Radiate (20 page)

Dad sits next to me at the table and slides a Diet Coke in my direction. “I went to the school yesterday and got your class schedule for you.” He reaches down into his bag and withdraws a manila folder.

“Oh wow! Thanks!”

Seeing the official PHS crest with my classes is the equivalent of the light at the end of the tunnel. I’m
almost
out of it. I glance over what my senior year will be like: AP English Literature, French II, AP Economics, AP Chemistry II, Journalism, and Cheerleading/Physical Education. It’s a schedule worthy of any college application and enough to keep me busy and challenged.

When we finish eating, we all retire to the den and spread out on Cliff’s large sectional sofa. I take the end with the chaise so I can put my leg up on the cushions. While the rest of my family tunes in to some reality show du jour, I crank up my laptop for some Facebook catching up.

It’s a bit depressing reading everyone’s status updates. They’re talking about school, buying new clothes, or taking final vacations. Like Daniel.

His Facebook reads, “Headed to PC with the boyz for final summer weekend.”

Hmm... PC means Panama City, which is only an hour and a half away from Maxwell. I hope Daniel doesn’t find some cute girl there who isn’t scarred from surgery and walking on crutches.

My lips pout even more when I see pictures Lora posted. Apparently, Ross just completed some mountain-climbing hike of Mount Rainier in Washington with a group Game On sponsored. It’s not his group’s healthiness or feat that saddens me; rather, it’s Lora posed by the convertible Beamer Ross gave her when he got back. Seems he’s driving a Hummer now and the BMW was wasting away in his garage. After all the money Mom and Dad have more than likely spent on my hospitalization, I dare not even hope for a car of my own for senior year or to go off in to college.

Stupid fricking cancer.

Then my mind shifts to Ross talking about being positive. He’s one crazy adventurous guy.

When I’m fully recovered, I want to do something awe inspiring like him. I want to climb a mountain or go skiing down a black diamond run or go parasailing over shark-infested waters—something just to prove I can do it. And I
will
do it.

I decide to post a status:

“Out of hospital, on the mend, will be home next week to cheer the Patriots on!”

There. Something positive.

Within seconds, I have four “likes” from Lora, Tara, Ashlee, and Madison and a few “Awesome” and “Cool” comments. My spirits lift with each post, and I can’t wait to see my friends again.

Suddenly, a chat box pops up from Gabriel Tremblay:

GABRIEL TREMBLAY: HEY HAY!

HAYLEY MATTHEWS: HEY G!

GABRIEL TREMBLAY: COOL THAT YOU’RE OUT OF THE HOSPITAL

HAYLEY MATTHEWS: YEAH, I THINK I WAS GETTING BED SORES. LOL!

GABRIEL TREMBLAY: I CAN IMAGINE

GABRIEL TREMBLAY: WILL YOU BE AT SCHOOL MON?

HAYLEY MATTHEWS: NO. RADIATION STARTS.

GABRIEL TREMBLAY: BUMMER. YOU WON’T MISS MUCH. LET ME KNOW IF YOU NEED ME TO E-MAIL YOU HOMEWORK OR ANYTHING

HAYLEY MATTHEWS: THAT’S REALLY SWEET. THX

GABRIEL TREMBLAY: WHAT HAPPENS AFTER RADIATION?

HAYLEY MATTHEWS: I COME HOME!

GABRIEL TREMBLAY: WHAT ABOUT REHAB?

HAYLEY MATTHEWS: I’LL DO IT MYSELF.

GABRIEL TREMBLAY: GOOD ATTITUDE. I CAN HELP YOU WITH A WORKOUT IF YOU NEED IT, SINCE I’LL BE DOING IT FOR THE FOOTBALL TEAM, TOO.

HAYLEY MATTHEWS: THAT’S COOL OF YOU. I’LL TAKE YOU UP ON IT.

HAYLEY MATTHEWS: HEY, GABRIEL, I NEED TO RUN. NEED TO HEAR WHAT MY PARENTALS ARE DISCUSSING.

GABRIEL TREMBLAY: SNEAKY?

