*Hope Was Here- Part 2: Crashing In*
By Kelly
Disclaimer: ER and all of its characters are the property of NBC, Warner Brothers and everyone else involved with the show. I don't own them, and I don't make any money.
Feedback is appreciated: DougandCarol@hotmail.com
Notes: I'm not exactly sure where I'm going with this yet. Does anyone have any suggestions? All are welcome.
I'm basing all information regarding cancer in this story to treatments my cousin received and research I have done. I'm hoping it's as accurate as possible, but if not, send me and email and tell me if you know something is wrong.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
I always hated hospitals. Yeah, that makes a lot of sense doesn't it? Ever since I was little, each time my mom would get depressed or have an episode we would end up at the hospital. I grew to hate them with a passion. The smell you encounter every time you enter one, the carts that lined the halls, the way the people in them looked. I hate hospitals, but somehow I ended up working in one.
But I'm not working in one now, now I'm a patient in one. I hate the ward I'm on more than I hate hospitals. Oncology. The way it sounds, the way it begins, the way it ends, I hate it. I went to med school and nursing school, I still don't get why it needs the fancy name. Oncology means cancer ward, why can't people just say cancer ward?
Do they think Oncology makes it any less horrible or scary? People who think that should be forced to visit the ward and see what it's really like. They should see what I've gone through in the past week alone, what Luka's gone through.
Luka. He's down the hall right now, fighting with my doctor. They fight just about everyday, I'm waiting for security to run and pull them apart. Though, even if that happened, I wouldn't be able to see it. I'm locked away, like a prisoner in jail. Jail, I'd rather be there than here. At least you're not expected to die in jail. Yeah, you're bound to get molested by someone of the same sex eventually. I'd rather be molested by a woman named Jerry with a cru cut.
"Are you reading that?" a voice calls from next to me. Looking to the bed on the opposite side of the room, I look at the teenage girl who shares a room with me.
"You can look at it." I reply, reaching for the magazine on the table beside us. Holding it out to her, I hear her whisper a thank you as she takes it and opens the first page.
Her name's Heather and she's 15. We were talking last night after they admitted her. She was diagnosed with Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia two years ago. She's been in remission for over a year but her cancer's back again.
Right now I feel like ending it all. Maybe this disease will end it all; my chances aren't that great anyway. I'm not stupid, I'm a nurse. My doctor seems to forget that. Sure, I was an OB nurse and now I'm an ER nurse, that doesn't mean I don't know or understand leukemia.
*****Flashback*****
"We got the results." Dr. Hanks says, shutting the small exam room door behind him. "I need to speak with Abby alone." He says, eyeing me.
"He can stay." Abby whispers, as I hold her hand tight.
"Ok." He sighs, opening Abby's file. "We ran the marrow through the lab and the tests indicated that you've got AML." He tells us, looking back and forth between us. "Adult acute myeloid leukemia."
As soon as the words pass his lips all I can do is wrap my arms around Abby who is frozen in her seat, unable to speak or respond. All she does is cry again, something she never does. I hold her tight as he tears drip from her face into my lap, staining my shirt and pants.
Abby has leukemia, the tests must be wrong. She has always been healthy; she is the one who treats the people who are sick. There cannot be a disease that is invading her body, taking her life away.
"What's the survival rate?" she whispers so softly I can barely hear her with my body wrapped around hers. I do not know how the other doctor understood her at all. Maybe it is my state of shock. My body is numb and my heart is down in my stomach.
"If treated with chemotherapy or radiation, the five year survival is around fourteen percent." He informs us. "This is why it's crucial we get you in the hospital now to begin treatment as soon as we can."
"Fourteen." I hear her whisper before she again buries her face into my shirt.
Fourteen percent. That is like telling someone that they have a death sentence.
Fourteen should not even be a number in situations like this. I wonder where the judge is; maybe God is the judge in this case. Hitting his large wooden mallet on a table, telling Abby that she will most likely die. But also saying that she cannot die right now, that she must first endure chemotherapy that will take all of her energy. Medication that will make her immune system too weak to be kept out of a private room where nobody but doctors and nurses are permitted, that will probably make her hair fall out and her body swell.
"I'll have a nurse come in and start a new IV, and we can admit you tonight." The doctor continues, as his pager goes off. "Just wait here and she'll be right down."
