Chapter 6. Compassion
Author's note: I am a cancer survivor but did not require chemotherapy after my surgery. Several friends did after their experience with cancer. I found their reactions to chemotherapy had many similarities as they dealt with the side effects, including fatigue, nausea, hair loss, physical pain and numbness, and damage to their circulatory system. How they reacted to those side effects was different; some were stoic, refusing to let themselves get down even while they were going through the worst of it, while others completely let go as they were unable to emotionally or physically handle this betrayal of their body. Everyone who goes through cancer treatment is different and this chapter shouldn't be seen as a typical experience; it's Joyce's experience. This story of a unique friendship between a former assassin and a retired librarian is going to show how that friendship is tested by what Joyce goes through. It's also going to prove to Bucky that HYDRA didn't destroy his capacity to feel for someone who is suffering.
Round 2 of chemotherapy
They were back at the cancer clinic on Monday for 8 am so that Joyce could be weighed and have her medical history updated. As the nurse set up the IV stand next to Joyce's easy chair, Bucky tried not to display his anxiety that he was already feeling. Even though the colourful but restful room tried to project calm and serenity he couldn't help feeling off as he sat there. Most of it was that he could make out the scent of the different chemicals in the medications that several other people were already hooked up to. In his head he knew these chemicals were necessary for those people to fight the cancer that was threatening their lives, but it brought up all sorts of memories of the smells he remembered in the various HYDRA labs he had spent a lifetime in.
"Are you okay?" asked Joyce, gently putting her hand on his ungloved hand. "You seem nervous."
Bucky glanced at the nurse who was just slipping the cannula into Joyce's other arm. After flushing the connection, she nodded at Joyce.
"We'll start your infusion of the anti-nausea treatment first, then we'll begin the chemotherapy," she said confidently before looking at Bucky. "Your son?"
"No, my caregiver," smiled Joyce. "It's his first time being with me for chemo. He's new to this." The nurse smiled at him and left. "Talk to me Bucky."
"I'm fine," he insisted, then his eyes met Joyce's and he looked ashamed for a moment that she could tell he wasn't comfortable. "I'm having a flashback of the smells from the HYDRA labs. They tried all sorts of things on me. Toxins, poisons, you name it. They would inject it into me then watch how my body responded to it. I can smell some of the same chemicals they used."
"I'm sorry," she replied, squeezing his hand. "They really pushed you to the limit of your capabilities, didn't they? The chemotherapy is toxic. It has to be in order to kill the cancer cells. Just not toxic enough to kill me. If you want to go and just come back later for me, I understand."
He took a deep breath then tried to look confident. "I'll stick it out as long as I can. My sense of smell is better than a normal person's, so it's just made me more sensitive to it."
The nurse brought the small bag of anti-nausea medication, placing it up on the IV pole and connecting it to Joyce's IV. She ran the tubing through the infusion pump, setting it to be fully administered before the chemotherapy was finished.
"So, how was your weekend?" Joyce asked, hoping to distract Bucky from the smells he was sensing.
"I started watching The Godfather on Saturday," he replied. "Then I decided I should read the book first, so I went to the library and got all the Godfather books. I finished reading them then watched the first movie."
Joyce blinked at him. "You read all the Godfather books, all five by the different authors."
He nodded as if it was no big deal. "The first one was pretty good, but it seemed like the others just wanted to cash in on the first one and the movie. The movie was really well done. They got the look of the times down almost perfectly and the acting was believable. It was like seeing some of the guys I grew up with."
"You grew up with mafia guys?" she asked.
"They were already grown up," clarified Bucky. "But Bugsy Siegel was from Brooklyn. Lucky Luciano and Meyer Lansky were often in Brooklyn as well. I knew who they were. When I was a boxer, they would come out to the fights once in a while. I was still an amateur then, never turned pro as the war started." He looked at her shocked face. "My Ma wouldn't have let me get involved in anything shady. I kept my nose clean, made sure Steve did the same although he was a mouthy little sh..."
The nurse arrived with the chemotherapy cocktail, interrupting Bucky's recounting of growing up in the shadow of the mafia of 1930s Brooklyn. They both watched the nurse setting it up on the second infusion pump, running the tubing through and setting the rate it would be infused into Joyce's body. Satisfied with the settings the nurse smiled, then reminded Joyce that if she needed anything to press the call button attached to her chair. Smiling back at her Joyce leaned back and closed her eyes. Watching her carefully, Bucky was just about to say something when she suddenly tensed up.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"Cold," replied Joyce, tersely. "It's uncomfortable."
