A Rose for Melinda (8 page)

MELINDA'S DIARY

July 15

The chemo started today. IVs in my arm, wads of pills in my mouth, a whole schedule of stuff that
is poisonous. Dr. Neely says it has to be strong enough to kill the cancer cells. I hope it doesn't kill me along with it.

I asked him if I was going to lose my hair. He said, “Maybe not.” I sure hope he's right. I imagine a bald ballerina and I start to cry. The doctors told me that I can return to dancing as soon as I'm in remission and feel up to it. They want me to be physically active. But no one understands how hard dance is and how far behind I'll have fallen. Where will I ever get the energy to compete again? I'm sick to my stomach and have to stop writing. WHY IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME????

TO:
Jesse
Subject:
Melinda, of course

I wish I could answer the questions you ask me, but I can't. Yes, she's really sick. Yes, she's really unhappy. I don't know about the dying part, but I won't even THINK that! I did get to go up and visit her and she looks pretty good. Skinnier and paler, but still like Melinda. Just to prove it, I'll bring a camera next time I go and take some pics of her and her hospital room and I'll send
them to you. I'll be your eyes and ears, Jesse. I promise!

Bailey

Elana's Journal

Midnight

I bought this journal today because I have to start writing things down …private things that I can't share in coast-to-coast e-mails, not with Lenny, certainly not with Melinda. I see my daughter, my dear child, writing in her little diary that she puts away and locks if anyone comes into the room while she's writing in it (as if I'd ever read her personal and private diary!). I know it's a release for her. The psychiatrist, Dr. Sanchez, was pleased when she learned that Melinda has the habit of keeping a diary. She told me that “journaling” is therapeutic. God knows I need such therapy myself, so I'll give it a try.

I can't believe this is happening to our child. Cancer. The word alone sends shivers of pure terror
through me. But Melinda is such a brave little soldier. She goes through every treatment without complaint. I believe it's due to years of discipline from ballet. Ah … her ballet. She gets upset with me if I even mention it. Competing and losing a part to another is one thing; having your dream snatched away so cruelly is quite another. She doesn't deserve this.

I must stop thinking negatively. Melinda WILL dance again. She WILL beat leukemia. She absolutely, positively WILL. I can't afford to think otherwise. Lenny has his job to keep his mind occupied. But my job, my joy, has always been Melinda. How ironic that in my “volunteer” mode, I chaired events that raised thousands for this hospital. Now our Melinda is a recipient of all that effort and money. And me? I feel “out of work.” How can I let Melinda know that I want her to need me as much as I need her?

MELINDA'S DIARY

July ??? (Lost track of time, but it seems like forever.)

I felt pretty good today. No nausea, and the food even tasted all right. (Some of the meds I take give food a funny—like peculiar, not ha-ha—taste). I can't believe all the presents and flowers and cards I've gotten! My friends from school, dance class, relatives … Mom had to take stuff home. Dad sent me a HUGE bouquet. Bailey gave me a white teddy bear with a red heart sewn into its fur. But my best present is a whole dozen pink roses from Jesse. They are so beautiful. His card said, “Roses go to the prettiest flower of all. From a Rose (admirer).” Isn't that sweet? I'd like to see him face to face … (before my hair falls out—if it does).

Bailey says she and Jesse e-mail each other regularly to “discuss” me. I'm not sure I like that too much. But it sounds petty to say anything about it, because both are my friends and I know they just want to help. Bailey brought me pictures of Zorita and I got a big lump in my throat because I want to go home and be normal again.

Will I ever be normal again?

Felt rotten today. Threw up all my supper. Refused ice cream for bedtime snack. Sleep is all I want.

Mom practically lives here at the hospital with me. Sometimes I wish she'd just go away. Other times, I want to crawl in her lap like a baby with a boo-boo. I haven't written Jesse in days, because I just don't feel like it. He probably hates me.

A new horror started today—sores inside my mouth from the chemo. They hurt so bad, I can't eat anything. I HATE my life!

Some therapist visited today. She taught me about imaging. I'm supposed to imagine my white blood cells “eating” the cancer cells. Tonight I played a video game with some super-graphic, kick-butt woman wiping out a nest of robotic aliens. I pretended she was ripping through my bloodstream destroying cancer cells. I got the second-highest score according to the chart of those who've played the game in the past month. Hail, Melinda!

Woke up this morning and found a huge clump of my hair on the pillow. I cried. I guess I won't be one of the “lucky ones” who keep their hair. Mom said that because my hair is so thick it's hardly noticeable, but I notice it! I told her I want it all cut off.

Mom brought her hairdresser, David, to the hospital today and he sat me in a chair and cut my hair into a super-short pixie cut. I look so different. But at least now if it all falls out, I'll be used to seeing it short. Plus, now there won't be as much to fall when it leaves my head.

Bailey came up and went on and on about how “cute” I looked. She said the new cut makes my eyes look huge. I told her thanks. I think it makes me look like a refugee from a concentration camp. Maybe that's because I've lost twelve pounds in two weeks. But I just can't eat anything!

July 30

Dear Melinda,

I've given up sending you e-mails because you never answer them. The only news I get is from Bailey. Even your dad's stopped sending e-mail updates. I can't stand being cut off. Please don't abandon me.

Jesse

MELINDA'S DIARY

July 31

I'm ashamed of myself. I've been thinking about myself and what was happening to me so much that I forgot to really look around and see everybody else stuck in this hospital. Mom rolled me out into the halls in a wheelchair (THAT sure felt weird, rolling instead of walking), and I saw so many others with cancer like me—some a whole lot younger and a whole lot worse off!

The little kids are the saddest to see. Most of them are bald and they look so thin—I call it “the chemo look.” One boy who's maybe four or five was sitting in the children's rec room coloring. There he was, an IV hooked to his arm, another to his chest, his little bald head bent over a coloring book. The crayons were spread all over the table, his tiny hand was holding a brown crayon, and he was coloring as if it was the most normal thing in the world. I just sat there and watched him and felt tears sliding down my face. It made me so sad. He's like any other little kid, except he isn't. He has cancer. Like me.

I went back to my room and cried for an hour.

TO:
Jesse
Subject:
Apology

I got your card and note and I'm sorry I've not been a very good friend. So much has been happening to me that I lost sight of some of the things in my life that really count. You're at the top of that list. I had Mom bring your framed picture from my dresser to the hospital and now I can see you every day and remind myself that what's happening to me is also happening, in a way, to my family and friends.

Dad uses words like “brave” and “courageous” when he e-mails people about me, but that's not really true. I'm neither of those things. I'm scared and angry and very unhappy. I don't know why anyone wants to be around me, because I'm so mean to people—especially the people who matter the most to me, like you and Mom and Dad. Even Bailey has been “busy” lately. Oh, she calls and has come to visit a couple of times, but the truth is we don't have much to talk about these days. My world is so small now. Hers is normal.