June 6, 2014
University of Washington Medical Center
Seattle, Washington
Scowling at the clock on the office wall, I pull a small bottle of cough suppressant from my jacket pocket and take a healthy swig. Beside me, Max frowns but doesn't comment. Since what happened at the restaurant a week ago, (seriously, just a week ago?) I've been going through nearly a full bottle of Robitussin every day. The syrupy-sweet taste is disgusting (and it seems to get worse with every mouthful) and it makes my head feel all swimmy, but I'm too terrified of having another coughing fit to stop.
Max's parents had rushed me out of the restaurant and taken me straight to the hospital, where a bunch of people in scrubs had poked and prodded and scanned and injected me with who-knows-what for hours. Max refused to leave my side the whole time; she only let me get x-rays on my own because someone threatened to call security, and even then it was a near thing.
Her parents harassed the staff for answers the whole time, but kept getting vague, non-committal responses in return. Personally, I'd been fine letting them handle it. I was just happy that my blood had gone back to staying on the inside, were it belonged.
We were at the hospital for nearly seven hours before they said that it was alright for me to go home. Actually, it's probably better to say they shoved me out the door with a bottle of generic cough medicine in one hand and a short stack of paperwork for more testing in the other.
I'd almost freaked out when the hospital handed me the bill. I'd never seen that many zeros come after the words 'Balance Owing', and for a second I really thought I was screwed. I mean, Rick pays me pretty well for an apprentice wrench jockey, but I was still sure I was about to see every penny I'd saved in the last eight months go up in smoke. Before I even had time to wonder how much I could get for my truck, Max's parents were handing over their own insurance information to cover everything.
I started to argue that it was too much (I really don't know why I keep doing that) and they'd reminded me (again) that they thought of me as part of the family. They said that all I needed to focus on was getting better. They'd handle the rest.
Until that moment, I really thought I hadn't had any tears left.
Deep down, no matter how many times they say the word family, a part of me still feels like I'm just the blue-haired punk chick who's knocking boots with their daughter. I hope that changes one day. I really wanna have that moment where I look at Ryan and Vanessa (still feels kinda weird calling them that, but whatever) and think 'that's my family' without flinching.
Anyway, I spent the next week either resting, eating disgustingly bland food (plain rice cakes are not a real snack, Vanessa!), or going through more tests. Most of them were simple shit like getting blood drawn or peeing in a cup. Others were invasive enough that I felt like someone should've bought me dinner first. Max was with me the whole time, though, so for her sake I went through it all without complaining. Too much, at least.
Finally, someone gave me the info for a specialist, and I set up an appointment to go see him. And being the responsible adult that I am, I absolutely let Max make sure I was actually there on time.
That time, however, was twenty-five minutes ago. We've spent that entire twenty-five minutes in a part of the hospital that appears to have fuck-all cell reception, sitting in an office where half the books on the shelves have titles I'm not totally confident I'd be able to pronounce. I'm just about to stick my head out into the hall to see what the damn hold up is when the office door opens, revealing someone who looks more like a doctor than any doctor I've ever seen.
He's somewhere in his sixties, with white hair and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, wearing the classic white doctor coat over a generic shirt/tie/slacks combo. Basically, he looks like the guy you see in a prescription drug commercial right when the voice-over says, 'ask your doctor if whateverthefuck is right for you'.
"I'm so sorry I've kept you waiting," he says as I'm making my insightful mental comparison, placing the file folder in his hand on the desk. "I'm Doctor Andrew Morris. You'd be Ms. Price?" He waits for me to nod. "Good. We spoke on the phone the other day."
"Yeah." A little irritation must've made it into my voice because Max gives my hand a gentle squeeze. I glance over to see her giving me a look begging me to be polite. "I mean, yeah, that was me. And don't worry about the wait. Shi...uh...stuff happens, right?"
"That it does," he chuckles. "Still, while it's really not the type of first impression I prefer to make, it's nice to meet you in person."
"Likewise."
He turns to Max. "You as well, Miss...?"
"Max. I mean, Caulfield." She lets out a small, frustrated sound. "Max Caulfield. I'm Chloe's girlfriend."
"Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Caulfield." He nods, not commenting on Max's obvious nerves as he takes a seat on the opposite side of the desk. "Now then, Chloe. How are you feeling today? Any changes since we spoke?"
"Nope. Just wondering why I've spent the last week being poked, prodded, scanned, drained, and repeatedly stabbed with giant needles without anyone telling me why." Okay, rein it in. Max wants me to be nice, so I'll be nice.
He hums thoughtfully. "I understand it's unsettling to be kept in the dark. However, many of the tests you've been through are used to identify a wide range of potential conditions. I'm sure no one wanted you to worry over all the possibilities."
"I started coughing up blood last week," I point out, swallowing another twinge of irritation. "I'm already worried."
"Which was all the more reason to wait until your results came back."
