Saturday, February 18
One Week Later
Grant seemingly has a mini-stroke as I tell him about Blake's obsession with cars and the collection he has compiled over the years.
"He has how many convertibles?"
"I just don't understand where all the money is coming from," He runs his hand through a thick head of hair.
I immediately grow insecure and become aware of my exposed head. It's been four days since we shaved all my hair off, and I can't help but miss its way of making me feel feminine.
Grant notices because he pulls his hand from his curly blonde hair and lies his arms across his chest.
"He has a very successful business," I blurt, unsure how to answer. It's not like I can tell him that his father runs a multimillion-dollar drug mafia.
He'd go ballistic.
"You could do that too," I say to comfort Grant, who has built-up anger towards the fact that he broke things off with Blake so early.
"Yeah, I guess," He fumbles with the remote while searching through the channels on the TV while scrunching his eyebrows in focus.
"When was the last time you went to class?" I question as I sit up in my bed after checking the time.
It's one o'clock in the afternoon; he should be in school, I think to myself.
"Last week," He starts, "But all of my teachers have been sending me the work, and I turn it in before the due date."
"You don't have to worry about that; Brynne"
I shake my head.
"Don't you want to experience your senior year?" I bluntly ask.
His shoulders slump backward into the hospital-grade chair, and he puffs up his chest.
"It's not all that special," He compromises, but I can see in his eyes that he doesn't believe what is coming out of his mouth.
As a senior, he should be partying his ass off and taking girls out on dates, not staying in the hospital 24/7 with his terminally ill sister.
I think, in a way, he blames my condition on himself. He's convinced that if he never acted up with the drugs and alcohol, I would have never left home. Then I could have gotten the treatment I needed earlier, and all would be well.
But I know that's not the case. I was sick before I ran off with Blake on that spur-of-the-moment trip. I was also sick before Grant decided to go through his rebel phase. Sometimes I'm glad it was short-lived, but sometimes I wish he would be more carefree.
His focus shifts to some home restoration show on the TV, and I stare off into space, thinking about life, until I hear a sudden knock at the door.
"Miss Foster?" A familiar voice haunts me. Dr. Khan steps into the room with an iPad in hand.
I sit up, and Grant immediately shuts the television off.
"Yes?" My voice penetrates through my throat.
"The results have returned for your father's bone marrow test," He begins while scrolling on the screen, "Would you like me to wait, or should I tell you now."
Grant's eyebrows scrunch in confusion.
"Bone marrow test?" He questions, "What does that mean exactly?"
"Well; I talked to your parents about your bone marrow stem cells. As of now, you have a dangerously low level of cells and require a transplant."
His scientific voice carries on,
"Your father took a test to determine whether or not he was your match."
"Well, was he?" I gulp down a large lump in my throat.
"No."
Great, I think to myself.
"Test me," Grant says, without hesitation, as he rises from the hospital chair.
"Grant..." I begin.
"Brynne, you need this to live. You would do the same thing for me." He argues while eagerly walking towards the door.
He's right. I would do anything if it meant he would stay alive.
I shake my head in disapproval as Dr. Khan ushers him down the hallway toward the lab section of the unit.
I sigh and slump back into my bed as I think about everything that could go wrong.
What if Grant isn't a match either? What happens then?
I place a hand on my forehead and attempt to calm myself down. I wonder what the process of testing someone is.
Half an hour passes, and I'm left in the room twiddling my thumbs while anticipating the moment Dr. Khan walks in with the results.
Grant enters the room first, his hair disheveled and a slight limp coming from his left hip, which is almost untraceable. I can tell he's trying to hide it, but I see the pain on his face.
That test hurt him.
He's hurt; because of me.
"Grant?" I raise my voice in shock, "What's wrong? Did they hurt you?"
"I'm fine," He sends a quick smile before wincing as he sits beside me, "The Doc said that it would take a couple of hours for the results to come in."
I shake my head and slump back into my bed, keeping my eyes on Grant as he attempts to make himself comfortable.
His side seems to be killing him because it's not until he slips a large pillow underneath his hip that he calms down.
The grimace on his face speaks louder than any of his words ever could. I know my brother is hurting because of the test he just took.
The test he took, to potentially save my life.
I look at him with a feeling of pure thankfulness. What would I do without you? I almost want to whisper but catch myself before I do. Grant likely thinks that it's his job. He's convinced that this is what being an older brother is about, convinced that he has to help me in any way he can, no matter the detriment of his health.
"You would do the same thing for me," I remember his hasty words before allowing himself to go through that pain for me.
He's right. I would.
