What I’m doing right now can’t really be called running — it could barely be called climbing — but as quickly as I can with my tortured muscles and my complete lack of energy, I’m trying to make it at least to the trash can at the top of this flight of stairs.
A couple of minutes later and I don’t really feel all that much better. I just have a momentary reprieve from the hell that’s going to keep coming back until this shit is out of my system for a few days.
It’s worse this time.
Jace warned me that that’s often the way it works, but I didn’t think it was going to happen this quickly, and I certainly didn’t think it was going to hit this hard.
I stagger back into the doctor’s office, and Yuri, no doubt accustomed to seeing people come in the way I’m coming in, walks over to the water cooler and fills a glass, bringing it over to me as I all but collapse into the chair by the office.
“You know,” she says, standing over me, “with Dr. Churchill being so late to the office, I really don’t think that we’re going to be able to get you in for the MRI at your scheduled time. I would just take you down there myself, but he prefers to sit in with the radiologist while they do the scan.”
“He seems to have a lot of time on his hands for an oncologist,” I mutter, curious as to whether Yuri knows about his other job, but not wanting to be too blatant about it.
“This is actually very unusual for him,” she says. “He’s never been late to the office since I’ve worked here. Can I get you anything else?”
“A mint,” I say, “or a stick of gum would be great — anything to get this rotten taste out of my mouth.”
“Sure thing,” she says, and goes back to her desk. She opens one of the drawers, pulls out a pack of gum and tosses it over to me.
I take two sticks and chew one while I let the other rest on my tongue, folded in half. When I go to throw the pack back to her, Yuri shakes her head.
“Keep it,” she says. “I’ve got a whole drawer full.”
“I guess it should be comforting to know this sort of thing happens quite a bit,” I say, doing my best to smile.
“You didn’t throw up in a trash can, did you?” she asks.
I hang my head a little.
“It’s okay,” she tells me. “Just with the chemo in your system, we need to make sure that maintenance knows they need to wear gloves and dispose of the bag in medical waste instead of the normal trash.”
“Top of the stairwell,” I tell her. “Sorry about that.”
“It happens,” Yuri says, picking up her phone, “trust me.”
She’s informing whoever that “one of Dr. Churchill’s patients” did blah, blah, blah, and I’m not sure whether I’m having so much trouble concentrating because I’m trying to block out my embarrassment, or if it’s a symptom of something.
Whether that something is the disease or the cure — I don’t know that, either.
Yuri hangs up the phone and turns back to me. “I’m sorry you’re having a rough go of it,” she says. “Did you drive today?”
“I took a cab,” I tell her. “I had a feeling I wasn’t going to be the safest driver this morning.”
“Well,” she says, “I’ll try Dr. Churchill again, but at this point, I think you’re safe to head home if you want to.”
I tongue the wad of gum in my mouth into my cheek and tell her, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to sit here for a little bit longer. I’m feeling a little weak.”
“Sure,” Yuri says. “You can stay here as long as you want.”
I sit and I take deep breaths, trying to get past this feeling I know I’m going to be stuck with for the next four days at the very least.
Some time goes by and other patients come into the office, but Yuri informs them that the doctor’s not in. She offers to set up an appointment with another oncologist for everyone, myself included, but nobody takes her up on her offer.
After a while, Yuri prints out a sign saying that the doctor had an emergency and that patients who would like a referral can simply call the number at the bottom to get in with Dr. Hoynes.
With that, she turns off the main light and closes the office door.
“I should probably get out of your hair, huh?” I ask.