Page 28 of Bad Blood

Watching Liam’s touch soothe his brother brings back memories I’ve kept buried for years. I brush them off, categorizing them into the tiny compartments in my brain like I do all the things I don’t want to deal with and move on.

“This is most often diagnosed after a sports injury.” Discussing this specific cancer is second nature, even though most of my patients are much younger, and the words roll off my tongue.

“Figures. I assumed I was sore from the extra training. It’s my luck it’s something serious.”

Liam sits straighter after glancing at Dax and the frown that settles on his lips. I’m pretty good at recognizing family dynamics, but theirs has me second-guessing myself. There’s a strong need for Dax to protect Liam, which has me questioning their situation and lack of parents. I could ask, but it’s not my place.

“We would start with chemotherapy in treatment cycles, which necessitates surgical placement of a portal here.” I point at the right side of my chest. “Monday through Thursday, one week on, one week off, for four weeks of chemo treatment, eight weeks in total. Each period of treatment and rest is one cycle. You’ll have four cycles. If chemo is unsuccessful, surgery is an option. We could also look into radiation.”

“He has to do chemo?” Dax grabs the trashcan and stands, walking it back to where I grabbed it from before setting it on the ground near his feet and crossing his arms over his chest. He shakes his head and shoots a petulant glance toward Liam.

“We’re going to do a secondary CT scan to see how progressed this is and if it has metastasized in other locations first. Depending on the size of the lesion, we could consider experimental treatments, but I’ve found chemotherapy is the best place to start.” If I learned nothing else from Collins’s case, it’s to play things safe and not risk trying to hurry things along. “Surgery would get any remnants after chemo, and we hardly ever need to proceed with radiation. At the midpoint of chemotherapy, we want a follow-up CT to determine if the lesion has shrunk.”

“What’s the likelihood of that?” Liam asks. His question is nothing I didn’t expect, but I’m so focused on Dax’s tight-lipped, sullen posture from near the door that I’m not paying Liam any attention.

“Of it shrinking?”

“Yeah.”

I shrug, realizing too late that a non-committal body movement is not the best way to respond. “It depends on the initial size. With the original CT findings, I would suggest we start chemo to see if we can forgo the need for surgery altogether. There’s a slim chance this has changed in the last three weeks since the initial scan, but it’s not likely.”

“Am I gonna lose all this?” He pulls his hat from his head and runs his hand through thick, golden-brown hair.

“Yes. And you’ll lose some weight too.” I try not to sound sterile, but it’s second nature, and I lean into it because I need it like armor.

Dax stares off without a flicker of emotion on his face, his eyes focused and unblinking. The subtle clenching of his jaw is the only indication that this is affecting him. He wrenches open the door and steps outside. “I need air.”

9

A Day in the Life

Brighton

Tuesday, May 9 th

9:53 a.m.

The world never misses the opportunity to throw something unexpected my way.

“Do you think he’s okay?” I ask.

Liam shrugs and shakes his head. “Give him a minute. He’ll be back. You were saying?”

I pause, unsure of continuing, but follow Liam’s lead.

Brief seconds tick by until the door swings open, and Dax slinks back into the room, leaning against the wall like he was before as he grunts an apology to Liam.

Being the person who is going through this and being the person who is watching on the other end is incomparable. It’s a damning diagnosis for both of them that will change everything despite the outcome.

“Do you need a minute?”

“I’m fine. Continue.” He adjusts his hat on his head, his voice betraying no hint of emotion.

Liam pats the chair beside him. “Everything’s gonna be fine. Chill. I’m the one with the diagnosis of death. Why are you the one acting like the world’s over?”

Dax tucks his hands into his pockets and crosses his legs at the ankle, standing stalk-still, the weight of his unspoken response louder than words.

“Can I continue?” I ask, clearing my throat as I try to change the direction of our discussion.

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