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“James…”
“Come here, Casey.” James wraps me up in his arms and I know running isn’t an option, so I let the tears overwhelm me. “Shh… I’m here, just let it out.” He rubs my back hugging me tight and kissing my head gently. “You’re not alone and we’re going to get through this.”
How many times will James say that and when will I believe him?
32
James
The worst part of being in a relationship—that moment you realize there is nothing you can do to help your partner. For three agonizing days I watched Casey put up a valiant front only to fall apart each night in my arms. The day of the CT scan, she was an emotional mess. Shaking and sick before we got there, I hated leaving her there with the medical staff to sit in waiting room with nothing to do but worry and wait.
Afterwards, we talked about every possibility and scenario. I wanted her to call her estranged family in Delaware, and she wanted to change her phone number. I wanted her to stay inside the apartment, sheltered and safe, and she wanted to take a walk by Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell. Not once did I get my way, so when the doctor called to personally review the CT scans with us, I get choked up and have to take a minute for myself, unsure what to do.
Casey puts on a brave, stubborn face, even though I know better. The doctor said we could wait a few days after the CT scan to do the biopsy, but I pushed to have this done as soon as possible… so here we are a week later on Monday morning. I was beginning to dread Mondays for the sheer fact of how stressful the weekends leading up to them were becoming.
“Babe, you’re going to be fine.” It’s the lamest thing I’ve ever said, but it’s the only thing I can say while the nurse helps Casey lie back on the surgical bed where they will do the procedure. The doctor couldn’t give us a firm diagnosis other than seeing a second polyp in the CT scan. Cancer was still in the back of our minds, a heavy hovering dark cloud. I beg them to let me stay while the anesthesiologist puts an IV in her hand. Tears fall from her eyes as she groggily falls under the medication, counting backward from one hundred, her words raspy and slurred.
“I’ll be right here waiting for you.” Kissing her cheek, I let her hand go as the nurse ushers me back out to the waiting room and feel the fear surfacing. Eli is still looking into possible leads, and a doctor is about to remove multiple polyps from her throat. All I can do is hang out in a swanky waiting room, flipping stupid glossy magazine pages with my thumb up my ass. I have neither the knowledge nor the skill to help Casey, and it’s killing me.
The doctor completes the procedure in under a half hour and comes out with some good news. He was able to remove the entire polyp along with the second one from the scan and send them out for the biopsy. Casey’s in the recovery room, slowly coming out of the anesthesia and apparently making the nurses laugh with some obscene gestures. I was chomping at the bit to get back there and see her again. I wouldn’t feel any relief until I had her in the car, heading home.
“Hey, how you feeling?” Touching her hand calms me, and seeing her dark eyes focus makes me heave a deep sigh. She can’t speak, and I don’t expect her to, just the feel of her skin, soft and warm, is enough to relieve my worry.
“I don’t want her to use her voice at all for the next couple of days and to take it easy the next twenty-four hours until the drugs are out of her system. The usual stuff, no driving or big decisions and constant supervision until tomorrow.” I’m handed a bunch of forms and told to wait outside while a nurse helps Casey move
around and get dressed. What feels like an eternity, but is only another half hour later, I’m able to wheel her out in the required wheelchair to the car. Part of me regrets insisting on the biopsy, but I’m damn glad it’s all over.
My phone has been ringing off the hook today. I’ve let the majority of the calls go to voice mail, but I know I have to listen to them at some point and return the calls I dread most. I’ve been working with the board and the FCC to get Casey a job offer. It’s still a work in progress, but I don’t want her to suffer because of something tied to me. Eli and I have been back and forth, looking at this whole situation from different angles, and not much of it makes sense. No other letters, flowers, or gifts have come to the apartment, but the office is another matter. I haven’t spoken to Casey about it because we’re not sure it’s really about her; it could be about me or ruining the company from the top down. Eli has come up with a plan, and part of it involves getting Casey back on the radio. Something I want but hate at the same time. I want to tell her, but I don’t even know what to say without it sounding as if I’m using her as bait because that’s exactly what I’m doing.
Written notes and hand gestures get us through the next few hours while I get her set up in the bedroom to sleep off the residual effects of the anesthesia. I remind her that the doctor said she had to be under constant supervision. She responds by giving me the finger and writing down “caramel toffee ice cream” as her request. It actually makes me feel useful; an ice cream run is something I can manage. It seems like all we’re doing is waiting for things to happen until the results come back from the lab. I’m horrified to think that without the fire occurring, the polyps might have gone undetected and they could have become a tumor or worse. I shake off these thoughts, wondering how this woman became such a fixture in my life I really can’t see myself living without.
