Surgeons don't show weakness. It's cardinal rule number one. When you're trusted to save a life, and to do it correctly, showing weakness in yourself means admitting that maybe you're not God, and it doesn't always go right, and that you can fail. It's admitting you're human. And surgeons can get sick.
Izzie sat on her diagnosis for two days before telling Cristina Yang. Metastatic melanoma – it seems like a myth, or something you only hear about when you're reading a medical textbook. Sure, she heard the warnings, the strictures about using sunscreen and watching moles and the whole thing. It never stopped her from tanning before a vacation or getting the occasional sunburn.
Now, she curses herself for being stupid.
There are five stages of grief, according to the psychologists. The first, denial, passed quickly. Izzie is a doctor and she isn't stupid. If the scans say that she's got tumours growing in her body, spreading quickly, then she knows that the diagnosis is probably true. She had a whole team of interns working on this – some from top medical schools. They looked, and looked again. The illness is real. And she knows it innately.
The second stage is anger, but Izzie's not angry at the universe. She's angry at Denny for not being able to tell her this when he was here. Partly, though, she knows that it wasn't his job to tell her anyway. The third stage, bargaining, didn't even register on her radar. There's no point in bargaining with a God who's already made up His mind.
No, the stage that Izzie is stuck in is the fourth stage: depression. She's having a hard time believing that it's even worth it to try any treatment. And her four friends – the friends that work hard every day alongside her to save patients from unimaginable nightmares – they can't fathom someone who wouldn't want to give it a shot. Even if the shot only has a five percent chance of hitting the target.
Five percent. It could be point five percent as far as Izzie's concerned. Those odds aren't good enough for her.
Now, she lies in a hospital bed, watching Alex snap the buttons on her gown's right sleeve; watching Cristina measure her pulse by the second hand on her Fossil watch; watching Meredith smooth the covers over her legs and rub her feet, and she still feels the same.
She doesn't want to leave it – and she doesn't want to give up.
But five percent is so slim. And what's the point of trying when she only has these precious moments left?
//~//
Sleep is intermittent. She didn't realize how hard it was to sleep in a hospital; that's probably because she's never had to do it outside of an on-call room before. People like Owen Hunt and Derek Shepherd can fall asleep in a moment on a bed beside their patients' rooms – others, like Meredith, have to be in a dark room, wrapped in blankets, to even reach a dream-like state. There's been many times Izzie's come into an on-call room to collapse, only to find Meredith awake, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep because of the strange bed or the slight noise from the radiator.
This is the problem – this, right here: Life has been easy for Izzie Stevens. She doesn't know what it's like to have it hard. Despite her upbringing, she's pushed through – she's gotten the prize. She got scholarships to medical school. She modeled to pay the rest. She took care of her mother, and her grandmother, for years, and all she ever felt was a sense of pride and security. She had this. She had life. It did not have her.
She moves her head on the pillow, blonde hair spilling over the edge of the white case, watches George begin to take blood from her arm.
"What's that for?"
"Keep an eye on your counts," he replies. It's probably been the hardest on him. Izzie is his best friend. He still hasn't been able to look her in the eye without tearing up, and although she knows he's trying to protect her feelings, this is what she wants to avoid. She leans down to catch his eye, and he looks at her from honest, teary blue eyes for a moment before averting his eyes again to watch the blood fill the syringe.
Alex holds her hand, but he won't look at her either. Finally, she just breaks the silence in the room.
"I'm still the same! I'm still me!" Her voice is loud in the quiet, and four heads shoot up in surprise. Izzie blinks, feeling tears heavy behind her eyes, and clears her throat, speaking more quietly.
"You think that I'm someone sick, now."
Meredith shakes her head. "Iz, that's not true."
"No, it's true," Alex says, shooting Meredith a look. "It's true."
Izzie finally looks at him. "This is why I didn't tell any of you."
"You told Cristina," says Alex, his voice low. "You told Yang."
Cristina shakes her head. "Leave me out of this, Alex."
"No, I want to know! Why could you tell Yang and not me, Iz?" Alex is trying to keep his voice down, but there's a tremble behind the calm words, and Izzie turns her head away from Alex, just as Cristina says, "Enough."
"I want to be by myself," Izzie whispers, and they nod.
"Okay, Iz."
When they leave, she stares at her hands – her surgeon's hands, so steady and smooth, and notice their paleness; the tape of the IV criss-crossing over the blue veins.
And for the first time since the diagnosis, Izzie begins to cry.
//~//
Addison Montgomery is pretty happy with her life. There's nothing wrong with having a successful practice in L.A. And if you asked her, she'd say that she made the right decision to come to Oceanside Wellness.