"Do you want the nurse?"
She shook her head. "It's normal. My hands and feet will start tingling soon. Tell me more about Steve. Take my mind off of it."
He told her about meeting Steve Rogers, at how he always seemed to start fights with bigger and stronger guys who were bullies, right from childhood. From there he went on about going to war, becoming a PoW and seeing his friend who had been 5 foot 4 inches and 95 pounds soaking wet show up bigger and heavier to rescue him and the others.
"How much bigger?" she asked.
"6 foot 2 inches and 240 pounds, all muscle," smirked Bucky. "You would think he would be awkward with all that growth, but I guess he always acted like he was that big. He handled the action very well."
"What about you?"
"I'm 6 feet tall and at my heaviest I was 260 pounds," he replied. "My titanium arm was 40 pounds all by itself. The Wakandans replaced it with an arm that weighed the same as a normal arm and I slimmed down a little while I was there so I'm about 220, I think."
"Some women would think that would be perfect," smiled Joyce. "Do you have the dating apps?"
He nodded. "I'm not a big fan," he replied then he hesitated. "Actually, I went on a date Friday night, just for drinks." Joyce looked at him expectantly. "It didn't go well. She recognized me and wanted to know my kinks. It's one thing to explore something once you're involved with someone but to want to talk about it right from the get-go was uncomfortable for me. I guess I'm just too old fashioned."
"I'm sorry," said Joyce.
They sat, not talking until the infusion was done and the nurse came to disconnect Joyce. She left the cannula in, although she covered it with a dressing to keep it in place until Joyce returned the next day. Bucky offered her a hand, helping her out of the armchair and they left to catch a taxi. They were given a checklist of things to watch out for, expecting Joyce to become nauseated, headachy, and tired. By the time they arrived at Joyce's house her headache was already pounding. As soon as she got inside Bucky told her to get her comfy pyjamas on and get into bed. While Joyce changed, he made some ginger tea, knocking on her bedroom door when it was ready. Bringing the mug over to her nightstand he pulled the curtains closed to make the room darker.
"In the storage room is a bucket," said Joyce. "I'll probably need it for when I throw up."
"Do you feel like it now?" asked Bucky.
"A little but I can hold it," she replied, burying herself under the duvet. "I felt more tired the first time, but I feel sick with this."
Quickly, he went to the storage room, found the bucket and brought it back. As soon as he placed it beside the bed, Joyce leaned over and picked it up, holding it in front of her. She heaved a few times, but nothing came out and she breathed steadily until it passed, putting the bucket down.
"I feel kind of helpless," he remarked. "Do you want me to stay in here or give you privacy?"
"Please stay. I like hearing you talk. Tell me more about when you were young."
He had already taken his boots and jacket off, so he sat next to her leaning back against the headboard. She was curled up on her side, facing him.
"I was born in 1917, Rebecca in 1929," he began. "I think Ma had a couple of miscarriages in between. She never said anything, but she and Dad were really protective of Becca. You would think with so many years between us that we wouldn't be close but we were. She followed me around all the time, wanting to sit on my lap and just be with me. I would read her stories, although with the Depression we couldn't afford to buy books. I went to the library, a lot, and I would bring back children's books to read to her."
"What did you like to read, for yourself?" asked Joyce.
Bucky smiled. "Science books, science fiction, fantasy fiction, anything that took me out of Brooklyn. Don't get me wrong, it was a good place to grow up if you could handle yourself, but life was hard. Dad worked at the shipyards, but he had demons from World War I. He wasn't always a good man, but he tried. Ma stuck with him because she loved him. As I got older, I stood up to him more than once when he wasn't right. She wasn't happy when I quit school, but we needed the money to put food on the table."
"You had to grow up fast," she noted. "I remember my parents talking about how hard it was."
"How old were they?" asked Bucky.
"Mom was born in 1922, Dad in 1920," replied Joyce. "They were from Queens. Met in 1941 and were married in the spring of 1942. My oldest brother, Allan, was born a year later, then Dad went to war, with the Navy. They didn't see each other until almost 1946. My other brother, Ted, was born in 1947 then I was born in 1956, a happy little accident."
"How did your dad handle the war?" asked Bucky.
"Okay, I guess," murmured Joyce. "I think he tried to leave it behind. There were times he raised his hand to us but he never actually hit us. He would go outside and dig in the garden or go for drinks at a bar. Mom shielded us from a lot of it, I think. He died of cancer in 1989. Mom died in 2004. I wasn't ready to be an orphan, even at 48."