"Fine. Let's just skip to the end. What's the verdict? Pneumonia? Black lung? Brain parasites?" A little dark humor never hurt anyone, right? "What have I got and how to we fix it?"
The fact that he doesn't answer right away might make me a little nervous, but it's the look on his face that has just about every alarm in my head howling.
"Er...Doc? This would be a great time for some reassuring words."
"Ms. Price..."
"Chloe."
"Chloe," he nods. "People don't get referred to an oncologist for pneumonia."
Something about the word sends a shock right down my spine. I know I've definitely heard it before; the definition is right on the tip of my tongue. I'm sifting through memories of every single medical show I've ever watched, trying to ignore the certainty I feel that something very, very bad is about to happen, when he continues.
"I'll get right to it. Both x-rays and an MRI scan confirmed the presence of a large mass on the right side of your chest." Opening the folder, he turns it around and slides it across the desk. The black-and-white x-ray on top shows an outline vaguely recognizable as my upper body. While the ribs on the left side are clearly visible, the right side is mostly obscured by a bright cloudy patch. "That's why an FNA biopsy was performed."
"A what?" Max's voice is barely above a whisper. She's staring, horrified, at the x-ray image.
"The 'giant needles' that Chloe mentioned," he clarifies. "Unfortunately, the biopsy results were quite definitive. I'm very sorry to tell you that you're suffering from stage 4 lung cancer."
My first thought, right off the top, is simple and to the point. Something along the lines of 'oh, fuck'.
My second, slightly more lucid, thought is 'yeah, of course that's what it is'. Because of course it is.
Then a silence follows that's absolutely crushing. I feel a little like my head has been stuffed full of cotton. Everything seems dulled, muffled. From the corner of my eye, I watch Max's lips work silently as she tries to think of something to say. I can feel our linked hands trembling, but I'm not sure which one of us is causing it. It's probably both.
"I understand how much of a shock this is," Morris continues, as if that isn't the most stupidly obvious statement in the entire history of mankind. "And there's no need to rush this conversation. If you like, I can step outside and let the two of you take some time to process it."
"No." Even I'm a little surprised by the force behind the words. "What do we do? Gimme options."
"W-what about surgery?" Max ventures, shakily. "You could just remove it."
Sounds good to me. "Yeah, let's do that. Slice the fucking thing out."
"I'm afraid it's too late for that. The cancer has already spread out of your lung and into your lymph nodes and seems to be very aggressive." Morris shakes his head sadly. "Even if a surgeon were to remove your entire lung, they still wouldn't be able to reach all of the cancerous tissue."
Of course they wouldn't. "Fine. What can we do?"
"Well, the first thing we should do is immediately start you on an aggressive course of chemotherapy."
"And that'll get rid of it, right?" Max asks. She's floundering; I can hear it in her voice.
"I wish I could say it was that easy, Ms. Caulfield, but this isn't a cold," Morris sighs, pulling off his glasses. "A single course of chemotherapy can take between three and six months, and it's likely Chloe would need to complete several."
"Oh." She withers, curling into herself.
"That said, it's very important for you to know that the situation isn't hopeless."
"You sure about that?" I hate how small my voice sounds. "Cause it sure feels pretty fucking hopeless right now."
"But it isn't," he insists. "I've seen patients come back from the brink before."
"Right." The word comes out dripping with so much sarcasm that I can practically taste it, but if it has any effect on him, I sure as hell don't see it.
"But that's because those patients were ready to fight for it. And unless I'm mistaken, Chloe, you strike me as a fighter."
Even I'm surprised by the small laugh that bubbles up from my throat. "I...yeah. I guess I am."
"I'm happy to hear that." He nods, looking satisfied. "And although I can pretty much guarantee that this will be tougher than anything else you've ever faced..."
I wouldn't be so sure about that one, Doc.
"...I can also guarantee that I'll be right there with you."
"You will?"
"I've been an oncologist for a long time, Chloe." He smiles, leaning forward a little. "Fights like this are what I live for."
Personally, I've always thought that big speeches were stupid. Whenever I watch one of those movie scenes where someone stands up at the pivotal moment and starts yammering on and on, I always wondered why anyone was paying attention to them. I mean, it's a pivotal moment. Don't they all have way more important shit they should be doing?
It's one of the (oh, so many) things I love about Blade Runner. When the big moment came, Roy Batty didn't screw around with some meandering bullshit. He gave us five sentences. Just forty-two words.
The Tears in Rain monologue. The defining moment of Rutger Hauer's career and a piece of motherfucking cinematic history.
And maybe it's the fear and uncertainty I'm feeling. Or maybe it's just hearing someone who sounds like they know what they're doing say I've got a chance. It doesn't matter, because I'll be goddamned if old Doc Morris doesn't go from 'grandpa' to 'badass' in two sentences.
"So the question is," he continues, still smiling. "You ready to figure out how we're going to beat this thing?"
"Yeah." I feel Max squeeze my hand again, and when I look I see hope in her eyes again. "Fuck yeah."
"Well, then let's gets started."