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I open my eyes, and my brain is in a haze. It takes me a while to remember where I am and why. My face is wet and cold, and I bring up a hand to wipe it dry. I was crying.
“Sorry,” Sara says. “I normally wouldn’t try to wake you, but I think you were having a nightmare.”
“No,” I say. “It was a good dream.” My voice is husky, and my throat hurts as I say this.
“Oh. I’m sorry, then. Is your mouth dry?”
Rolling my tongue across the roof of my mouth, it gets stuck with the dryness. I clasp my throat and nod. She places a cup full of ice chips on a tray over my bed, and I suck on those.
Sara looks at the monitors I’m hooked up to and makes some notes on my chart on the laptop. “Dinner should be here in about an hour.” She points to a bin sitting next to me on the bed. “In case you need it. Nausea hits at different times for different people, but be prepared for it tonight to be on the safe side.”
“Thanks,” I say.
When I’m alone, I pull the blankets to one side and lift my hospital gown. I can’t see the incisions because they are covered in bandages. I flex my abdomen gently, testing for pain, but whatever they gave me is strong enough it never comes.
It’s a strange thing, going from the perfect body to one that is cut up and radiated. I don’t feel any different, and I start to hope I can get back to the cage when this is all said and done.
When dinner comes, I lift the lid to find the most disgusting-looking bowl of soup. The stereotype of hospital food being gross is no joke. Despite not enjoying the dinner one bit, nausea from radiation doesn’t kick in tonight. I sleep through the night, and I wonder if I could be so lucky as to avoid the horrors of side effects.
I am so wrong.
In the morning, I devour pancakes that aren’t quite as bad as the chicken noodle soup, but they almost instantly come back up.
The rest of the day is a constant race between Sara and the other nurses to rush fresh basins for my vomit. If that weren’t bad enough, by the evening, I’m spewing out the other end too. How the hell can you get diarrhea when you are vomiting everything you eat?
By morning, my body feels like it’s been through five fights in a row, with no breaks, and lost all of them. I finally am able to keep down some mashed potatoes. It is a triumph because it means I don’t have to live in the hospital until chemo starts the following week.
“I hear you finally ate and kept it down?” Dr. Ramirez walks in, pumps hand sanitizer on her hands, and sits next to me.
“Yeah. It was pretty gnarly there for a second.”
“Valentina, this is only going to get much worse before it gets better.”
“I know. I’m in this. I swear.”
“The standard of care is also a great option. We can go for less aggressive treatment over a longer period of time. You don’t have to be in this trial if it’s too much.”
“It’s been one day, doc. You giving up on me already?”
She laughs. “No. Of course not. It’s protocol that the patient understands we can stop at any time.”
“I’m not stopping. Your chances are my best chances. Do your worst. I can take it.”
“Okay, then. Since you can keep your food down, you can go home this afternoon. On Monday, you have your first chemo-radiation combo. Be here at eleven.”
“I know. I know,” I say. “We go like that for five weeks.”
“With weekends off,” she adds.
“I never thanked you for breakfast the other day.”
Dr. Ramirez smiles. “My pleasure. Amanda is a wonderful human. I was hoping you two would become friendly.”
“We did. She’s great and a total riot.”
Dr. Ramirez laughs at my assessment. “That’s one word to describe her. I personally use ‘firecracker.’”
My phone buzzes on the table, and I grab it. It’s an unknown number.