He turns his back to leave as I still have Abby wrapped in my arms. That is when her coughing begins, and I am suddenly covered in a warm substance that falls down the front of her shirt as she pulls away. It covers my shirt and the lap of my pants, along with her shirt and the area around us. The doctor turns as she begins coughing again, and more vomit escapes her body, trickling down the front of her.
"Here." He offers, grabbing a nearby emesis basin and holding it out in front of her. "Let me go get the nurse to clean this up."
Taking the basin into my own hands, I hold it for her and smooth her hair with my free hand. I run my hand up and down her dark hair, assuring her it is ok, I don't care that she has thrown up on me.
"I'm sorry." She apologizes, her voice hoarse and cracking.
"Abby, it's ok." I assure her as a nurse appears; wearing one of the fakest smiles I have ever seen. "Come on, we'll get you out of these clothes."
****End Flashback****
I'm supposed to begin chemotherapy tomorrow. I was scheduled to start two days ago but I developed a fever so they had to put it off. I don't know whether or not I'm glad I got that fever. It kept me from my new life, as I know it, my life of hell.
Nobody knows the truth or the way I feel right now. The truth? I'm scared to death of what is happening to me, but I try not to let on. I keep my face calm and my attitude cool. Years of being a drunk can allow you to do that pretty well. They key is to focus and avoid eye contact, if you can do that, you can succeed.
"Time to change your IV." My nurse announces as she bustles into the room with a smile plastered across her face. "Gotta keep your fluids going." She continues with an all too sweet voice that makes me want to lash out violently.
What gives these people the right to act as if there's nothing wrong with me? Do they want me to be happy that I'm dying? Luka keeps telling me to stop thinking like that, that I won't die. He says having negative thoughts will do nothing but worry me more. Fuck positive thoughts and happy news. I developed an idea a long time ago that has worked all my life. If you always look at the worst aspect of something, things can only get better and can't get worse. Well, if I say I'm dying, I doubt anything worse could happen. Maybe they'll lose my body or something, big deal. Nobody would really miss it.
"Ok, did the doctor come in and tell you what's going on tomorrow?" she asked, adjusting the setting of a wire that feeds into my arm. Her southern accent is really irritating right now. I know she means well, but I'm not in the mood right now.
"He's down talking with Luka now." I reply with a small sigh, pressing my body back into my pillow. Moving my arm from its place, I catch another glimpse of one of my bruises. It's big and black, and it's bigger than a quarter. I can't stand to look at my body anymore, seeing them covering me all over.
"Who's Luka?" she replies, shutting the curtain, and moving a dying bouquet of flowers.
"Abby's boyfriend." Heather offers, looking up from the magazine I gave her.
"Oh." She replies shortly, with a smile. "Well I'll make sure the doctor stops by before lights out and tells you everything, ok?"
"Yeah." I reply, really not caring one way or the other if the doctor stops by.
"Lights out in an hour Heather." The nurse calls one last time, before exiting the room, allowing the door to click loudly behind her.
"Whatever." I hear her mumble from besides me, and I turn quickly to look at her. I don't know how she's been dealing with this for as long as she has. Two years seems like an eternity to be shot with drugs, kept in isolation, and deal with everything else. I hate being on this side of the medicine. My entire career, I've been the one who was there when good or bad news was given. I was the nurse expected to offer that shoulder to cry on when something bad happened, or the nurse that was thanked when a family left with a new baby.
Now I get the bad news, and now I realize just what those people go through everyday downstairs. Now I realize why they cry and carry on the way that they do. Now I understand why they're scared.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"We're going to keep the chemo going over the next 48 hours." Dr. Hanks continues, as he stares at me under my new tent. "The Anthracycline, which is a class of Idarubicin and Daunorubicin has been found to be very successful in the treatment of other AML patients."
Well gee doc, thanks for the comforting words. I know that Luka is ready to beat this guy as hard as he can, and after the past few days, I'm more than ready to sit and watch myself. We could set up a ring down in the ER; we'll just move the chairs out of the waiting area for awhile. Get a couple of bungee cords to act as barriers and we'd be set. I bet I could make a small fortune by selling tickets, especially if I convinced Luka to take his shirt off while they fought. Haleh and Lydia would be first in line, I could guarantee that.
