E.J.'s POV
Luck isn't getting what you want. It's surviving what you don't want. That's what makes it so hard. Luck isn't some mystical thing to me because I've seen it first hand and been dealt a lot of shitty crap in my life that I never asked for. I don't think luck is real; I can't, because if I did, I'd have to say I have the worst luck in the history of the world.
We think being lucky means finding ten bucks on the sidewalk or getting an A on a test we never studied for. But then, what is being unlucky? Is being unlucky being an orphan when you've been abandoned by your mother and not knowing your father? Does being unlucky include being the smartest kid in your class but being held back a year because of an unprecedented amount of absences?
The funny thing is, we usually never get what we ask for. Instead? We get everything else. And that sucks. Because maybe if I asked for cancer it would be a little less painful than when I had obviously not asked for it. Who in their right mind asks for cancer? I know if they knew what it was to be sick and on the verge of death but, with just enough fight left to get to keep trying to evade death, they would never in a million years discover a bump and think, 'oh shit! It must be cancer, that can't be so bad, I've always wanted cancer'.
No one who's ever had cancer would wish it on anyone but the people who haven't handled any situation first hand that dealt with cancer wouldn't actually know any better. It's like wishing someone dead. Would you do it if you knew what it meant to be dead?
Cancer. It's not something to be trifled with. It's life or death.
So instead of wishing on luck, I say that luck is not getting what you want but rather surviving what you don't want, and that's exactly what I'm doing, surviving.
"Hi. My doctor told me to meet him at the ER desk. Told me to have you page him." I tell the ER nurse at the desk. I notice that the entire place seems to be harried and sporadic. But then again, hospitals are supposed to seem that way. Or at least emergency rooms inside of hospitals are supposed to seem that way.
"Who's your doctor?" the nurse seems nice enough, or at the very least, not rude, but barely spares me a glance before she goes back to typing.
"Dr. Shepherd." I try to sound confident even though I don't feel it. Confidence is key, fake it until you make it, right?
"Which one?" The nurse is now focusing her attention on me; obviously I've caught her attention.
"Oh, yeah. Dr. Derek Shepherd, He's in the neurology department." I smile at her, hoping my request will happen.
"Alright, I'll page him. Why don't you have a seat right over there?" The nurse points to some chairs close to the desk. "I'll tell him you're over there when he gets down here." I nod, pick up my bag and start walking to the chairs before the nurse stops me. "What was your name again sweetheart?"
"EJ." I don't give anything more as I walk to the chairs and make myself comfortable among them, prepared for a sizeable wait, given the busy emergency room.
As I wait for Dr. Shepard, I scan the lobby and ER. There seems to be an overflow of people in the waiting room that mostly keep to themselves. It's hard to really see any of the patients because they almost all have their curtains drawn. I do see a few, but they don't particularly spark my attention. The doctors here are far more entertaining to watch than anyone else anyways.
In the corner I see two doctors, one a small blonde woman, and the other one male and almost in a defensive stance, both in navy scrubs, and bickering like siblings. I can't help wondering what they could be fighting about. It is obvious from their posture that they are related somehow. Maybe siblings wondering who is going to call mom tonight? Or spouses wanting to know who will pick the kids up? No, no, definitely siblings. The hug to make up for whatever squabble they had and the man gives a feather light kiss to the forehead of the women as they rush off in opposite directions.
By the trauma rooms, stands one red-haired, taller man, who is dressed up a bit in a button down shirt, tie and slacks combo and who has a white coat on top and seems to be directing the chaos. I deem him to be the head guy. He seems to be doing a good job of directing the chaos. I can tell by the posture he holds himself with and the serene look on his face in the middle of this emergency room that he is ex-military. There are little cues in his posture – shoulders pulled back and tensed as if he forever carries a heavy backpack, a stiffness that seems to calm him and proceeds all other signs in his posture– but the biggest signal is the way he holds himself at rest. His arms pulled back, right hand grasping his left wrist, it's the same way my last foster father, who was a marine and a decent guy, stood. Eyes set, as if he's forever at attention, but able to exude such power. He ends up rushing off with a gurney that comes in fast from the sliding doors of the ambulance bay, so I keep scanning the room.
By the patient beds there are a lot of doctors in pale blue scrubs. They all seem to be unsure and skittish. I'd have to guess they're new and don't want to mess up. They seem to jump at the doctors' in navy, wanting to impress them. Two stick out to me, a young woman with curly black hair and glasses that seems to know where to go and what to do. She has three others following her around, definitely senior to them. The second who catches my eye is another young woman who holds a bit of fragility to herself; and seems to put up a front of friendly but strict as she conducts a couple of the others. I can tell they will be the most successful in the pack of young doctors. The pack of doctors are directing a play and seem to be doing well enough on their own but lose my interest as quickly as they grabbed it.