33
Casey
One week has passed since the surgery, and I haven’t uttered a single coherent sentence. The pain lessens each day to nothing more than a dull ache of muscles gone unused. It’s kind of like skipping the gym and going back a month later expecting awesomeness, yeah not so much. The doctor leaves a message asking me to come in. I figure the fact that he can’t tell me over the phone means it can’t be great news. Silently I’ve raged within the confines of the shower walls and cried myself into choking heaps of snot and sadness. It is what it is.
James pulls me from the shower and helps me get dressed. He hovers to the point of smothering me and I have to hold back from projecting all of my angst at him. He’s ordered more stuff online than I know what to do with. Every day the mail arrives and James opens it to make sure it’s what he ordered before giving it to me. Clothes, shoes, accessories, electronics—some of the pleasurable nature, we’ll say—James has been very attentive. Since I agreed to let my apartment go for several reasons, he’s been trying to fill up the closet with stuff for me. Cute but annoying, and when I firmly put my foot down—because yelling at him was not an option—he merely laughed and tossed me on the bed to try out a few of his new purchases. It might have improved my overall mood, but it didn’t fix the problems we currently have.
The concern over the crazy stalker fan dwindles in importance with the question; what if I have cancer? What if, after all this, we only have a limited amount of time left together? I can’t get these thoughts out of my scared-shitless mind.
We sit in the doctor’s office, waiting to be called back. James stands and paces back and forth, his phone buzzing the whole time. On his next turn toward me, I poke him in the ribs to shut it off. We’re about to get life-altering news, I’m sure, so he quickly texts back whoever it is before doing as I ask and slipping the phone back into the pocket of his jeans.
Once we’re in the exam room, I sit on the table and the doctor checks my throat while asking me to make certain sounds. James is impatiently tapping his fingers on his leg, and all I can do is glare at him with a flashlight tube shoved up my nose again. Dr. Lewis is smiling when he repeats for the third time that I don’t have vocal cord cancer. I don’t have cancer at all. Squealing with joy, James kisses me until the doctor makes a sound letting us know he’s not finished with me yet. James and I are beside ourselves and have to focus to hear the rest of what he has to say.
“A proper voice coach can help train you to prevent straining your voice overall. It’s not a guarantee, but it will aide in the prevention of the polyps from returning. I can refer you to a speech and language pathologist for occupational therapy and I’d like to see you regularly to monitor.”
“So everything is okay? She’s going to get her voice back fully?” James looks excited and I want to feel the same excitement, but I don’t know what all of this means yet. I’m still on the FCC shit list until we resolve who started this whole mess. At least I’m coming out of this with a clean bill of health.
“Well, I would imagine so. Polyps, while annoying, are not the end of your career, Miss Cole. I want to see you next week. Use your voice as comfort permits, but don’t overdo it, and then we’ll get you in to see one of the speech therapists in the practice.”
Beaming, I jumped off the table to hug James and shake the doctor’s hand, thanking him.
This is great news, and James decides it calls for a nice lunch at one of his favorite restaurants in the city, but I don’t want a fancy lunch. We argue until I win with a pout and he drives me to the riverfront, where we stop at a little park filled with food trucks. It’s a guilty pleasure of mine, loving the smells that drift between vans and picnic tables. The aroma of fried grease and several ethnic food groups permeates the riverfront, making our stomachs growl in unison. The long lines move quickly, and we find an empty table to lay out our celebratory artery clogging feast.
We’re watching the birds fly over the river as we eat our fish tacos and churros when he slides down from the bench in front of me, clutching my hands gently. His face takes on a reverent look, one that has me questioning his sanity in the moment. I look around frantically, a million thoughts running through me. He’s smiling like an idiot and I try pulling away. His smile seems suspicious and nerves threaten my recently devoured fish taco.
“James w-what are you d-doing?” I am shitballs blown away and terrified. I think about my feelings for James and how it’s too quick, too perfectly messy right now. I know my head is shaking no in disbelief, and my limbs mimic the movement. We’ve know each other for two years at a distance but barely a month at a glance as intimate partners, lovers—coworkers with benefits? Ugh. I’ve just found out I don’t have cancer and now he’s doing what? Proposing? Oh hell no. I don’t know if I’m ready for love. I don’t realize I’ve said that last part out loud until he chuckles, squeezing the warmth back into my hands.