"And what happens after the 48 hours?" Luka asks, looking straight at my blond hair doctor.
"After the 48 hours is up, we'll keep Abby here in the isolation room for an additional 24 hours. Once that's over, we'll be moving her back to a normal room on the oncology ward, and she'll stay there until we're ready to discharge her."
I'm so glad people around here talk to me. Maybe I'm invisible, that's how they act. Everyone talks about me right in front of my face, and they aren't too shy to say anything. I heard tow nurses whispering about me last night and how I looked like I could use a haircut. Excuse me for missing my appointment at Vidal Sassoon. I'm busy being stuck in this hospital gown and room, chewing my fingernails so low I'm bound to reach my knuckles soon.
"We'll keep you on a steady drip for now and see how you react, ok?" he asks, actually talking to me this time.
"Ok." Is all I reply, avoiding eye contact with the doctor at all costs.
I hate it here, I hate this bed, and I hate this gown. I hate my body, I hate myself and everything involved with me. I hate my hair and my feet; I hate my clothes and my nose. I can't stand thinking about my job or the rest of my life. Right now I hate everything and everyone. I hate my mother, I hate Eric, I hate all my friends, and I hate Luka. I hate them all for being involved with me, and I hate myself for being associated with them in any way.
I can see the bag that holds the drugs that are going to make me sicker than I can probably imagine and make my hair fall out. The liquid is clear and looks like the saline we use in normal IV's. But this isn't saline, these are toxic chemicals.
My body feeds off of toxic chemicals, maybe this will help. I used to live with alcohol running through my veins and pouring out of my pores, as I would sweat. I have nicotine that I feed off of every time I smoke a cigarette. It pulses through my veins with each heartbeat, allowing me to react and think clearly, to feel good.
Too bad you can't cure cancer with cigarettes, you can only cause it. I'd be cured within a few weeks if that were the case and life could go back to normal. Or, it could go back to as normal as it's ever been. But that's just another wish I have, another wish that will never come true.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Luka's sleeping in a chair across the room and he really looks pathetic right now. His shoes are sitting on the floor next to him and he's got a sock on his left foot, but his right foot is bare and I cannot see the other sock anywhere. That's got to be one of the things that continually irritates me about him. He insists on wearing socks to bed, and he doesn't seem to care if he's wearing socks with holes in them. How can he do that? Then, one of his legs is folded over the other, but his head is hanging so is face is looking toward the ceiling. Plus, his mouth is open and he keeps letting these short snorts out every few minutes, which cause his body to shake.
I can't even tell what time it is, there's no clock in the room. How convenient, they don't want me to know how many hours of my hell I have left. It's dark outside; I know that much, and I haven't heard an ambulance siren for awhile. It's almost too quiet, it's quiet like death.
Staring ahead into the dark room, I can hear myself swallow, and turn to look at my IV that's dripping the chemo into my body. Fast drops trickling down the clear tubing and into my skin. My stomach's turning in circles, it reminds me of the feeling I had when I went on a roller coaster in college. Up and down and over and around, I cannot see the pleasure people get out of doing that. The doctor gave me what could possibly be the largest emesis basin in the world; it looks like a frekin pot.
The plastic curtain my bed is zipped up in seems to be fogging up, though from the way I feel it's probably just the way I think it is. They wouldn't stick me in here if I were going to fog it up. Isolation, that what they put me in.
"The chemotherapy weakens your body's immune system and leaves you susceptible to picking up and germ that could possibly be around. So we're going to keep you in isolation for the next three days to try and keep the risk down."
Dr. Dolittle tells me that and then they shove me in here. The room is the size of a doghouse and I'm wrapped in plastic that looks like it would hold a new bed comforter. Nobody is allowed to touch me unless they're dressed in scrubs, a gown and a mask, with gloves on their hands. This one nurse touches me like I have the Ebola virus and am looking to pass it to her.
"Abby?" Luka calls in a groggy voice.
Looking over at him, he looks like he's still sleeping; only now he's watching me. He hasn't shaved in days and he hasn't changed his clothes either. I don't know how, but Dr. Weaver keeps giving him days off, and he refuses to go back to our apartment and change.
"What?" I reply, lifting my head from my pillow. As soon as I do, my stomach lurches and the room begins spinning. Then, before I know what's happening my head's back against the pillow and my eyes are closed.