HAYLEY MATTHEWS: A BIT. ☺ TTYS!

GABRIEL TREMBLAY: TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF, HAY!

I close the lid of my laptop and reach for the TV remote to mute the rerun of some cop show. Cliff left earlier for Lily’s, so it’s just the three of us. Mom and Dad are sitting at the dimly lit dining room table with their heads bent together. I swear I see Mom wipe away tears from her eyes. Is something wrong? Something about my surgery? Something they’re not telling me?

I scooch over on the couch, staying low, and straining my ear to listen. I hate eavesdropping like this, but if it has to do with me, I deserve to know. Peeking through the cushions, I watch as Dad scrubs his face with his hands.

“I don’t know what else to tell you, Nan. I had to let Kirk and Jamaal go. The business just isn’t bringing in enough revenue for me to keep them on full time.”

“Which means we’ll now have to pay their unemployment,” Mom whispers.

“It is what it is, Nan.”

“Why is this happening now?” Mom pleads.

“The economy sucks, and people aren’t shopping in small towns anymore. Helen Cargill at the fabric store next door put a For Sale sign up in the window of her store yesterday. Mom-and-pop businesses are the way of the past, and I can’t compete with the corporate giants in Montgomery, Dothan, Birmingham, or even as far as Atlanta. Everyone wants things quick and discounted, and Matthews Hardware isn’t about that. Sales are down across the board.”

Mom starts to speak, but she spots me. She quickly shifts into Happy Mother Mode and calls out to me, “Everything okay, Hayley?”

“You tell me,” I say back.

“Fine, just fine. Your dad and I are catching up on things.” Hmm... she’s never been a good liar. I can see right through her. I’ll let it go for now. “Everything’s just fine,” she repeats.

Fine. Really, Mom?

Is it?

***

Bright and early Monday morning, Mom and I use Cliff’s car to go downtown to the Lurleen B. Wallace Radiation Therapy and Cancer Institute at UAB where I’m going for my outpatient radiotherapy.

Radiotherapy
—what a weird term, like I need help listening to the radio or something.

Where these thoughts come from, I have no idea!

Mom holds the door open for me as I swing through on my crutches. We wander around the state-of-the-art treatment center named for the only female American governor to die while in office. Poor woman had something like three kinds of cancer that her husband and her doctors hid from her at first because back then you just didn’t talk about things like that. Honestly! Thank God my parents and I didn’t play games with each other.

We climb into the elevator and hit the button. Mom lets out a rather choppy sigh, and I stare at her.

“I feel like I’m descending into hell,” she says.

“We’re going up,” I say, trying to break the tension.

“Figuratively, Hayley.”

We reach the proper office and sign in. They promise the wait time won’t be very long—famous last words in a doctor’s office. I don’t know why they bother actually scheduling people for a set time, because they can’t ever stick to it.

The waiting room is full, and I’m clearly the youngest patient in the area. All eyes turn to me as I swing on my crutches over to a small couch that Mom and I share. The TV is muted, and everyone seems to be thumbing through magazines in the most uninterested manner. These are my fellow sufferers, though; my kinsmen. Everyone is here for radiation treatment of something. Will we all survive? Are there those among us who won’t?

I bite my thumbnail as Mom fidgets in her seat. If I know her—and I do—she’s finding it hard
not
to strike up a conversation with a total stranger. That’s just how she is.

Sure enough, after a moment, Mom turns to a grandmotherly type woman who sits across from us clutching a rosary.

Mom leans forward. “Have you been waiting long?”

The old woman looks up with soft hazel eyes. “My husband is in right now,” she says. Her gaze shifts to me and my bandaged leg. “You poor thing. Cancer?”

I shrug like it’s no big deal. “They took it out. This is just follow-up treatment.”

“God bless you, sweetie.” She looks around the room at the other patients. “How in the world do you even get cancer? I don’t understand what causes it.”

I’m sure if Uncle Roger were here, he’d regale her with all the proper medical points. I don’t have the first freaking clue. I’m still asking myself the same question.

A man in overalls speaks up. “I smoked for twenty years. The doctors suppose that’s how I got lung cancer.”