She began to sniffle, and Bucky tentatively placed his hand on hers.
"War affects everyone," he said quietly. "It makes some men madder, others sadder; and their families pay the price one way or another."
"It wasn't all bad," replied Joyce, still laying on her side. "He always took us to the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade, and we would go to a diner after for burgers and fries. I got my love of books from him as he was a voracious reader. Mom worked and when he got home from work before her, he would change out of his work clothes; he was a construction worker; then start to make dinner for us. He did laundry, vacuumed, changed the beds. When my brother got drafted, Dad tried to pull some strings to get him into the Coast Guard so that he wouldn't go to Vietnam. Allan couldn't handle the sea sickness, so he was transferred to the Marines. Dad cried like a baby when they got the telegram about Allan's death. He died even more inside when he found out Allan had killed himself."
Neither spoke for some time then Bucky started to speak but looked at Joyce and noticed she was asleep. Smiling at her, he withdrew his hand from hers, covered her up with the duvet and left the room, closing the door behind him. Noticing she had dishes in the sink, he washed them, then dried them and put them away. Out in the living room he straightened things up, then looked at the family pictures Joyce had.
He first noticed a picture of Joyce on her wedding day with her husband, Bob. She was attractive in the best way, a girl-next-door way that he always hoped to find for himself before HYDRA changed him. There was a wedding picture with a younger man who looked like her husband, probably their other son. Another wedding picture had a young dark-haired woman, her older daughter, posing with Joyce and her husband. The final picture he looked at was more recent, but it was still before the Snap as it had Joyce, her husband, and another young woman wearing a college graduation cap and gown. This younger woman looked too old to be posing for a high school graduation photo. What was her name, again? Hope, Joyce's "problem" child. She was pretty, although fairer in complexion to Joyce. In that moment captured by the photograph, they all looked so proud; them of their daughter, her of her accomplishment. He wondered what had happened to pull them apart. Placing it back he turned away from the pictures and went to his overnight bag, pulling out the GED guide, a pad of paper and a pen.
After going through the library copy, he decided to buy his own copy and had littered it with sticky notes. When he first thought of getting his GED, he thought it would be pretty cut and dried. He would go to a place set up with desks, write some tests and find out if he passed, getting that certificate that said he had accomplished something. But these days it was more than just that. The test had to be written on a computer, showing that he could handle certain computer skills. Given time he was sure he could, but he was really intimidated by using a computer mouse and a keyboard. The use of a tablet was more natural to him, but the website didn't work quite the same on the tablet plus when he did write the exams it would be in a monitored location. He really needed to figure out how to learn enough to pass the test. From what he had seen of the subject matter he could handle that part, even though much of it was different from when he was in school. Now they looked at reasoning and critical thinking skills, not just the recitation of facts and figures.
Flipping through to the back where the practice tests were he decided to try one out. If he did alright, then he could likely try the examinations of those subjects. If he had trouble, then he knew where he needed to focus his efforts. Beginning with the language arts exam he read the instructions for the first section, giving him 35 minutes to answer 20 questions. Setting the timer on his cell phone he started. As he read the first selection he smiled. He knew the story the excerpt was taken from, remembering it from when he was in school. Quickly, he answered the questions, then read the second piece of expository prose. There was something familiar about it as well and he was sure it was something he knew or learned about in school. The final piece, taken from Thoreau's Walden was also familiar and he quickly read it then answered the questions. In the guide it said to take all the time you were given to go over your answers, so he went back over the readings and his responses, satisfied with what he had written. The timer went off and he went on to the next part of the model test.
This section was harder as it referred to legislation that was passed in the 1990s when he was still a captive. He set his timer for 45 minutes, as indicated, then read the passage, assuming that he was to take a position on what was stated. Gamely he wrote what he could, checking it for spelling and grammar before finally declaring himself satisfied with his efforts. Quickly, he checked on Joyce, noticing she was still sleeping then he used the bathroom and returned to the table to write the final section; 35 questions covering several different passages that had to be completed within 60 minutes. Starting his timer, he began reading and answering the questions.
There were several readings in this portion, including some Shakespeare, and literature pieces from some classics. The non-fiction readings were more recent but not hard. He finished just minutes before his timer went off during his review of his work. At that point he heard sounds from Joyce's room and listened at the door, hearing the sound of her retching. When it seemed like she was done he knocked gently and opened the door a little.
"May I come in?" he asked.