"Are you ok?" he asked, getting to his feet and walking besides my plastic cave. Why won't he put his other sock on?
"I'm fine Luka." I sigh, closing my eyes in an attempt to make the nausea go away.
I'm spinning in circles and I can't stop. Well, my stomach is at least. Over and over, I can feel the eggs they made me eat before turning over and inside out. I want off this roller coaster right now. Press on the brake, I don't care how damn high I am, just let me off, now.
"Do you want more juice?' he asks, looking at the empty carton that was left on my tray. "Do you want me to get the doctor?"
"No."
At least he's not trying to play doctor for me. That's the last thing I need is my boyfriend acting as my doctor. If this were the flu or something simple like that I know Luka would be poking me with needles and drowning me in fluids and soup. But Luka doesn't know cancer any better than I do. He doesn't specialize in this field of medicine; I don't see how you could want to specialize in Oncology. I know these doctors want to help people like, people like me. But they have to watch them suffer too.
What the hell am I talking about? I watch people suffer everyday. At least I did up until this happened. I would go to work, pull on those hideous blue scrubs, and prance around helping sick people. I'd clean their cuts, wipe the vomit from their mouths, listen to the endless whining of how much they hurt or how much they wanted to kill someone who had done something to them twenty years earlier. I would literally stand there and watch people die. And half of those people were too young to die; some hadn't even gotten a chance to live.
"Do you want me to rub your feet?" he asks with a small grin on his face.
"Through the hefty bag?" I reply, shaking my head. "Luka, go back to sleep. Go home and sleep."
"I'm not going home." He replies, pulling the chair up next to the bed. "And I just woke up, I do not need to go back to sleep."
"You look like the walking dead."
"I'll take a shower later."
"At home?"
"No, I'll use the locker room." He continues, tracing his fingers along a seam of the plastic.
"Go home." I sigh, pulling my blanket up over my chest. This room is freezing.
"I'm staying here."
Now I know what parents are talking about when they say they feel like they're talking to a wall. Luka's a pile of cemented bricks.
~*~*~*~*~*~*
Carter came by before with some stupid stuffed whale he found in the gift shop. He told me that he named it Kiki on his way up in the elevator. What kind of name is Kiki and why do gift shops sell stuffed whales? What happened to bears? Anyway, now it's sitting on the table next to my bed and he's over by the window, pacing back and forth in his white lab coat.
"Luka said they're letting you out on Friday." He says, turning to face me.
"Yeah, as long as I don't have a bad reaction to the chemo." I mumble back, pressing buttons on the TV remote that hasn't worked since they moved me into this room three days ago. Oprah's on the TV right now, though the nurse muted it the last time she came in. She's trying to save the world again, helping to guide people and find their souls. If I had Oprah's pay check, I'd be paying people to fix these problems, and leave me alone.
"How about when you're up to it, me and you go have dinner." He suggests, holding his stethoscope around his neck.
"Carter.." I sigh, pulling the back off of the remote.
"You know what I mean." He teases as his beeper goes off. "It's the ER." He sighs. "Come on." He says with a laugh as he turns to leave. "Me, you, Doc Magoo's. It'll be two friends, burnt coffee and greasy burgers."
I really want to laugh right now. I want to open my mouth and hear the laughter as it escapes my body. I want to feel my stomach tighten the way it used to when I would laugh too hard. Like when Luka and Dr. Greene got locket in a janitorial closet for half of their shift and Dr. Weaver went on a rampage. But all I can do is offer him a weak smile.
"Yeah, ok." I finally agree as he hurries from the room, leaving me alone.
Luka finally went home before to re-humanize himself. He only went though because he has to work tonight, it's going to take him hours to get cleaned up and look like a doctor again. He was starting to look like he was homeless.
I can hear the rain that's falling outside. This morning, the sun was out and there were no clouds in the sky. Now the sky is black and rain is pouring. Every few minutes I can hear the thunder rumble, getting louder and it gets closer. Then the lightening flickers and reflects off the wall. The weather outside fits my mood in here in one word. Crappy.
I think I'm claustrophobic. The walls of this room feel as if they're closing in on me and are going to collapse. The ceiling is dropping right on top of me, and every time I close my eyes I can feel the paint chips and plaster falling on me.
I want to go home.
