Good question.
Dr. Newberry tells me he’s the lead oncology surgeon, then introduces the residents hovering in the doorway behind him. I don’t catch their names. I’m distracted, trying not to stare like a fool at the guy, roughly my age, or a little older, and the long-legged woman, who looks like she can’t be over eighteen.
Why are hospital residents so much more attractive than the general population? Either they purposefully hire attractive people (probably to torture people like me, who freeze up in the presence of authority figures, even when they aren’t drop-dead gorgeous). Or, hot people are drawn to the medical profession. Whatever it is, it isn’t fair.
I pull my sleeves over my hands and rub the fabric between my fingers. I’m in the same sweater and leggings I wore yesterday. And the day before. Not to mention the giant chocolate stain gracing my left boob. I haven’t showered, I’m not wearing any makeup, and a bird could make a very comfortable nest out of the tangled bun on my head. Not that thisisn’t my usual look, but I’m typically interacting with writers, not models pretending to be doctors.
“Mom?” I shake her lightly, keeping my hands in my sleeves. She makes a noise that’s more akin to a growl than a groan. She always gets like this after chemo—grumpy and lethargic. This is the worst it’s been, though. It’s the most intense chemo she’s ever done and the first time she’s been in this much pain.
It happened yesterday. We came in for her normal infusion, but by the end she was complaining every breath hurt. Her blood counts were off. Her oxygen levels were low. Then, she fainted when she tried to stand up. So here we are.
As soon as they said they were admitting her, I started composing a to-do list. Call Mom’s work and explain the situation. Get everything we need from home. Email Dr. Paatel that I won’t make it to class. Talk to someone at the hospital about how much this is going to cost and how we’re going to pay for it. On and on the list went.
I didn’t do any of it. All I could think about was Mom. So, I researched medical trials and ignored everything else.
When Mom still doesn’t wake up, Dr. Newberry focuses his attention on me. He explains that he’s been treating cases like my mom’s for thirty years. He’s calm and reassuring, and I try to concentrate on his warmth rather than the fear that’s been building since yesterday. I block out everything else in the room—the hot residents scribbling notes on clipboards, Mom’s moans, the drip, drip, drip, of the IV.
I can do this. I close my eyes and take slow breaths as Dr. Newberry leads me through a series of questions. He asks each one in a loud, clear voice—another attempt to wake up my mom.
“Is she eating?”
“No.”
“Is she drinking?”
“Not enough.”
“How are her bowel movements?”
“Normal-ish… I think.”
“What’s her pain level?”
I look at the chart on the wall. A laminated paper with emoji faces in varying degrees of pain going from one to ten. “She’s… in a lot of pain.”
“I imagine she is,” the obnoxiously hot male resident speaks with a soft, concerned sigh.
My attention snaps to him, but he’s looking at Mom. He’s got dark hair that’s a little long, like he hasn’t had time to cut it in a while. He’s clean-shaven, with a sharp jaw, defined cheekbones, and smooth, tan skin. But it’s his expression that captures my attention. It’s so unguarded and… sad? But then, he looks down at the clipboard and his face becomes as neutral as a blank page.
Without warning, Mom kicks off her blanket and throws her arm across her face. “Nine. I’m at a nine.”
“Your scan just came back,” Dr. Kim says, perfectly calm. “The chemo isn’t working. But we think you’re a good candidate for a trial Dr. Newberry is running. That’s why I’ve brought him in with me today.”
“What trial?” I ask, trying to remember which one involved a surgeon.
Dr. Newberry briefly explains a bit about the study he’s leading. It’s the phase one trial. They’ve only had three patients before her. It would involve a long hospital stay, infusions of an experimental drug, and then surgery.
The longer he talks, the more my anxiety becomes a rollercoaster slowly ticking up the steep track to the inevitable plunge at the top. My heart is hammering. The lights are too loud. My muscles are too tight. The room feels too crowded. I attempt to block everything out, but my chest tightens with every twist and turn of this ride I never asked to be on.
It’s all too much. The hot residents scribbling notes on clipboards. Mom’s moans. That incessant drip, drip, drip of the IV. Balling my hands into fists until my nails cut into the flesh of my palms, I try to focus.
Dr. Kim picks up where Dr. Newberry left off and lists trial risks that make my head light and my stomach heavy. I hug my arms around myself and try to keep some level of composure. Fear bubbles under my skin. I’m minutes away from bursting into tears. I always cry when I feel overwhelmed.
Finally, Dr. Kim stops and looks at me like he’s expecting me to say something, but I don’t know what. My brain is fuzzy, and everything is covered with a thick film of uncertainty.
Dr. Newberry makes a face that I think is supposed to communicate concern. The residents shiftawkwardly. Everyone is looking at me, and I want to sink into the floor and disappear.
Dr. Newberry creases his bushy white eyebrows. “Does she have a power of attorney? A directive?”