Finally, rushing in from the set of sliding doors is a gurney being bossed about by a very small black woman, in the ever present navy scrubs, who seems to be even more powerful than the red headed gentleman. She is definitely the person who is really in charge, and she knows it. They rush off quickly before I really get a chance to really see the small black woman.
I've always found people watching to be fascinating and so much more fun than bringing my own book to read or twiddling my thumbs while I wait. I don't like interacting with people much but they are fun to watch. Only now, I've already scanned the room and found no one left worth watching and I am left to twiddle my thumbs in anxiety.
It is maybe 5 minutes before a tall man with ridiculously wild, but at the same time, in place, hair in the ever present navy scrubs is directed my way by the nurse at the desk. I can only assume this is Dr. Shepherd.
"Didn't know I had a patient named EJ." Dr. Shepherd starts out with before I get a chance to stand up to greet him correctly. "Dr. Derek Shepherd," he sticks his hand out, as if waiting for a handshake. "Can I ask why someone who is clearly not my patient has had the head nurse page me to the ER?" He puts his hand in his pocket when he realizes I am making no move to shake it.
"Yeah, about that, I was actually referred to you by my doctor back home." I tell him, omitting that he's likely never heard of my doctor. He seems surprised that I've come prepared for the line he has given me.
"Okay EJ. Let's go somewhere a little more private to discuss this then." Dr. Shepherd leads me out of the ER, down a corridor and into a conference room. Inside, I take a seat as he does and I pull my file from my backpack and slide it across the table to him.
"Recurrence of a choroid plexus carcinoma, stage 3." I start with as he opens the file.
"When was the initial diagnosis?" He seems to be asking the generic pre-requisite questions, no give away of emotion yet.
"March 16th, 2009. We treated with removal of the tumor, 6 rounds of intensive chemotherapy and a stem cell transplant. The recurrence was first discovered on my 3-year scans, October 8th, 2013. 11 days ago. It's all there in the file."
I see a moment of shock on his face before he schools it away to keep looking through the file and I continue in a rambling fashion. "Everyone in the field says the reoccurrence is inoperable. Dr. King, my primary doctor, said she knows of only one neuro guy who would even consider going near it. You. I thought I'd try my luck and see if you'd, at the very least, consult on my case." I tell him as he begins looking through all the papers from my medical files. "As I'm sure you know, it's highly aggressive and fatal if not treated quickly and aggressively. I came here wanting you to try. This is going to kill me if I don't try, and I'd rather die trying."
I see Dr. Shepherd has his brow furrowed as if in deep concentration as he looks at the scans. He lifts the latest CT, from two weeks ago, to look at and his frown deepens. "Who'd you say referred you again?" He keeps looking at the scans as he talks.
"Dr. Rachael King, she's a pediatric oncologist at New York Children's. Said if I wanted a chance of beating it I needed the best and that you're the best. Said you're the only neurosurgeon she thinks would go anywhere near it." I kept my eyes steadily trained on him to convey the sincerity of my trust. The trust I feel about him taking on my case in the experimental capacity it requires.
At that, Dr. Shepherd puts the films down to really look at me for the first time. "How old are you kid?"
"14 as of 5 days ago, sir." I try my hardest to be the politest, most thoughtful and insightful kid he's ever met.
"And where are your parents? Shouldn't they be here with you?" He has his eyebrow crooked up, knowing a 14 year old coming from their doctor in New York to a doctor in Seattle all on his own is near impossible, much less with a fist-sized tumor taking up residency in the back of their head and in 11 days.
I know the pity I will get, the pity I hate, but I go ahead and pull the trigger anyways. "Never met my dad, mom split when I was 10."
I see the sadness in his eyes before I hear it in his voice. "Then who's in charge of you?"
"No one." Ashamed, I look down.
"What do you mean no one? Someone's got to be in charge of you. Grandparents? A sibling?" Dr. Shepherd seems almost pained at the turn in events.
"I ain't got anyone. I was a foster kid until I left to come here." Dr. Shepherd lowers his gaze and won't make eye contact with me anymore. I know that I may have lost my one shot, and move to snatch my file and leave. But I stop myself momentarily.
"Look, I don't have any money; I definitely don't have insurance or even more than $44.35 to my name. But I do have a will to live and I do have my files. I came here cause you're the only person who can save me. I know it's a lot to take on. It's a tough tumor; tell that to the kid living with it." He looks up at me when I say this, so I know I've hit a sore spot.
"I'm just a kid, who can't pay you or give you someone to file an insurance claim with even, but I am a kid. What would you do if I were your kid? Wouldn't you fight to the end of the earth to get the best possible medical care for me? Wouldn't you fight to make sure I got a shot to fight the damn cancer? I need someone who can fight for me. Because I've been trying but its hard when you've been sentenced to a painful death within the next 4 months because of a tumor you never asked for that is taking up residence in your head and you don't have parents who love you and tell you its alright. I know its not all right, I just turned 14 and I'm staring down death. Let me tell you, I am scared to death and I have been since that moment nearly two weeks ago when my 3-year scans didn't come back clean like they were supposed to. I'm 14 and sentenced to death and I need your help to change that."