~*~*~*
11/02/01
By Kelly
Disclaimer: ER and all of its characters are the property of NBC, Warner Brothers and everyone else involved with the show. I don't own them, and I don't make any money.
Feedback is appreciated: DougandCarol@hotmail.com
Notes: I'm not exactly sure where I'm going with this yet. Does anyone have any suggestions? All are welcome.
I'm basing all information regarding cancer in this story to treatments my cousin received and research I have done. I'm hoping it's as accurate as possible, but if not, send me and email and tell me if you know something is wrong.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
I always hated hospitals. Yeah, that makes a lot of sense doesn't it? Ever since I was little, each time my mom would get depressed or have an episode we would end up at the hospital. I grew to hate them with a passion. The smell you encounter every time you enter one, the carts that lined the halls, the way the people in them looked. I hate hospitals, but somehow I ended up working in one.
But I'm not working in one now, now I'm a patient in one. I hate the ward I'm on more than I hate hospitals. Oncology. The way it sounds, the way it begins, the way it ends, I hate it. I went to med school and nursing school, I still don't get why it needs the fancy name. Oncology means cancer ward, why can't people just say cancer ward?
Do they think Oncology makes it any less horrible or scary? People who think that should be forced to visit the ward and see what it's really like. They should see what I've gone through in the past week alone, what Luka's gone through.
Luka. He's down the hall right now, fighting with my doctor. They fight just about everyday, I'm waiting for security to run and pull them apart. Though, even if that happened, I wouldn't be able to see it. I'm locked away, like a prisoner in jail. Jail, I'd rather be there than here. At least you're not expected to die in jail. Yeah, you're bound to get molested by someone of the same sex eventually. I'd rather be molested by a woman named Jerry with a cru cut.
"Are you reading that?" a voice calls from next to me. Looking to the bed on the opposite side of the room, I look at the teenage girl who shares a room with me.
"You can look at it." I reply, reaching for the magazine on the table beside us. Holding it out to her, I hear her whisper a thank you as she takes it and opens the first page.
Her name's Heather and she's 15. We were talking last night after they admitted her. She was diagnosed with Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia two years ago. She's been in remission for over a year but her cancer's back again.
Right now I feel like ending it all. Maybe this disease will end it all; my chances aren't that great anyway. I'm not stupid, I'm a nurse. My doctor seems to forget that. Sure, I was an OB nurse and now I'm an ER nurse, that doesn't mean I don't know or understand leukemia.
*****Flashback*****
"We got the results." Dr. Hanks says, shutting the small exam room door behind him. "I need to speak with Abby alone." He says, eyeing me.
"He can stay." Abby whispers, as I hold her hand tight.
"Ok." He sighs, opening Abby's file. "We ran the marrow through the lab and the tests indicated that you've got AML." He tells us, looking back and forth between us. "Adult acute myeloid leukemia."
As soon as the words pass his lips all I can do is wrap my arms around Abby who is frozen in her seat, unable to speak or respond. All she does is cry again, something she never does. I hold her tight as he tears drip from her face into my lap, staining my shirt and pants.
Abby has leukemia, the tests must be wrong. She has always been healthy; she is the one who treats the people who are sick. There cannot be a disease that is invading her body, taking her life away.
"What's the survival rate?" she whispers so softly I can barely hear her with my body wrapped around hers. I do not know how the other doctor understood her at all. Maybe it is my state of shock. My body is numb and my heart is down in my stomach.
"If treated with chemotherapy or radiation, the five year survival is around fourteen percent." He informs us. "This is why it's crucial we get you in the hospital now to begin treatment as soon as we can."
"Fourteen." I hear her whisper before she again buries her face into my shirt.
Fourteen percent. That is like telling someone that they have a death sentence.
Fourteen should not even be a number in situations like this. I wonder where the judge is; maybe God is the judge in this case. Hitting his large wooden mallet on a table, telling Abby that she will most likely die. But also saying that she cannot die right now, that she must first endure chemotherapy that will take all of her energy. Medication that will make her immune system too weak to be kept out of a private room where nobody but doctors and nurses are permitted, that will probably make her hair fall out and her body swell.
"I'll have a nurse come in and start a new IV, and we can admit you tonight." The doctor continues, as his pager goes off. "Just wait here and she'll be right down."
