Science and Faith

Science and Faith

I wake, groggy and disoriented, to a severe headache and a pain in my chest. Gingerly I pull the thin, pale blue covers off my legs and rise from the uncomfortable bed. It’s been days since I’ve had the strength and it’s both painful and wonderful to be able to move and properly stretch my muscles. I bring my monitor and IV drip with me into the bathroom, where I relieve myself and wash my hands and splash some cool water on my face. Blinking the moisture from my eyes, I peer into the mirror at my reflection.

            I don’t recognize myself. My pale blue eyes are now gray, sunken-in, surrounded by dark circles. My mouth is downturned, my lips chapped. I run one weak, frail hand over my smooth bald head, noticing how prominent the veins appear, before turning away. I loathe my appearance with a fire in my gut. I spent the majority of my life – a respectable thirty two years – believing that looks were what made you. The prettiest people become models or actors, and the average-looking people settle for what they can get. I made the most of my life, getting my master’s degree to teach first grade. Teaching was always my ambition, and since I have no family of my own, my students became my children. Every year I grow so fond of them – and they grow so fast at that age – and every year they leave and don’t turn back. I enjoy being their friend and helping them develop social and academic skills, as well as hearing their stories for show and tell and what they did over holiday break. In all respects but a few, they are my children. I’ve never away from them for this long, and there’s an ache deep in my chest that has nothing to do with my cancer.

            Settling back into bed, I look over the various homemade get-well cards from my students, scribbled and misspelled notes that never fail to make me smile. Next to them is a fresh bouquet of bright flowers, a sweet-smelling arrangement of lilies and pink roses. A tear forms in the corner of my eye, but I blink it away.

            The sliding glass door to my room opens and Dr. Torres strides in, holding her ever-present clipboard. She gives me a sweet, non-condescending smile. “How are you feeling today, Charlotte?”

            “My head hurts,” I reply, splaying my cool hands across my forehead, feeling the sweat that’s already gathered there.

            She nods. “I’ll give you some painkillers. Are you hungry for some breakfast before your chemo today?”

            I sigh. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt to try. I may be able to keep some of it down.”

            Dr. Torres pats my foot. “That’s all we can hope for. You have some visitors.”

            “Okay, you can send them in.” I adjust the blankets around myself, settling deeper against my pillow. My chest flares in agony when I breathe, but I try to mentally block this out.

            My mother makes her way into the room, quickly followed by my sister. “Hey Char,” my sister Amelia says quietly, and the greeting is echoed by my mother. They sit on opposite sides of my bed, just like always, and they each take one of my hands to hold – just like always. They’ve been coming to visit me every morning since my diagnosis. I appreciate their continual support, and I know they will have my back up until the very end. Although they have hope, I am not so foolish. With the survival rate under 15 percent for stage-four melanoma, and the fact that I chose a less aggressive form of treatment, the doctors predicted I had ten months. That was eight months ago.

            For the first two months after the diagnosis, I traveled as much as I could, in between radiation and chemo doses, before I was too weak to do it. Sightseeing was wonderful but also unfulfilling, knowing I didn’t really have time to appreciate everything the way I should. After that I taught my class as well as I could, but usually my teacher’s aide Adam took over because I was too weak or sick. After a while I could no longer go to school, and ended up on the hospital full time.