choices. One would be to try this chemotherapy a little longer and see if something changes. I’m happy with the containment. That’s not a bad thing. If that’s all we get from it, it’s better than the alternative,” Dr. Helm says.
“What’s the other choice, Doctor?” Coy asks.
He watches the doctor with an intensity that surprises me.
“Well, there’s another chemo drug we can try,” Dr. Helm says. “We’ve been putting this one off for a while because the side effects can be nasty. We have ways of making them more manageable, and some patients do really well with them. But it’s impossible to predict how someone will react.”
Dad frowns.
This is not what he wanted to hear. This is not what I wanted to hear. But it’s not the worst-case scenario, and I focus on that.
“What do you suggest?” I ask. “If the current medicine is working—”
“It’s not.” Dad’s voice is loud and clear. “I want to try the new medicine.”
“Are you sure?” I ask him.