Page 94 of Things I Wish I Said
She glances down it, and a heavy pause fills the air. I can hear Mom’s breathing, the sound of the second hand ticking from the clock on the wall. Voices outside this door. And then Dr. Hammond glances up, meeting my eyes with her round blue ones as she says, “I’m afraid the chemo hasn’t eradicated the remaining cancer like we’d hoped.”
It takes a moment for her words to sink in. For them to resonate.
In a way, I expected this. Prepared for it, even. But I hoped I’d been wrong. No one ever wants to hear the worst-case scenario.
Fear claws at my throat at the same time desperation lays its hooks in my heart.
My mother shakes her head, like she doesn’t know what to make of the news. “I don’t understand. Has it spread?”
“Not into the membranes around the lungs. And it hasn’t grown into the bronchi, which is good. But the scans show it has spread into the lymph nodes surrounding the lungs and the main airway. This could explain why Ryleigh’s having more labored breathing. She may see an increase in coughing and chest congestion, too.”
“But she hasn’t. Have you, Ryleigh?” Mom turns to me, and I stare at her, my expression blank.
I have, but Mom wouldn’t know because I hide it from her. I’ve been shielding her from the worst of my symptoms since day one, and now it’s caught her by surprise.
I have a split second where I chastise myself for the beer I had at Kip’s party before I admonish myself for being foolish. A couple of beers doesn’t spread cancer over the course of a week. I’ve been fighting this for months.
And losing.
I clear my throat. “Um, no. I don’t think so,” I say, shielding her again, knowing the last thing I should be doing is softening the blow. Instead, I should prepare her for it.
“So, what are we looking at? What does this mean?” Mom’s voice is shrill, trembling and desperate for control. “More treatment? Chemo? What?”
The doctor straightens, her expression somber. “The cancer didn’t shrink. It spread. Which means the chemo didn’t work.This is our second, more than ten cycles in total. There’s no reason to believe more will make a difference,” she says, softly.
“I don’t understand,” my mother wails.
“We can’t always predict these things. Sometimes the body doesn’t respond to treatment and there’s no concrete reason as to why it works for some and doesn’t for others.”
“What’s next?” Mom asks, a frantic edge to her tone. “I mean, this can’t be it, right?”
“Ryleigh didn’t react well to the immunotherapy we tried, but we could take a targeted approach, see if it helps.”
“But you don’t think it will?”
“No.”
My mother moans, but I just sit here.
“What do other patients do when chemo doesn’t work?”
Silence thickens in the space between us.
“There are measures we can take to prolong life—”
“Prolong life?” my mother shrieks. “No.” She pounds her fist on the desk, startling Dr. Hammond. “No. That’s not good enough.” Mom rises to her feet, pacing the short length of the office. “There must be something.”
“Please, Ms. Sinclair. I know this isn’t good news, but if you sit down, we can discuss this properly.”
“What are my chances of surviving even with more treatment?” I ask, tired of everyone acting like I’m not in the room, like I don’t have a say in this.
All eyes turn on me. It’s the first thing I’ve said since she gave us the news, and I should feel something, but I don’t. My body’s numb, like someone took an ice cube to my veins.
“With it in the lymph nodes, if you were responding to treatment? Thirty percent.”
I bark out a laugh because those aren’t the odds I was hoping to hear.
Beside me, Mom pales.
