"Ugh..." Randy Taylor retched again into the beige bowl the nurse had placed into his lap, but nothing came up now. Not even bile. The heaves now over, he eased back into his chair and just watched the medications continue to drip slowly into his veins, drop by drop from the clear plastic bag, snaking through the tubes and into the needle just under his skin. His bangs flopped over his eyes, turning the world into alternating bands of real life and golden shadow. Chemotherapy had yet to take away his hair, for which he was grateful. One of very few things he was grateful for nowadays. Suddenly irritated by that admission of his powerlessness- just happy he wasn't bald- he jerked his head vigorously to move the hair out of his eyes, and shifted so his body was as far away from the IV drip as possible while still keeping his left arm immobile and attached to the cocktail of drugs.
Thyroid cancer is usually reserved for the middle aged, and women among the middle aged, but Randy had always distinguished himself, in school, in extracurricular activities, and now in his illness. No one had expected to see a barely pubescent boy present with cancer in his thyroid, and so no one saw it. By the time it was detected, Randy's thyroid gland had been totally taken over by the cancer, and it was removed. He should have woken up a bit sore, gone home, and begun radioactive iodine treatment within the next six weeks. That was standard procedure. What wasn't standard was the doctor coming into his hospital room barely two hours after surgery and pulling his parents aside. What wasn't standard was seeing his mother almost fall into his father's arms and the doctor awkwardly laying his hand on his father's shoulder. Apparently the cancer had begun to spread before the thyroid gland was removed. A regimen of bed rest and iodine wouldn't be potent enough to fight the battle that Randy had been unwillingly conscripted to singlehandedly fight and hopefully win.
And so, two weeks later, Randy was sitting in the now horribly familiar pediatric chemotherapy room. Sunshine yellow walls, bright murals of questionably anatomically correct animals cavorting around with enormous vapid grins plastered on their faces, pale brown leather recliners, TVs and magazines for distraction, and over it all the cloyingly sweet smell of antiseptic that covered up less desirable odors. Odors of sweat, tears, and the base scent of illness. This was only Randy's third round, but each time held the horrible mix of dread for the nausea and weakness- because he invariably got nauseous- and hope that this series of medication would be the magic mix. The secret weapon that would somehow eradicate the poisonous cells and leave his body as strong as it was before this whole nightmare started.
"Oh, crap…" he muttered, feeling another wave of queasiness wash over him. He tensed up, clenching the bowl again, but mercifully it passed as quickly as it had come. His discomfort hadn't escaped the on-call nurse's notice though, and she walked over to check on the young man.
Marissa was heading towards sixty, if she was a day, but to the eternal amusement of her patients, she swore she wasn't a day over thirty-one. She was a large woman, but she could dart through the forest of swaying IV stands and be on hand before the patient even knew there was a problem. Today her silver streaked brown hair was coiled up and pinned to her head like a crown and her scrubs were a particularly vibrant shade of purple, which clashed nicely with the red glasses she wore on a chain around her neck. As she arrived at Randy's side, her expression was tender but businesslike. She knew Randy wasn't overly fond of being coddled, but her heart went out to the boy. In twenty years at this hospital, she had only seen a case like Randy's once before. He had eventually gone into remission, but she had heard through a friend of hers who nursed at another hospital that he had been readmitted after a relapse. He had only been out for a year. She never heard the end of his story; but then again, she never asked.
"Hey hotshot," the older nurse said with a smile. "How ya doing?"
Randy smiled back, a little halfheartedly. "Alright. Crossing my fingers that this is the one. "
Marissa laughed, and reached over to check the flow of clear liquid rushing through the tubing.
"Yeah, looks like magic to me, buddy. What, you've got a math book today? Did you get that History report written?"
"Uh-huh, I actually even got the grade back. It's a-" he paused, blanching white as he felt an uncontrollable gag coming on. Past embarrassment, he looked frantically around for his bowl, but Marissa was ahead of him and had it positioned under him as he heaved. Finally, an eternity later, the spasms stopped and Randy flopped back.
"I'm sorry, Marissa," he said miserably, staring firmly away as the older woman reached up to the shelf behind him to grab another bowl. She placed the new one in his lap, and sighed.
"Stop saying that!" she admonished. "Even if I didn't just like you, I went to school for a long time and am getting paid good money to do this. Now hush up and let me do my job."
Still avoiding her gaze, a ghost of a smile passed over Randy's wan face.
"Look, you've only got another fifteen minutes or so today. Why don't you just lie back and close your eyes for a while, ok?" Marissa gently patted the boy's shoulder, as Randy nodded.
"Sleep good, buddy," she said.
But Randy had already dozed off, wrung out and exhausted.