The old woman shakes her head. “No... that’s not it. My husband doesn’t smoke at all.”

A woman close to Mom’s age says, “My husband drank a lot. I’m sure that had something to do with his cancer.”

Again, the old woman isn’t satisfied. “See, my husband doesn’t drink at all. Never has.”

“I’ve been angry most of my life,” a third person says. His face is red as he says it, probably pissed off at the cancer itself. “They say anger and stress can harm your body. Maybe my constant irritation with everything caused my tumor.”

The old woman gives another dismissive head bob. “My husband is the most kind and gentle soul. He never gets angry at anyone. That can’t be it.”

I can’t stop myself. “Ma’am, if you don’t mind my saying”—I smile—“I think I know what caused your husband’s cancer.”

Her eyes widen. “You do?”

“Yes, ma’am. I think his halo is on too tight.”

There’s dead silence, but only for a millisecond. Then everyone in the waiting room bursts out into healthy laughter. I giggle at my joke, and the old woman chuckles heartily into a tissue until her eyes are filled with tears.

“Good one,” the smoker man says.

“I needed that,” another woman says.

The old woman gives me a look that tells me I shouldn’t have said that, but she loves me dearly for it. “You’ve got a clever girl there,” she says to Mom.

“Sometimes a little too much,” Mom says. Her cheeks are three shades of crimson.

Saving me, a woman on staff comes out and announces, “Hayley Matthews?”

“Good luck, everyone,” I say, and follow the woman wearing scrubs with SpongeBob SquarePants on them. The old woman waves to me.

“I’m Tracy,” she says, escorting us back into the radiotherapy room.

Like pretty much every other room I’ve been in at the UAB hospital, it’s frickin’ freezing in here. Chill bumps dance across my bare arms and down my legs, not only due to the massive air conditioning, but also the trepidation tripping through my system. I’m entering yet another alien world.

Using a small step stool, I climb up onto the black table covered with a thin quilting top. In front of me in the sterile room is something I can only describe as an overgrown Mr. Coffee on steroids. Seriously! It’s humongoid! Only, the place where the coffeepot should go is where I’ll be lying down.
That’s
going to shoot me up with radioactive waves?

I must shudder noticeably, because the technician seeks to soothe me.

“It’s a little intimidating, isn’t it?” Tracy asks with a laugh. “Don’t worry, Hayley. I’ll explain everything to you before we do any of the radiation. I want to make you as comfortable as possible.”

“I don’t know if you can,” I say through gritted teeth.

Tracy slides a couple of chairs up next to the small desk in the room. “Please.” She indicates the seats with her arm spread. Mom takes the first one and I lower myself to the second. Tracy puts her elbows on the table and begins to explain what’s about to happen to me now.

“External radiotherapy is also known as external beam radiation or teletherapy where you have your treatment here in the hospital’s radiotherapy department, but you’re not an inpatient. Beams of radiation from this external machine”—she points to the institutional-size coffeemaker—“are focused on the areas of concern, according to your physician. We’ll target the surrounding tissues from where your tumor was removed and any other areas of your leg affected by the cancer.”

“So, I, like, lie under that huge thing?” I ask with a hitch in my breath.

“It’s called a simulator,” Tracy tells me. “I know it can be a bit intimidating, but you really have nothing to worry about. You can’t feel a thing.”

A bit?

I scrunch up my face as I gaze at the electronic beast beside me. “It looks uncomfortable,” I say, trying not to sound like a complainer; I’m only making an observation.

Tracy smiles. “That’s the main complaint about radiotherapy—the couch is a tad lumpy.”

Glancing around the room, I feel as if the machine is waiting for me—to consume me and keep me from getting to my cheerleading. “If Dr. Dykema removed the tumor and my bone, and then Dr. Sampson put all of that chemotherapy in me, I don’t understand why I have to do this, too?”

“It’s all part of the total therapy,” the technician tells me. “We’ll do your radiotherapy treatment every day this week at eleven a.m. starting today, Monday, and going until Friday. The doctors have only called for one week of treatment, so that’s good.”