She didn't speak but did raise her hand, gesturing for him to come over. The bucket was there, filled with whatever was left of her breakfast, as that had been the last time she ate.
"Let me clean this up," he said, picking the bucket up and going into her ensuite.
Adding some water to it he swished it around and poured it down the toilet, doing it several times before he was satisfied that he got it all out. Coming back to the bedroom, he placed the bucket on the floor and placed his hand on her forehead. She reacted to it, with a small exhalation of breath.
"Feels good," she whispered. "How long did I sleep?"
"Couple of hours," he replied. "How's your head?"
"Hurts. I have some rapid acting Tylenol in the bathroom. Might get some benefit from it before I puke it up."
It only took a moment for Bucky to find the pain killers. He brought them back with some water for her to wash them down. Sitting up she gratefully took the two capsules and swallowed them with the water before placing the glass on the nightstand. Leaning back against the headboard she looked gratefully at Bucky, before motioning for him to sit at the end of the bed.
"What did you get up to while I was asleep?"
"Cleaned up a little, then I decided to write the model test for language arts," he replied. "I finished just before you woke up."
"I should set you up on my computer so you can practice," said Joyce. "That's the hardest thing for older adults to handle is using the computer mouse and formatting of the essay portions. Were there any parts you found hard?"
"There was a piece about the Clean Air Act from the 1990s," he replied. "Didn't know much about it but it was a response piece, so I took a position and defended it."
Joyce smiled. "Sometimes you just have to know how to bullshit effectively."
Bucky grinned, then shook his head in amusement at her colourful vocabulary. "Do you think you could eat something, or do you want more time for your stomach to settle?"
"More time." Her lips quivered as she fought off the urge to cry. "All I want is more time."
Shifting so he was beside her, Bucky enclosed her in his arms, letting her cry. This emotional rollercoaster wasn't going to be easy for either of them, but he didn't mind so much. Being able to comfort Joyce felt good and a part of him imagined it was his mother he was holding. Certainly, it helped with the guilt he still felt about not being there for Ma and Rebecca when his dad died.
That first night being available to help Joyce through the side effects of her chemotherapy was an eye opener to Bucky. As much as she tried to handle it without bothering him, he found his heightened senses often woke him as soon as she began feeling the urge to vomit. Never in his younger years did he ever think he could help someone through that much upheaval. What was even more revealing to him was that it didn't bother him at all. It was like the part of him that should be bothered by it turned off. It was the same on the subsequent nights after that day's chemotherapy treatment.
On the fourth night Joyce experienced a reaction that frightened her, when she began feeling a severe chill. Bucky, hearing her sounds of distress from where he was sleeping on the living room couch, entered the bedroom.
"What do you need, Joyce?" He stood in the doorway.
"Cold, I'm cold," she shivered.
He brought some more blankets then searched for a hot water bottle, filling it up and placing it on her feet, after putting socks on them. After several minutes, it still didn't seem to make much difference and she began to cry because she was so cold, so he made a decision.
"Joyce? I run several degrees hotter than normal because of my metabolism," he began, as he kneeled beside the bed. "I can get under the covers with you and cuddle, so you get my body heat, but I don't want it to get weird. Are you okay with trying that?"
She nodded her head and whispered yes so Bucky got in behind Joyce, spooning up behind her in his sweatpants and T-shirt. Running his right arm under her neck he circled her shoulder with it, then draped his left arm over top of the covers. He was surprised at how much she was shivering but within a minute or two it began to lessen and eventually stopped. As they lay closely together, he was aware that she was still awake.
"Are you good now?" he asked.
"Yes. I think I'll be alright." Carefully, Bucky withdrew his arm then rolled away from Joyce. Reaching back with her hand, she touched his arm. "Thank you. You are such a good man."
"Just glad that I could help," he replied, tucking the covers back around her. "You call me if you get cold again."
Before he walked through the door, Joyce called out to him. "Bucky, someday you'll make someone very happy. You have a lot of compassion in you. It proves you're open to giving and receiving love." He could feel her eyes on him. "I just thought it was important that you know that."
He didn't answer but he did acknowledge her words with a nod of his head then he closed the door. For the longest time he sat on the couch in the dark living room, staring at his hands. It surprised him to feel his wet face when he rubbed his cheeks. Reaching over to the side table for a tissue he dabbed at his eyes and blew his nose. More than anything he wanted to believe Joyce's words that somewhere there was someone who would be happy with him. As he lay back on the couch and rearranged the blanket, so it covered him, he allowed his mind to wander, and he began to hope. Hope was a good thing.