Dana's Valley (19 page)

Just when I thought things might be returning to normal, Mom announced in May that Dana would undergo a second series of chemo. I couldn't believe it. They were going to put her through all that again. Perhaps we'd be able to take some pictures of her fourteenth birthday before the treatments, Mom went on, and I knew she was thinking that with the chemo, her fuzz of new hair growth would fall out again. Well—at least we wouldn't be shocked when she lost her hair this time. What little she had was short and not particularly noticeable.

Dana seemed to accept the hair loss with a shrug of her skinny shoulders. “Sondra said it's always the worst the first time,” she noted simply. “Then you get sorta used to it.” I nodded my reply, trying not to shudder. I wondered why a teenage girl should have to get used to such a thing, but I said nothing. I knew my comment wouldn't help anyone feel better about it.

But she was just as sick again. I was glad I didn't have to share our room. I couldn't stand to see her so ill. I had thought the treatments were to make one better—not worse. The whole thing seemed so backward to me.

Dana tried to explain it to me one day when I was rooting through my drawer, trying to find a clean pair of gym socks. Mom hadn't been able to keep up with the laundry, and my attempts at filling in were rather sporadic, what with school and all.

“Wear a pair of mine,” Dana managed to utter loudly enough for me to hear.

“No, you might need—” In her condition, Dana would not be needing her gym socks.

She shook her head. Her red-checked hat went a bit askew. “No,” she insisted, her voice so low I could hardly hear her. “Not for a long time yet.” She carefully rolled onto her back, a grimace crossing her face.

“They might try a different kind of drug once my chemo is over this time—it's supposed to reduce the recovery time and the side effects. Dr. Harrigan says that someday maybe they'll be able to cure all cancers without making people so sick. I wish you could meet him, Erin. He's really nice. And you'd like Sondra too.”

If she expected me to be excited about some obscure future hope, I wasn't. I wanted a cure right now. For Dana. A cure that wouldn't make her feel so terribly sick. A cure that would get our family back. And Dana back. I could hardly stand to look at her. She was so … different.

I pushed my drawer shut rather noisily and pulled out Dana's sock drawer, helping myself to an old pair of her gym socks.

“So is this the last time you'll have to take all these drugs?” I asked her.

“I don't know.” Her voice sounded very tired.

“Didn't they tell you?” I was impatient with those who were treating her. First they weren't sure exactly which disease she had, and now they weren't sure how to make it go away.

“No,” said Dana quietly. “They don't know.”

That made me angrier. They
should
know. What good were doctors who didn't know anything? I whirled around, trying to release a little of the pent-up emotions I was feeling, but she had closed her eyes and her face looked pinched and pained. I knew another bout of nausea was sweeping through her. I made a dash for the basin she used so frequently and yelled at the top of my lungs, “Mom! Come quick.”

I could hear Mom running, but before she could even get there, Dana was making use of the basin again. I slipped out the door, clutching the socks and feeling guilty and angry and sorry all at the same time.

Dana's health did not pick up again as quickly after the second series of treatments, so Dad suggested hiring a part-time nurse to be with her in the mornings so Mom could get some sleep while we were at school.

Since summer vacation would arrive in two short weeks, Mom didn't fight the idea. I think this time she realized immediately that he was right. But even though Dad had good medical insurance through his company, we all knew it would be difficult to pay for such an expense, especially on top of the mounting medical costs.

The fact of the insurance was gratefully mentioned often during times of thanks in our family prayers. I wondered what people did who had none. It never occurred to me before to even think about such things, but it was only one in the unlimited number of ways that my life and thinking had been reworked by Dana's illness.

It had helped all of us to focus on the completion of this new round of treatments and the hope of seeing Dana improve again. But it was disappointing now to see it taking place so slowly. We were anxious to see the color come back to her cheeks and hear the bright laughter again.

The e-mail with our grandparents, the Tylers in Bolivia, became more frequent. They talked often about coming home again but did not know the best time to do so. Mom would express her desire for them to hop a plane and come right away; then, when Dana seemed to brighten just a bit, she'd wonder if she was being selfish and tell them they should stay and take care of the sick at the mission clinic. Up and down she went. Back and forth. I figured it must have been tough for Grandpa and Grandma.

We all knew they were badly needed in Bolivia. The other doctor in the clinic had returned to Canada with his own medical problem, a herniated disk. Grandma was now more than a nurse and served as Grandpa's assistant. The mission was scrambling to try to find another doctor but, so far, had gotten little response. Mom said it was really tough to get trained people for a place like the Bolivian mountains to work in a poorly equipped village clinic. Grandpa and Grandma's jobs were even more important than we had understood.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the medication seemed to be having its desired effect and Dana began to show improvement. The daily e-mail updates were more optimistic now. And the heaviness began to lift from the house until you could feel the difference in the air. I felt released somehow.

And then one morning Mom appeared in the door to the kitchen.

