Admission was a mix of paperwork and waiting. Eventually I found myself in a hospital room with white walls, an antiseptic smell, and a view of the parking lot. I was put in a narrow bed, my parents perched in stuffed blue-vinyl chairs, worn shiny from too many passes with antibacterial cleaner. It became a blur after that. A whirl of blood counts, introductions, expla- nations, and tearful, lingering hugs from Mom. My parents decided to take turns staying overnight. Mom made a big show of volunteering for the first night and tucking me in like I was five before settling onto her cot. I pretended to sleep so she wouldn’t know I heard her toss, turn, and cry in her pillow. I should’ve gotten out of bed and reassured her, but I’d faux smiled and done my no-worries dance all day. I didn’t have enough energy to fake bravery. I was scared; her tears couldn’t be a good sign.
The next morning I was wheeled off to my first surgery: the insertion of a port in the right side of my chest a few inches above my heart. I wouldn’t look at it, but it didn’t feel like much: a small bump under a bandage with constant access to my veins so they could take blood and administer chemo.
I’d become the Summer Girl who couldn’t wear a bikini top. I spent hours with the oncologist as he explained my treatment, prognosis, and what to expect. I didn’t feel like I understood a word, but when Gyver stopped by I regurgitated mostly coherent answers.
“They’re going to be giving me a ‘chemo cocktail’: a mix of five different drugs I’ll get every day for a week. The goal is to kill all white blood cells—the blasts and the normal ones—and then grow back new, cancer-free cells.”
“When’s this start?” he asked. He’d come with his parents, but they were in the hall consoling mine, which I was thankful for. I needed a break from the suffocating contradiction of their what-a-tragedy looks and we-can-do-this words.
“Day after tomorrow. Welcome to my home for at least the next month. You’ll like my doctor. Everyone calls him Dr. Kevin—probably because his patients are usually younger. I’m the oldest one here.” I swept a hand toward my door—where I’d had Dad hang my lucky horseshoe—and the rest of the pediatric oncology ward beyond. “His name is Kevin Kiplinger— alliterative, that’s a good sign.”
“Alliteration? Signs? Who cares? Is he a good doctor? I’m not doubting your parents’ doctor-picking abilities, but an alliterative name?”
“I thought you liked alliteration.”
“I only told you that . . . We were ten, Mia Moore.” He reached out a slow hand and touched the bandages above my heart. “Did it hurt?”
“Not much; they used anesthesia. I guess it’ll make things easier; all my IVs will go through there.” I touched the bandage, then my necklace, twisting the gold four-leaf clover charm on the chain. “The worst part was they made me take this off. I felt so naked without it.”
Gyver smiled. “Who knew you’d get so attached to that necklace?”
I rolled my eyes. “You’ve always picked out the best birthday presents.” I let go of the shamrock and touched the bandage again.
“What will you miss the most about home?” he asked.
“Jinx. I brought my laptop and iPod and I can have as many pictures as I want, but they’re not going to let me bring a cat. Will you visit her?”
“Sure. Can I come visit you after the chemo’s started?”
“You’d better.”
“Where is everyone? Your cheer friends? The Jock? Your mom told mine you’re planning on keeping this secret, but that’s just your mom being crazy, right?”
“No. They all think I’m in Connecticut with my grand- parents.” Hil’s disdain for sick people still echoed and stung. “For now, that’s what I want.”
“Mi—” Gyver didn’t need to say more than my nickname; he managed to cram disapproval and judgment into two letters.
“It’s what I want,” I repeated. “Besides, I thought you’d be thrilled; you hate them.”
“I don’t hate them, and if they’re at least good at cheering you up, I won’t call them useless anymore.”
“I’m not ready to tell them. I have you—that’s enough.” I squeezed his hand and studied him. The haircut that drove his mother crazy because, while it wasn’t truly long enough to be sloppy, it always looked like he should turn around and get back in the barber’s chair. His T-shirts, worn in and soft with- out being ratty.