Wow. That was my first thought. I feel great!
My second thought was, Where am I?
I looked around, but the landscape didn't give me any clues. It was like an enormous room, but I couldn't see any walls, or even a ceiling. The space in front me just sort of…stretched up and away to infinity. The only hint I had of being inside was the white tile floor beneath me, so polished I could see my face in it. Oh, and the air had that kind of dead feeling you get when you don't open a window for a long time and all you've been running is the air conditioner. I took a deep breath.
"OK, Randy, get a grip on yourself," I said out loud. I kind of wish I hadn't. After I heard my own voice, I realized just how incredibly quiet it was. A chill ran down my spine and as a reflex I ran my hand up and down my arm, instinctively avoiding the spot where my IV was hooked up. Except…wait, what? I looked down at my arm and that's all there was. I mean, just my arm. No IV taped to it, none of those nasty bruises that have been showing up, and for that matter, it wasn't that almost transparent pale. In fact, it kind of looked like it did over the summer. Tan and healthy. And now that I thought about it, I realized again my first thought, that I actually did feel healthy, for the first time in a long time. I wasn't queasy or cold, sore, or so tired I could barely sit up. I realized what I was wearing too. I had been wearing a pair of pajama pants and an old football jersey in the chemo room when I dozed off. Hey, a guy wants to be comfortable when he's throwing his guts up, right? Now I had on a pair of jeans and one of my favorite T-shirts.
I wanted to take advantage of this respite from being sick. I wanted to jump up and down, run, yell, anything! But this place was so quiet… I settled for just picking a direction and walking, a smile plastered across my face. I was bound to come across something sooner or later, right? And until then, I could just enjoy how great it felt to be well.
I'm not sure how long I walked. It might have been thirty seconds or a couple of months. Maybe a year. Part of the problem was that the view never changed. Some sort of light suffused through the whole place, but I never saw a shadow, and it never seemed to be coming from any one direction. The only reason I actually thought I might be moving somewhere was because the tiles appeared to move under my feet. But maybe that was an illusion too.
Finally, something changed. Up in the distance- whatever distance counted for here, anyway- I saw a tiny dark shape, like someone sitting or lying down on the floor. Maybe they'd have some answers. I started to walk a little faster. As I got close, the shape resolved itself into the shape of another guy, who looked about my age. He was lying down and facing away from me, so it was kind of hard to tell.
"Uh, excuse me!" I felt a little weird about yelling in this place, but I wanted to give him fair warning in case he was asleep or something. But I don't think he was. Weird as it sounds, it's like he was just waiting, waiting for me to say something. As soon as I shouted, he jerked, and started to move like he was trying to stand up, still facing away from me. I winced as I watched him. He moved like the other kids on the ward- I guess like I did, for that matter, on my bad days. He moved really carefully like he was afraid of breaking something, and now that I was closer, I could see that he was bald.
He was up now, but didn't look like he planned to turn around anytime soon. I stopped walking a few feet away from him.
"Hey, sorry, but what's going on here?" I felt weird just talking to a back, but if he wanted to be private, I wouldn't get in his space. Now that I was closer, I saw that he was wearing a football jersey and some loose pants. That jersey looked a lot like one I had, actually. Weird. But he still hadn't said anything.
I stepped a little closer.
"Seriously, man, what's going on here? Uh, my name's Ra-"
"I know what your name is, Randy," he said suddenly, still without turning round. His voice was awful, nasally and breathy and grating. I frowned a little.
"How do you know my name?"
He turned around suddenly. Maybe too suddenly, because he stumbled and almost fell. I should have moved to help him, but I was frozen to my spot with my mouth wide open. He looked awful. Skeletal, gaunt, sores on his face, and pale as death. In fact, it looked like death wasn't too far off. He had a strange expression on his face too. On anyone else I would have called it a smile, but on him it looked twisted and wrong. But the worst thing, the thing that froze me solid was that…he… he looked like me. Like some horrible trick mirror in a fair fun-house, my own face, twisted and ravaged by disease and pain grinned at me, horribly. I felt faint myself, and staggered back a little. He- it- just stood there and watched. Finally, I found my voice.
"What- what are you?" I managed to get out, still staring horrified.
The other me grinned even bigger.
"Of course I knew your name. I'm you, silly!" he said, still in that same grating voice. "Don't you recognize yourself?"
I shook my head. "You aren't me. Not at all. I don't look like that. Or sound like that." My protests sounded weak even to my ears, and they just seemed to amuse him more.
"Well, no," he agreed. "Maybe not yet. But don't stare so much! You'll get your turn!" He giggled.
I took a step back, shaking my head.
"I don't get it. Why are you here? What are you trying to prove by lying?"