He turns his back to leave as I still have Abby wrapped in my arms. That is when her coughing begins, and I am suddenly covered in a warm substance that falls down the front of her shirt as she pulls away. It covers my shirt and the lap of my pants, along with her shirt and the area around us. The doctor turns as she begins coughing again, and more vomit escapes her body, trickling down the front of her.
"Here." He offers, grabbing a nearby emesis basin and holding it out in front of her. "Let me go get the nurse to clean this up."
Taking the basin into my own hands, I hold it for her and smooth her hair with my free hand. I run my hand up and down her dark hair, assuring her it is ok, I don't care that she has thrown up on me.
"I'm sorry." She apologizes, her voice hoarse and cracking.
"Abby, it's ok." I assure her as a nurse appears; wearing one of the fakest smiles I have ever seen. "Come on, we'll get you out of these clothes."
****End Flashback****
I'm supposed to begin chemotherapy tomorrow. I was scheduled to start two days ago but I developed a fever so they had to put it off. I don't know whether or not I'm glad I got that fever. It kept me from my new life, as I know it, my life of hell.
Nobody knows the truth or the way I feel right now. The truth? I'm scared to death of what is happening to me, but I try not to let on. I keep my face calm and my attitude cool. Years of being a drunk can allow you to do that pretty well. They key is to focus and avoid eye contact, if you can do that, you can succeed.
"Time to change your IV." My nurse announces as she bustles into the room with a smile plastered across her face. "Gotta keep your fluids going." She continues with an all too sweet voice that makes me want to lash out violently.
What gives these people the right to act as if there's nothing wrong with me? Do they want me to be happy that I'm dying? Luka keeps telling me to stop thinking like that, that I won't die. He says having negative thoughts will do nothing but worry me more. Fuck positive thoughts and happy news. I developed an idea a long time ago that has worked all my life. If you always look at the worst aspect of something, things can only get better and can't get worse. Well, if I say I'm dying, I doubt anything worse could happen. Maybe they'll lose my body or something, big deal. Nobody would really miss it.
"Ok, did the doctor come in and tell you what's going on tomorrow?" she asked, adjusting the setting of a wire that feeds into my arm. Her southern accent is really irritating right now. I know she means well, but I'm not in the mood right now.
"He's down talking with Luka now." I reply with a small sigh, pressing my body back into my pillow. Moving my arm from its place, I catch another glimpse of one of my bruises. It's big and black, and it's bigger than a quarter. I can't stand to look at my body anymore, seeing them covering me all over.
"Who's Luka?" she replies, shutting the curtain, and moving a dying bouquet of flowers.
"Abby's boyfriend." Heather offers, looking up from the magazine I gave her.
"Oh." She replies shortly, with a smile. "Well I'll make sure the doctor stops by before lights out and tells you everything, ok?"
"Yeah." I reply, really not caring one way or the other if the doctor stops by.
"Lights out in an hour Heather." The nurse calls one last time, before exiting the room, allowing the door to click loudly behind her.
"Whatever." I hear her mumble from besides me, and I turn quickly to look at her. I don't know how she's been dealing with this for as long as she has. Two years seems like an eternity to be shot with drugs, kept in isolation, and deal with everything else. I hate being on this side of the medicine. My entire career, I've been the one who was there when good or bad news was given. I was the nurse expected to offer that shoulder to cry on when something bad happened, or the nurse that was thanked when a family left with a new baby.
Now I get the bad news, and now I realize just what those people go through everyday downstairs. Now I realize why they cry and carry on the way that they do. Now I understand why they're scared.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"We're going to keep the chemo going over the next 48 hours." Dr. Hanks continues, as he stares at me under my new tent. "The Anthracycline, which is a class of Idarubicin and Daunorubicin has been found to be very successful in the treatment of other AML patients."
Well gee doc, thanks for the comforting words. I know that Luka is ready to beat this guy as hard as he can, and after the past few days, I'm more than ready to sit and watch myself. We could set up a ring down in the ER; we'll just move the chairs out of the waiting area for awhile. Get a couple of bungee cords to act as barriers and we'd be set. I bet I could make a small fortune by selling tickets, especially if I convinced Luka to take his shirt off while they fought. Haleh and Lydia would be first in line, I could guarantee that.
"And what happens after the 48 hours?" Luka asks, looking straight at my blond hair doctor.
