There was—or is, who the hell knows—a disease growing inside of me . . . killing me.
“Laney?” A gentle hand touches my knee and I look up to find Dr. Hopkins watching me. “Are you okay?”
That’s a stupid question. No, I’m not okay. I had my breast removed, for crying out loud, and now I’m about to have some extremely toxic chemicals pumped through my body for the next several months in case there are any ‘bad cells’ left floating around. So no, I’m not okay. “Yes, doctor. Sorry, please keep going.” Luke wraps his hand around mine and squeezes it gently. I squeeze back, thankful that I’m not doing this alone.
She nods with a knowing smile. We spend the next hour reviewing my diagnosis, surgery, and upcoming treatment plans. “So if it’s okay with you, Laney, I would really like to get started as soon as possible. You’re six weeks post-op, and the sooner we can start your chemotherapy, the better.”
I look at Luke, though I’m not sure why exactly—it’s not like he really has a say in this. But his soft smile is all the reassurance I need. “I’m ready to get this started,” I answer with false bravado.
“When can she start?” Luke asks. He scoots forward in his chair—as if it will help him hear her better—but his hand stays locked in mine.
“Well,” she says, looking at me with a hopeful smile. “We’re going to draw your blood here today, so as long as all of your blood levels look good, we can start tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” I pull my arm away, my fingers sliding from Luke’s tight grip, and I run a shaky hand across my head. “I . . . I wasn’t expecting it so soon.” I’d thought maybe she’d say next week, or the week after that, to give me time to adjust and process everything. But isn’t that exactly what I’ve been doing the past several weeks?
Dr. Hopkins must notice my hesitation because she scoots her stool closer to me. I hold up my hand, signaling her to give me a minute. Her eyes are soft and understanding. “I know this is hard, Laney, but it’s necessary.” I nod. “If you need the weekend to prepare yourself, we can start on Monday. It’s your call.”
She’s right. I need to get this over with. I need to make sure this horrible disease is gone for good so I can get back to my life.
“Tomorrow is perfect.” My voice hitches, and I try for a smile but fail miserably. Luke wraps his arm around my shoulder and whispers in my ear.
“I’m here with you every step. Got it? Every. Single. Step.” I nod again, because apparently that’s all someone can do in this situation, and then wipe away a tear that slips from my eye.
“Great.” Dr. Hopkins stands up, shaking first my hand and then Luke’s. “Sit tight for a minute. One of the nurses is going to come in and give you information about the treatments and talk to you about side effects and what to expect.”
A loud beep pulls me from a fog and I look down to see that my whisk is sitting in a chocolaty batter. Honestly, I have no idea how I even got to this point. It’s sort of like arriving at a destination and then realizing that you don’t remember actually driving there.
Another timer goes off and I walk to the stove, slip on an oven mitt and pull out the pan, loving the way the sweet cinnamon smell fills the kitchen. Closing my eyes, I inhale deeply, allowing my body to savor the familiar scent—a scent that may very well become foreign to me in the near future.
“You must be Laney.” A short, plump woman pushes her way into the room and extends her hand. Yes, another formality that I’m just not in the mood for. I shake her hand nonetheless, and she sits on a rolling stool and opens up a folder. “My name is Tara and I’m one of the nurses in the oncology unit so you’ll probably be seeing a lot of me.” She flashes me a quick smile, but her attempt at making me smile falls flat. “Okay, this folder is for you. You get to take it home and you’ll want to comb through it and read everything thoroughly, but right now I’m going to hit on some of the important stuff.” She hands me the first paper. My eyes slide across the page and my heart stops momentarily before slamming violently into my rib cage.
SIDE EFFECTS OF CHEMOTHERAPY
I suck in a deep breath as my eyes travel over the words, one by one, each word crashing into me like a freight train, each one affecting me a little bit differently.
Nausea . . . vomiting . . . diarrhea . . . constipation . . . bruising . . . bleeding . . . fatigue . . . loss of appetite . . . loss of smell or taste . . . loss of hair.
Each word is a knife to the gut, but the last three feel like someone takes that knife, jabs it in as far as it could possibly go and then twists it until every last bit of my insides are shredded into tiny little pieces.
I am a woman, and there are two things that help distinguish me as such—my hair and my breasts. A giant lump forms in my throat and my bottom lip starts to tremble. My hand slides across my lap and into Luke’s, whose tight grip is probably the only thing holding me together right now. It’s bad enough I’ve already lost one breast and that in the place of my once perky, plump tissue I have a jagged scar over sunken flesh. But now, on top of that, I’m going to lose my hair. I don’t want to lose my hair, I don’t want to wear a wig, and I certainly don’t want the looks of pity that a bald head will undoubtedly draw.
Luke nudges my arm and I look up as I struggle to keep my emotions in check. He nods to Tara and I shift my attention, but the fear of everything that is about to happen to me has my blood pumping so hard through my body that it’s now pounding behind my ears. The only thing I seem to hear is the beat of my own heart, and I suppose I should at least be thankful I can hear that . . . it means I’m still alive. I watch Tara absently, and I’m able to decipher a few things she says.
“Your treatments will be every other Friday for six months . . . Treatments will take approximately four to five hours . . . You’ll get your blood drawn before each round of chemo . . . We’ll give you medicine in case the nausea and vomiting get to be too much . . . Make sure you’re eating healthy . . . Be sure and drink lots of water . . . Feel free to bring someone with you during your treatments . . . Don’t hesitate to ask any questions.” My eyes clog with tears and I look down, rubbing my temples, willing myself to calm down.
“Laney? Laney . . . are you okay?”
A large hand settles on my shoulder and I whip around to find myself face to fac
e with Levi. He steps back, his hands up in the air. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” I look at the knife in my hand and then back up at him. “Are you okay?” he questions.
I lower the knife and mumble an apology before turning back toward the counter. What was I doing? Oh yes, the dough. I finish cutting the rolled-out dough into three-inch chunks, and then I check the oil to make sure it’s warmed up to the right temperature before I drop the chunks into the sizzling pot. I turn back toward Levi and find him standing in the exact same spot as before.
“I’m fine,” I shrug. “Why would you think I wouldn’t be okay?” I ask as nonchalantly as I possibly can. He eyes me curiously for several seconds.
“Well, for starters, you’re crying.” I rub my arm across my face and sure enough . . . tears. The strange thing is that I don’t even remember crying. Levi chuckles, but I’m not really sure what he’s finding funny about the situation.
“What? What are you laughing at?”