He took a step towards me, closing the distance.
"What do you mean, 'I don't get it'? Do you really not understand?" He sounded incredulous, hollow eyes widening. For a minute he looked angry, but then that manically pleased gleam was back. He shrugged and half sat, half fell onto the floor in front of me. I took the opportunity to move even further away. As I moved, I involuntarily ran my hands over my own face, making sure that his lesions hadn't somehow moved to me. That made him laugh.
"Aha, so you do understand, you just won't admit it! And you can move as far away as you want, you can't escape me. We're destined to be…best friends. Brothers, even. Twins!" His eyes drooped for a moment. Talking clearly exhausted him, but his weakness didn't make him any less terrifying. He seemed like such an abomination, here in this pure white setting. Like a bloodstain on linen. I shuddered, torn between running away and watching him.
We remained like that for a minute. Him sitting, slumped and broken, and me standing, poised to run. My heart was pounding like drums in the silence. I didn't have any words, but apparently he wasn't done torturing me yet.
"Hey, hey, Randy, wanna hear a joke?" His eyes flipped back open and he sat up straighter, buoyed by hilarity. His laugh was even worse than his speaking voice, wheezing and spluttering with that same whine over it all.
I shook my head, acutely conscious of my hair swaying as I did so, in sharp contrast to his skeletally smooth head.
"I'll tell it to you anyway!" he managed to get out between bursts of laughter. "Hey, hey what sign am I? C'mon guess, what's my sign?"
"S-sign?" I whispered uncertainly. Like, crazy sign? Sign of death? I didn't know, and I didn't care. Let him laugh himself to death, I wasn't going to stick around here anymore. I turned to leave that pitiful heap alone, but as he did, he answered his own joke.
"Cancer! Haha, get it, Randy? Our sign! It's cancer!" He could barely talk for laughing, and suddenly, listening to him just laugh wildly, my fear turned to anger and disgust. All the bottled up rage, frustration, depression, and fear that I had held inside since my diagnosis came pouring out, concentrated on this representation of the thing growing inside me, feeding off my life.
"Get out!" I yelled, shocking the Cancer into silence. "And shut up! You aren't me! I won't let that be me! How dare you come into my life like this! What right do you have to screw up everything my family has worked so hard for! I'm going to fight you, and I'm going to beat you! Do you hear me? You. Will. Not. Win!"
His face hardened, and his smile went away, even though that awful laugh just kept going. I was still yelling, but I hardly knew what was coming out of my mouth anymore. I just knew that I was furious. I was furious that this happened to me, furious that it was screwing up my life, and furious at my own passivity. He watched me, his face suddenly no longer just my face, but cycling through a thousand faces, male, female, young, old, all colors and creeds. I even caught glimpses of my family. My mother, my brothers, my dad all looked at me from his face with expressions of such agony that I could hardly stand it. His silent assertation of his power just made me madder, and for once, instead of running away from him, I stepped toward him, still shouting.
I'm not sure what I planned to do, but as soon as I took that first step a huge crack splintered the sky, and the entire white place shattered into a million multicolored splinters. The Cancer was hurled away on one of them, and suddenly there was a blue sky and sun shining, and someone's voice calling Randy, Randy, Randy…
"Randy, c'mon buddy, you're done for today. Let's get you back to your room."
Randy blinked, Marissa's face swimming slowly into clarity above him.
"I fell asleep," he muttered to himself, almost a question.
Marissa grinned as she slid the IV needle out of her patient's arm.
"That you did," she said good-naturedly. "And it looked like you were having quite a dream! Come on, in the chair."
She hovered, ready to catch him as he swung his legs over the recliner and stood, but Randy remained steady as he moved to his wheelchair. He settled down and glanced around the ward. His was one of the last treatments of the day. Only one other recliner was occupied. As Marissa began to wheel him out, he spoke suddenly.
"I'm going to beat this, you know. It's not going to win."
Marissa glanced down at her young patient's head as they left the ward. She nodded, even though he couldn't see. "I know you will."
They turned the corner and Randy grinned. At the end of the hall, he saw his family walking towards him. His dad had a bandage on his hand that he had not had this morning, his mother had yet another medical textbook, and Mark was trotting alongside a thunderous looking Brad, asking question after question. The Taylor family, in full force.
His grin widened and, seemingly to no one in particular, Randy remarked "Yeah, sometimes you just have get motivated from something. You know, more power."
Author's Note: This is my first Home Improvement fic (or first one at all, really!). The idea of how the Taylor's lives would have changed if Randy had been diagnosed with cancer after all, and especially how Randy himself would react, has been interesting to me ever since I saw "The Longest Day." Constructive criticism is always welcome! I hope you enjoyed it!