In a town where guys like Ryan and Chris wore polos with khakis or faded designer jeans, he stood out. His square-toed black shoes, where the other guys wore sneakers. His dark jeans that weren’t loose or emo-tight, but fit him perfectly. These things set him apart from the typical male East Laker, but they were oddly comforting in the hospital. Familiar.
Besides, who needed visitors when I had a continual drip of hospital personnel flowing through my room? There were too many nurses to keep track of, so I started giving them code names. There was Mary Poppins Nurse, who had a singsong British accent. Business Nurse, who marched in, did her thing, and left. Nurse Hollywood, who left me copies of US Weekly and brimmed with celebrity gossip. Nurse Snoopy, who wore cartoon scrubs and stayed to talk if she had a minute. She was my favorite.
***
Doctor Kevin wore gloves as he attached the bag to the pole, then connected it to my port. I stared at it, imagining it contained tiny soldiers—each one armed to attack and destroy my white blood cells.
“Well, Mia, now we start the process of getting you better. Are you ready?” Dr. Kevin was unwaveringly cheerful. If he were thirty years younger, thirty pounds thinner, and female, he’d make a great addition to the squad.
No, I wasn’t ready to be filled with toxins. I was terrified of how I’d be affected. I twirled a blond strand of hair around my finger and prayed, please don’t let it fall out. Tearing my eyes away from the orangey poison-slash-medicine, I looked from his optimistic face to my parents’ determined smiles.
I flashed him my best cheerleader grin and gave the required answer: “Let’s do this.”
Gyver was better at hiding his emotions than my parents, but I could read the tension in his rigid posture and attentive eyes. “Can I get you anything? How are you feeling?”
“I still don’t need anything or feel different than five minutes ago. Promise I’ll tell you if I think of something. It’s not often you agree to be my slave; I plan to milk it.” I poked his knee.
Business Nurse entered. Gyver startled and slid his chair backward a few inches. I was getting used to the zero privacy of the hospital. I didn’t like it, but I’d come to expect every nearly normal moment would be interrupted by a blood test, meds delivery, or questions about how I was feeling. This time it was an IV change. The new bag was yellow orange and smaller than my typical fluids. I wasn’t due for more chemo yet. The first dose hadn’t been awful, but I’d been warned the effects didn’t show up right away.
“What’s that?” I asked as she flushed my port, cleaning and sanitizing it so she could stick in a new needle.
“Plasma. Your count was low.” Her voice was business too. “Blood?”
She nodded, oblivious to my stiffened posture and rapid breathing. Gyver wasn’t; he leaned in and put a hand on my arm.
“But that’s someone else’s blood. I don’t want it in me. It’s not mine.” My hand closed around my necklace, squeezing the clover charm.
“Doctor Kevin ordered it. Please move your hand so I can get to your port.” Her voice wasn’t as patient as her words.
“I don’t want it.” I looked at Gyver with tear-glazed eyes. He was the only one here. Mom had gone home for a “real” shower, and I’d sent Dad to get me a milkshake from Scoops, my favorite ice cream place.
“You need it, Mi. Look the other way and hold my hand.” Gyver’s steady gaze eased my anxiety. I took a deep breath and gave him my hand.
I squeezed his fingers as the needle slid in; he squeezed back.
***
There were other cancer patients in the pediatric ward, but I did everything I could not to meet them, acknowledge them, learn their names. I refused to participate in any of the groups or counseling—I didn’t need to vent about how awful this was; I needed to endure it and move on. Besides, I didn’t belong there.
The ones who were bald—not like me. The ones with trans- plant scars—not like me. The ones with radiation treatments— not like me. The ones who’d grown up on this floor, diagnosed at four and celebrating their birthdays and Christmases in the depressing lounge—not like me. The ones without visitors, the ones whose rooms overflowed with visitors, the ones who welcomed volunteers dressed as clowns and cartoon characters— not like me. The ones who played video games or watched movies in the lounge and laughed like they forgot the battles fought within their cells—not like me. The ones who died—not like me.