"After the 48 hours is up, we'll keep Abby here in the isolation room for an additional 24 hours. Once that's over, we'll be moving her back to a normal room on the oncology ward, and she'll stay there until we're ready to discharge her."
I'm so glad people around here talk to me. Maybe I'm invisible, that's how they act. Everyone talks about me right in front of my face, and they aren't too shy to say anything. I heard tow nurses whispering about me last night and how I looked like I could use a haircut. Excuse me for missing my appointment at Vidal Sassoon. I'm busy being stuck in this hospital gown and room, chewing my fingernails so low I'm bound to reach my knuckles soon.
"We'll keep you on a steady drip for now and see how you react, ok?" he asks, actually talking to me this time.
"Ok." Is all I reply, avoiding eye contact with the doctor at all costs.
I hate it here, I hate this bed, and I hate this gown. I hate my body, I hate myself and everything involved with me. I hate my hair and my feet; I hate my clothes and my nose. I can't stand thinking about my job or the rest of my life. Right now I hate everything and everyone. I hate my mother, I hate Eric, I hate all my friends, and I hate Luka. I hate them all for being involved with me, and I hate myself for being associated with them in any way.
I can see the bag that holds the drugs that are going to make me sicker than I can probably imagine and make my hair fall out. The liquid is clear and looks like the saline we use in normal IV's. But this isn't saline, these are toxic chemicals.
My body feeds off of toxic chemicals, maybe this will help. I used to live with alcohol running through my veins and pouring out of my pores, as I would sweat. I have nicotine that I feed off of every time I smoke a cigarette. It pulses through my veins with each heartbeat, allowing me to react and think clearly, to feel good.
Too bad you can't cure cancer with cigarettes, you can only cause it. I'd be cured within a few weeks if that were the case and life could go back to normal. Or, it could go back to as normal as it's ever been. But that's just another wish I have, another wish that will never come true.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Luka's sleeping in a chair across the room and he really looks pathetic right now. His shoes are sitting on the floor next to him and he's got a sock on his left foot, but his right foot is bare and I cannot see the other sock anywhere. That's got to be one of the things that continually irritates me about him. He insists on wearing socks to bed, and he doesn't seem to care if he's wearing socks with holes in them. How can he do that? Then, one of his legs is folded over the other, but his head is hanging so is face is looking toward the ceiling. Plus, his mouth is open and he keeps letting these short snorts out every few minutes, which cause his body to shake.
I can't even tell what time it is, there's no clock in the room. How convenient, they don't want me to know how many hours of my hell I have left. It's dark outside; I know that much, and I haven't heard an ambulance siren for awhile. It's almost too quiet, it's quiet like death.
Staring ahead into the dark room, I can hear myself swallow, and turn to look at my IV that's dripping the chemo into my body. Fast drops trickling down the clear tubing and into my skin. My stomach's turning in circles, it reminds me of the feeling I had when I went on a roller coaster in college. Up and down and over and around, I cannot see the pleasure people get out of doing that. The doctor gave me what could possibly be the largest emesis basin in the world; it looks like a frekin pot.
The plastic curtain my bed is zipped up in seems to be fogging up, though from the way I feel it's probably just the way I think it is. They wouldn't stick me in here if I were going to fog it up. Isolation, that what they put me in.
"The chemotherapy weakens your body's immune system and leaves you susceptible to picking up and germ that could possibly be around. So we're going to keep you in isolation for the next three days to try and keep the risk down."
Dr. Dolittle tells me that and then they shove me in here. The room is the size of a doghouse and I'm wrapped in plastic that looks like it would hold a new bed comforter. Nobody is allowed to touch me unless they're dressed in scrubs, a gown and a mask, with gloves on their hands. This one nurse touches me like I have the Ebola virus and am looking to pass it to her.
"Abby?" Luka calls in a groggy voice.
Looking over at him, he looks like he's still sleeping; only now he's watching me. He hasn't shaved in days and he hasn't changed his clothes either. I don't know how, but Dr. Weaver keeps giving him days off, and he refuses to go back to our apartment and change.
"What?" I reply, lifting my head from my pillow. As soon as I do, my stomach lurches and the room begins spinning. Then, before I know what's happening my head's back against the pillow and my eyes are closed.
