Page 115 of Give My Everything
“Thanks for coming,” Wyatt says, extending his hand to me when I walk into Ivy’s hospital room.
I know it’s his way of apologizing. He’s never been particularly good at it, but it’s more than a lot of people are capable of doing, so I don’t treat it lightly, sticking my hand into his. And then I go in for the kill, tugging him in for a brief hug I know he never would have asked for but certainly needs.
“Thanks for inviting me,” I say, my words soft.
We both know he’s invited me to these things before, to Ivy’s earlier diagnostic meetings and difficult conversations with Dr. Lyons. In the past, I avoided them.
I can say it was because I wasn’t welcome all I want—and technically, it’s the truth—but the truer truth is that I was somewhat embarrassed about the reason my mother didn’t want me around. She told me, in the wake of the scandal with Larry Belton’s wife, that I was no longer welcome at Calloway functions, said I could consider myself excommunicated from the family.
I made a joke—excommunicado, like John Wick—which she didn’t find amusing. We have very different senses of humor. And then she told me what an embarrassment I was, and that if I didn’t care about my own reputation, I should at least care about Ivy’s.
That’s what made me pull back, pull away. I didn’t want to create any more drama or problems for my little sister, who was already going through so much. But now, I’m not allowing that to dictate my actions anymore.
My mom doesn’t want me to come to fundraisers and events they host? That’s fine.
But there’s no way she’s keeping me from my sister, especially when she’s sick and lying in a hospital bed.
“The bruising is new,” I comment, observing the way her skin has turned blue in certain spots. “Is that normal? Is that just something I don’t understand?”
Wyatt sighs, keeping his voice low so he doesn’t wake Ivy, who needs all the sleep she can get while her body tries to fight off whatever this infection is. “It’s something we don’t understand either.”
When Dr. Lyons walks in, I can tell by the look on her face that she doesn’t have great news.
“Should we…” I only ask half of the question, pointing to Ivy.
But Dr. Lyons shakes her head. “Let her sleep. If she wakes, I’ll start over, but for now, the best thing she can be doing for her body is resting.”
My mom steps forward, her short stature seeming even smaller today, her face riddled with nerves.
“Tell us what’s going on, please,” she says, and my heart breaks at the worry in her voice.
She’s been an imperfect mother, without a doubt, but I wouldneverdoubt the fact that she loves her children.
“As I suspected and told you last night, Ivy’s body is resisting the medication.”
“Do you know why?” Wyatt asks. “When we talked about it a few months ago, it seemed like you were optimistic.”
The doctor nods. “I was. There have been many patients who have had wonderful experiences with the eculizumab or even an off-brand synthetic, but for some reason, Ivy’s body has begun to reject it. The medication’s job is to decrease the destruction of red blood cells, which you all know is what PNH does to the body. But, there are a huge number of potential side effects, and unfortunately, it seems like Ivy is experiencing some of those.”
She opens up her folder, flips through to a page, and begins reading.
“Her white blood cell count is down, she has a cold, she’s begun reporting numbness and blurred vision during her IV appointments and extended weakness in her legs”—she flips the paperwork closed—“and that doesn’t include the things that are caused by the PNH itself. The fainting, the increased risk of sickness, depression, lower appetite—has Ivy been still experiencing most of those? She didn’t fill out her paperwork properly at her last appointment.”
“I’m…I’m not sure,” Wyatt says, looking to mom.
“She’s been experiencing a lot of that,” she says, “but she made it clear that she didn’t want to talk about it because it was just normal for her.”
Dr. Lyons nods, and something dark climbs into my throat at the expression on her face.
“I’m going to be frank. I know I’ve said in the past that the bone marrow transplant is Ivy’s best option at living a normal life.” She pauses. “We’re getting to the point where it may be her only option, period. She’s starting to exhibit symptoms patients experience in the months before their body can no longer fight off the infections and complications any longer.”
We stand there, frozen, unable to truly process what she’s telling us. That Ivy will die if we don’t find a donor.
“It may be classless of me to say this, but if there was ever going to be a time when you could use your family’s name and connections or your financial weight to move things around, this is it.”
We spend a bit longer talking about what will be happening next, a plan for Ivy’s recovery from her current infection, before Dr. Lyons leaves us, likely heading back to her own hospital.
“I’m going to call your father,” my mom says, leaving the room, the aroma of her favorite perfume swallowed immediately by the scent of antiseptic and other hospital smells that make me sick.