There's a long pause after I let that all out. Dr. Shepherd is back to not looking me in the eye. I can sense the pity radiating off of him for me. I hate bringing the 'I'm just a kid' card to the table but I can sense it will help my case and help him to see me as a patient. I can tell it will help to get him to take me on.
"Ok EJ. I'll see what I can do. But you're right. At first glance, it does look bad. But I will never call a tumor inoperable as long as I have a patient willing to fight. Lets get you admitted so I can run some more tests, okay?" Dr. Shepard has hope in his eyes. His words may not say it, but I can see it.
"All I'm asking is for you to try." I tell him, feeling the smallest smile creep on my face.
We get up and go back to the desk in the ER and the same nurse is still sitting there typing feverishly. I see the ER has calmed down some but its still a very fast paced environment and the fluorescent lights are still really hurting my head. I have to shake my head and rub my eyes to clear my vision.
However, my vision only gets blurrier and the pounding gets worse. I lean against the counter heavily, trying to take deep breaths to clear my head as it feels like I can't breathe.
"EJ, you all right?" Dr. Shepherd turns towards me and puts his hand on my shoulder to try and straighten my posture so he can see my face. "Geez, you're really pale."
As quickly as it came, the headache is gone and the pain recedes to the back of my mind, as I am able to stand on my own two feet without the support of the counter and breathe normally once again.
"Yeah. Just a bit dizzy and nauseous." I tell him quickly. I take a step back so that his arm falls limply to his side.
"Ok. Let me know if that changes, all right. If I'm going to be your doctor, you're going to have to be honest with me, even when you feel like shit, okay?" He looks skeptical but pushes on. "We need to fill these forms out to the best of your knowledge. I'll help, okay?"
I nod as he leads me back to the conference room and I slump in the same chair as before. The pain is gone but the weakness lingers. These headaches always end the same and I will crash sooner rather than later. As we begin on the forms Dr. Shepherd tries to offer me the clipboard. I shake my head and lean back in the chair, hoping he gets the hint that I'll talk and he can write. I figure by any rate Dr. Shepherd will have better handwriting than me, I've never been able to write well and the last 5 years have deteriorated the already crappy scrawl.
"Alright, lets start simple. Full name." Dr. Shepherd has his pen poised over the form and is leaning forward in his seat.
I am quick and blunt, "EJ."
"Going to at least need a last name to go with that EJ." I see him looking through my files for my full name.
"I'm not giving you my last name till I know I can trust you not to call Child Protective Services. And don't bother looking through the file, I already blacked my name from everything, I'm smarter than I look."
"Alright," I can see a hint of a smile on his face. "Can I at least know what the letters EJ stand for?"
"Maybe when you've proven that I can trust you. For now, EJ is all you get."
He looks frustrated but moves on. "Okay, how about a birthdate?"
"October 3rd, 1999."
We go on like that for 20 more minutes before we have a halfway filled out admit form. The exhaustion has almost overpowered all my senses but we have to get up and go back to the ER desk to finish the admit process.
The Emergency Room is much more subdued when we go to the desk this time. I only see the brown haired man in navy scrubs that was bickering with the blonde woman left. He is standing at the desk filing out some kind of paperwork. Dr. Shepherd walks at a much faster pace than I have the energy for right now, so he gets to the desk first and starts talking to the nurse and the brown haired guy before I'm in ear shot.
I decide it's not worth eavesdropping because I feel like I'm about to drop. The headache is still only minor, a glossed over detail that is a part of having a brain tumor at this point. More pressing is the nausea I had thought disappeared with the headache earlier. Instead I am now faced with an overpowering need to vomit and a desire to collapse into a bed and sleep it all off.
The next best thing is a wheelchair stationed across the hallway from the desk. I decide that it'll do and promptly plop down in the chair, trying to catch the breath I didn't know I'd lost and trying even harder to not vomit.
From my vantage point I see Dr. Shepherd and the brown haired man in what looks to be a spirited discussion. I figure it's probably about me due to the gesturing in my direction.
Before I can really ponder who the gentleman is, a nurse with extremely overpowering perfume buzzes past me. It's only a moment of collision, but I'm already so nauseous and it's so much easier to just let go. So I allow the bile to rise up and out from my stomach to paint the hallway's floor and the nurse with the awful perfume's shoes and pants. The vomiting is brief but still leaves my forehead feeling sweaty and an even deeper exhaustion in my bones. I lean back and see Dr. Shepherd and the brown haired man, a few nurses and orderlies all rushing at me and the unlucky nurse I've used for target practice.
In all honesty though, she deserved it.
