Page 28 of Alex
Isqueeze Ian’s shoulder. “It’s all right. Just go sign in.”
Afterhe walks away, the lady with the scarf leans over and asks, “His first day?”
“Yeah,he’s a little nervous.”
“Ofcourse he is. Leukemia?”
Iglance up to make sure Ian can’t hear us. “No, testicular.”
“That’spretty treatable isn’t it?”
“Yes,he’s fortunate, though I know he doesn’t feel like it at the moment. They hope he’llonly have one cycle since there’s no evidence of it spreading.”
Shegives a wide smile. “That’s wonderful. They must’ve caught it early.”
Shiftingin my seat, I ask, “Do you mind if I ask…”
“Cervical.Stage four. There’s no symptoms for that one until it’s too late.”
“I’mso sorry.”
“It’sokay. I’ve made it longer than they thought I would, and I have no intention ofgiving up anytime soon.” A nurse steps out and calls her name.
“Itwas nice to meet you,” I tell her.
“Candace,”she says.
“I’mAlex.”
“Takecare of your friend, Alex. The first time is hard.”
Ianreturns as she’s led away. A little boy, maybe eight years old bounds throughthe door and straight to a pile of toys in the corner. He’s bald, but otherwiseyou’d never know he was sick. “Stay right there, Isaac,” his mother calls,before stopping to chat with the nurse.
Ianwatches the little boy play for a moment, then moves to sit beside him on thefloor where they spend the next ten minutes building with blocks until Ian’sname is called. As we head down the hall to the treatment room, he turns to me.“I’m fucking lucky.”
“Weboth are. It can happen to anyone, young or old.”
“It’sbullshit. He’s just a baby.”
“Iknow.”
“Ican do this,” he says before entering the room, his voice filled with pissedoff confidence.
“Iknow that too.”
* * * *
Ianis fine for the first few hours. I’m just starting to hope he’ll be one of thelucky ones who doesn’t suffer the side effects when he darts to the bathroom.The nurse gave him a shot of an anti-nausea medicine before we left the clinic,along with a prescription to help the next few days. Apparently, the shot hasworn off.
Sincehe hasn’t eaten all day, he doesn’t have much to bring up, but anyone who hashad a good hangover knows dry heaves can be even worse. He waves me away when Icheck on him, but takes the glass of water and wet washcloth I offer. Everytime I think he’s got to be done, I hear him retching again.
It’sgone on for too long. He can’t spend the night leaning against the toilet. Iquickly make up the couch with bedding and put two liners in a small trash canto place beside him. His nausea pills and a glass of water wait on the coffeetable. Sweat coats his body as he leans with his back on the tub, his eyesclosed.
“Comeon, man. I’ve got you set up in the living room.” Without a word, he allows meto lead him to the couch. Just that short walk has him retching again. Thenausea pills are meant to be placed under the tongue to dissolve and he managesto take two of them. Thirty minutes later, he’s still hanging off the couch,heaving and gagging. He can’t even hold down a sip off water, and he’s broken ablood vessel in one eye from straining.
“Neveragain,” he croaks, “I’d rather die than do this again.”
I’mtempted to take him to the hospital where they can at least give him somethingstronger and keep him hydrated, but I have an idea first. I don’t know why Ididn’t think of it before. Ian isn’t a pot smoker, but tonight he will be. Igrab a joint out of my stash beside my bed and sit on the floor beside thecouch. When I fire it up and try to hand it to him, he shakes his head.