"Are you ok?" he asked, getting to his feet and walking besides my plastic cave. Why won't he put his other sock on?
"I'm fine Luka." I sigh, closing my eyes in an attempt to make the nausea go away.
I'm spinning in circles and I can't stop. Well, my stomach is at least. Over and over, I can feel the eggs they made me eat before turning over and inside out. I want off this roller coaster right now. Press on the brake, I don't care how damn high I am, just let me off, now.
"Do you want more juice?' he asks, looking at the empty carton that was left on my tray. "Do you want me to get the doctor?"
"No."
At least he's not trying to play doctor for me. That's the last thing I need is my boyfriend acting as my doctor. If this were the flu or something simple like that I know Luka would be poking me with needles and drowning me in fluids and soup. But Luka doesn't know cancer any better than I do. He doesn't specialize in this field of medicine; I don't see how you could want to specialize in Oncology. I know these doctors want to help people like, people like me. But they have to watch them suffer too.
What the hell am I talking about? I watch people suffer everyday. At least I did up until this happened. I would go to work, pull on those hideous blue scrubs, and prance around helping sick people. I'd clean their cuts, wipe the vomit from their mouths, listen to the endless whining of how much they hurt or how much they wanted to kill someone who had done something to them twenty years earlier. I would literally stand there and watch people die. And half of those people were too young to die; some hadn't even gotten a chance to live.
"Do you want me to rub your feet?" he asks with a small grin on his face.
"Through the hefty bag?" I reply, shaking my head. "Luka, go back to sleep. Go home and sleep."
"I'm not going home." He replies, pulling the chair up next to the bed. "And I just woke up, I do not need to go back to sleep."
"You look like the walking dead."
"I'll take a shower later."
"At home?"
"No, I'll use the locker room." He continues, tracing his fingers along a seam of the plastic.
"Go home." I sigh, pulling my blanket up over my chest. This room is freezing.
"I'm staying here."
Now I know what parents are talking about when they say they feel like they're talking to a wall. Luka's a pile of cemented bricks.
~*~*~*~*~*~*
Carter came by before with some stupid stuffed whale he found in the gift shop. He told me that he named it Kiki on his way up in the elevator. What kind of name is Kiki and why do gift shops sell stuffed whales? What happened to bears? Anyway, now it's sitting on the table next to my bed and he's over by the window, pacing back and forth in his white lab coat.
"Luka said they're letting you out on Friday." He says, turning to face me.
"Yeah, as long as I don't have a bad reaction to the chemo." I mumble back, pressing buttons on the TV remote that hasn't worked since they moved me into this room three days ago. Oprah's on the TV right now, though the nurse muted it the last time she came in. She's trying to save the world again, helping to guide people and find their souls. If I had Oprah's pay check, I'd be paying people to fix these problems, and leave me alone.
"How about when you're up to it, me and you go have dinner." He suggests, holding his stethoscope around his neck.
"Carter.." I sigh, pulling the back off of the remote.
"You know what I mean." He teases as his beeper goes off. "It's the ER." He sighs. "Come on." He says with a laugh as he turns to leave. "Me, you, Doc Magoo's. It'll be two friends, burnt coffee and greasy burgers."
I really want to laugh right now. I want to open my mouth and hear the laughter as it escapes my body. I want to feel my stomach tighten the way it used to when I would laugh too hard. Like when Luka and Dr. Greene got locket in a janitorial closet for half of their shift and Dr. Weaver went on a rampage. But all I can do is offer him a weak smile.
"Yeah, ok." I finally agree as he hurries from the room, leaving me alone.
Luka finally went home before to re-humanize himself. He only went though because he has to work tonight, it's going to take him hours to get cleaned up and look like a doctor again. He was starting to look like he was homeless.
I can hear the rain that's falling outside. This morning, the sun was out and there were no clouds in the sky. Now the sky is black and rain is pouring. Every few minutes I can hear the thunder rumble, getting louder and it gets closer. Then the lightening flickers and reflects off the wall. The weather outside fits my mood in here in one word. Crappy.
I think I'm claustrophobic. The walls of this room feel as if they're closing in on me and are going to collapse. The ceiling is dropping right on top of me, and every time I close my eyes I can feel the paint chips and plaster falling on me.
I want to go home.
~*~*~*
11/02/01