“Look who's here.” Mom was holding Dana's elbow as they carefully made their way to the breakfast table. We laughed. The newest hat she sported had a series of ani~mals stitched on it as if they were following each other around the rim. Monkeys and tigers, galloping horses and slithery snakes—a Noah's Ark on her head. I remembered the Ark represented safety. And there was the rainbow of promise. … Well, anyway, I liked the hat. The colors were bright and cheerful.

“Where'd you get that one?” Corey pulled Dana's chair out and got a closeup look at the animal parade. “I like it.” He echoed my thoughts exactly.

Once Dana was settled at the table, she answered, “Grandpa and Grandma Tyler sent it. They sent something for each of you too.”

Mom produced a bag.

“Oh boy, presents!” Corey had already bounced back into his seat and was eyeing the bag. “Is there one for me?”

“There is”—Mom smiled at Corey—“but why don't you be the one to hand out the gifts to the others first?”

“Okay,” he agreed, a bit subdued. But he was soon thoroughly enjoying his job, reaching deep into the bag and pulling out the wrapped gifts one at a time. The responsibility required him to read out the name on each tag. “This one says Dave. That's you, Daddy.” He delivered the lumpy package to Dad and studied the next tag for a moment. “And this one says A-an-ge-la, I think. Is that you, Mommy? Here you go.” We all chuckled at his in-charge manner.

“We'll open them at the same time,” Mom instructed, her eyes twinkling. Dana seemed to have an idea what the surprises were because her eyes were twinkling too.

“This one's for Brett. I guess we have to save it for later.” He put the package on the counter. Brett was gone most school mornings before the rest of the family sat down for breakfast. And he wasn't home much of the time after school either. “And this one is for me.” He plopped it onto his chair. “So the last one is yours, Erin.” Mine was particularly cumbersome.

“Okay, now we can open them.”

Mom left hers in her lap and looked around the circle at each of us in turn. Paper shredded and exclamations rippled around the table. I had been given a hat. And when I looked up, I saw that we each had a hat. But what an odd assortment they were. Daddy had a bright orange hard hat. In big letters on the front it read, “Danger, Man at Work.” He laughed and set it snuggly on his head. Dana giggled back at him.

Then Corey discovered a safari pith helmet with a little water bottle snapped onto one side and a plastic knife on the other. He grinned and held it out for Dana to see.

My hat was a wide-brimmed straw one, with a band of printed ribbon and a whole bouquet of silk flowers tumbling over the rim. There were even little plastic fruits mixed in for good measure. I set it on my head, but it teetered and slid off. We all laughed together.

Mom opened hers last. She must have forgotten it in her enjoyment of watching the rest of us. Inside the wrappings was a gold plastic tiara with colored plastic jewels glued to the front in all different colors. Her eyes teared up a little, but she placed it on her head and we all laughed again.

Corey had made a trip around the table to view each hat up close. “How did they do it, Mommy? How did Grandpa and Grandma Tyler send the presents?”

Mom directed her answer toward Dad, a sparkle in her voice. “They sent some money to some friends of theirs with instructions about what to look for, and those friends went shopping. The hats were wrapped when they arrived, but Dana and I figured out pretty quickly what they were. There was a note attached that told us to wait until Dana's first breakfast with the family after this series of treatments. Wasn't that nice?”

Dana and Mom had apparently shared the anticipation of this morning. It must have been good for them to have a surprise tucked away as they struggled together through the last of the chemo series. I thought it was awfully nice for Grandma and Grandpa Tyler to go to so much trouble.

I smiled at Mom. “It's almost like they paid us another visit.”

“I know.” Mom must have been thinking the same thing as she lightly fingered her golden crown. Even at my young age I could see that it carried a powerful message from her dad about joy and hope in the midst of this “trying of our faith.”

Breakfast that morning was a rollicking affair. Periodically someone's hat would slip and almost land in the breakfast casserole that Mom had made the night before. I had assumed she was planning a good hot meal again and was more than willing to help out by popping it in the oven in the morning according to her instructions. She had given no indication that it would turn out to be party fare.

We laughed and made jokes until we realized with a jolt that we had already missed the bus. Dad said it wasn't a problem, that he would drive us to school on his way to work. He reached for the Bible and took time to read a short Scripture passage and pray with us, especially thanking God for the welcome improvements in Dana.

She smiled over and over, her eyes sparkling with joy, though she looked as if she'd already spent most of her energy for the morning. It was so good to have her back again. And I wished with all my heart that I'd never have to see her suffer through a treatment again. I kissed her lightly on the cheek before dashing out the door.

My English final exam was passed to me, and I unfolded it to survey my grade. My heart sank when I saw my score. My schoolwork had suffered over the last semester. I had never done this poorly before. I stuffed it under the cover of my algebra text and tried not to think about it anymore. I had warned Daddy that I was anticipating a pretty significant drop in my grades, but even I hadn't realized it would be as bad as this.

I wondered how Marcy had done on her finals, and the old ache of loneliness came over me again. I decided to call her the minute I got home.

I noticed Brett's car in the driveway—odd, because he was normally at work during this part of the day. Corey rushed into the kitchen in front of me, and we discovered Mom and Dad sitting at the table with Brett, a hot look of anger on his face.