She did, in many ways. She has her share of men and she has a perma-tan. Her hair is short and shining; her legs are always bare and you can wear a tank top in January. What's not to like about this city?
She rarely thinks of Seattle Grace anymore, save for when she gets a brief email from Richard or a phone call from the new neonatal surgeon, asking for a second opinion or another take on an existing patient. It works for her. She left for a reason – and she doesn't regret it.
Except at night, when it never rains, or when it does rain, and never stops. She thinks about a blonde girl who always has a smile. And then life hurts a little and so does her heart.
The phone rings on her desk, this morning, and the area code is from Seattle, but it's not the hospital. Nevertheless, she picks it up.
"Addison Montgomery."
"Dr. Montgomery?" The voice is timid, soft, but unmistakeable.
"Meredith Grey." Addison doesn't even ask the question, and Meredith's voice grows even softer.
"Sorry to bother you."
"It's fine, Grey. Why are you calling me?"
"Well, we thought you should know. Izzie's not doing very well."
There's a silence and Addison's brow becomes furrowed. "What do you mean, not doing very well? Emotionally?"
"That's not what I mean." There's a sigh on the other end of the phone, and when Meredith speaks again, her voice sounds foggy.
"She has metastatic melanoma, stage four. Tumours on her brain, her liver and her skin."
Another silence. Then, "What?"
"She's got cancer, Addison. I'm sorry to call you, but I think you should come out. Or talk to her at least. She's got a five percent chance of survival. Current prognosis is that she's got maybe a few months to live."
Addison's hand shakes a little on the phone; she grips it harder, to stop the shaking, and manages to ask, in a steady voice, "When did she find out?"
"About a week ago. We found out yesterday. She's scheduled for surgery as soon as Derek comes back to work."
"Wait, why is Derek out of work? What the hell is going on?" Addison rubs a tired hand across her forehead and sighs. "I probably don't want to know, do I?"
Meredith's voice is stronger now. "We can fill you in when you show up. Addison – I know what happened between you. I get that this could be hard. But she's dying, for all intents and purposes. She doesn't have a long time."
"Yeah. I get that." Addison closes her eyes; imagines the blonde and her smile, and despite herself, her eyes tear. "God, I'm sorry, Meredith."
"I'm sorry, too." Meredith's voice is soft. "Will you come?"
Addison sits back in her desk. "Yeah. I'll come."
//~//
Izzie lies on her side. It's where she's most comfortable; it's where the nausea abates a bit. She pretty much has constant nausea, now; she's not sure if it's because she's been diagnosed with cancer or if it's because it's always been there, and she's never slowed down enough to notice it.
It feels strange to be the patient instead of the doctor. It's especially strange because she feels fine, other than the slight pain and nausea, and she doesn't need help to get to the bathroom or eat or anything. Nearly always, one of the residents sits with her. Cristina normally studies something, or just holds Izzie's hand, staring off into space. Izzie maybe appreciates her the most; she doesn't feel the need to say anything inane. Although, to be honest, all the residents are good at keeping away from the inanity. It's one of the perks of working in the medical field. There are no lies. There's no stupid, ignorant comfort.
Meredith wants to talk, but Izzie hasn't let her, so far. Of the four, she's worried most about Meredith – not because they're close, but because Mer isn't known for her coping skills. She's been through a lot and she hasn't handled it well, but there's something horrible in watching someone die of a horrible disease – and that someone is the same age as you are. Izzie's lived in Meredith's house for a year and a half and she's slept with the woman when Derek jerked her around, or she was upset about her mother, or some other crisis happened. She knows that Meredith sniffles, even in her sleep, and that she'll wake up with tear tracks still on her cheeks. She knows that Meredith will cry for months before she'll admit it.
George smiles through the pain. He smiles into her face and his eyes rest lovingly on her hair, or her cheekbones, and very rarely, in her eyes. He strokes her hair. He rubs her shoulders. George works by touch – and he seems to be memorizing Izzie, one touch at a time. He's the only one she's let hug her – because she knows that it's such a part of him, to be tied to someone by the touch of their skin.
He's so warm. It makes it hard to think that she won't be, in months' time.
She's been avoiding Alex because she doesn't know what to say. She loves him and she doesn't; she wants him to finally have a woman who won't run out on him in some way. He's so damaged inside and she isn't helping him, so she refuses to engage. What she doesn't realize is that she's making it worse for him.
He comes every day, anyway. He holds onto her hand; he runs his lips over the back of it; he strokes her hair as she lies on her side, facing away from him, and he cries, which makes it about ten times harder.
She sometimes cries, too.
It's such a limbo, and this is why most surgeons hate to appear weak.
Because this is a surgeon's hell – to be on the other side of the knife.