When I look at my brother's sweaty face and his uncomfortable position, I realize that I would be doing the same thing if it were him sitting in this bed. If it were he who had gotten sick and needed this treatment to live.
"Thank you," I speak as I return to my senses, "I know that couldn't have been easy."
Grant shakes his head in modesty, "Let's just find out the results before you thank me."
His hand reaches for mine while he stiffens his back.
I smile at him.
Just before I can say anything else, my dad walks into the room. His arms are painted with oil, most likely because he's been at work all day. His eyes look distraught as he gives Grant a look of desperation. My brother pulls back his hand and sits up to greet my dad.
"Son, can I speak to you," My dad's voice is an octave lower than usual, meaning he is serious about whatever's on his mind. He slips the dirty baseball cap off his head before speaking again.
"Outside," He adds in a less assertive tone.
Grant tries his best to stand without making a face, but I immediately notice that the real pain has begun to set in.
He groans, and the look on my dad's face is anything but angry. He doesn't make eye contact with me, but I can feel his looming sense of pity. One with which I am too familiar. Once they are outside my room, I try to listen in on the conversation.
But, it's no use; they have either moved away from my windows or are speaking in very low whispers because I cannot hear anything going on out there.
I frustratingly slump back into my bed and let my head fall back in exhaustion.
These past few treatments of chemo have taken a toll on me. At first, I tried to deny that they would affect me. I thought if I could pretend like I was normal, then maybe I could trick myself into thinking I would be okay.
But ever since I returned from the dance with Blake, my muscles have grown weak, and nausea has taken over. I've only had four infusions, but the serious effects of chemotherapy have begun to show.
I hate that my family has to see me like this.
I hate that Blake has to see me like this.
Which is why I begged him to return to school; just until summer break hits. It's his senior year, and even though he has no thoughts of a future outside of this hospital, I have to look out for him. I've always known that he has aspirations to become a doctor, so not going to school is not an option for him.
Besides, when I die, he needs to have a life set out for him. Because if he doesn't, God knows what paths he'll fall into. Right now, I'm all he's got, and that scares me beyond belief.
When I'm gone, he needs to be able to move on. But thinking about this kind of stuff hurts my heart, so I reach for the remote and turn some soap opera on to get rid of my thoughts.
After fifteen minutes of watching the same woman fall in love with four different men, I decide to go outside and check on my dad and Grant. If they've been talking for this long, I want to know what the big deal is.
I slowly step onto the cold tile floor and drag my IV line behind me.
I peek out of the large doorframe and search the hallway for the two boys, but find out they are nowhere to be seen. I hear noises coming from a small curtained area towards the left side of the pediatric wing; so I head over there.
My dad's hushed voice startles me, and I wonder what the hell is going on.
Why are they behind these curtains?
My hand pulls back the thick fabric to get a good view of what's happening inside the covered room.
My eyes widen in shock when I see Grant lying on his side with large tears streaming down his face and his hands interlocked with my father's.
A couple of encouraging whispers to escape my dad's mouth before he realizes that I am present.
My eyes travel to the doctor standing above my brother and notice the huge needle that he has inserted into his hip.
"Grant?" My voice falters, "What's going on?"
My dad's broken gaze shoots up to me, and he purses his lips.
"Baby," He starts, unable to focus on both of his suffering children, "He's going to be okay."
"Just wait outside for a second," Is the only thing he manages to say before he turns his attention to my groaning brother.
Leaving is out of the question.
Grant's muscles are all flexed and tense as he anticipates the needle entering his bone. His loud cries shatter my heart into a million pieces.
The worst part about this is that he has to remain completely still. My father's strong arms are holding my tall brother's legs steady. One movement could paralyze him for life.
I stare in shock, unable to move from the position I'm in.
The doctor slowly retrieves the bone marrow, pulling back the syringe filled with white liquid, the very thing that is the meaning of life or death in my case.
"All done," He states before carefully bandaging the small incision in Grant's hip.
My brother's eyes are squeezed shut as he tightens his grip on my father's arm. His face is red, and his cheeks are soaked. I'm not sure I'll ever experience anything more gut-wrenching than this.
I don't think I've ever seen him cry tears of pain, not even when he broke his arm in the fifth grade.
I tense my jaw as the doctor leaves the room, likely taking the bone marrow stem cells to the lab to be processed into a transfusion.
"Bry?" Grant's sore voice startles me.
I rush to his bedside, where he can clearly see my face.
"Yeah?" I tenderly smile while brushing the hair out of his heated face. My face is probably riddled with tears, but I don't care.
"Please don't be mad. Dr. Khan said I'm a match, and you needed this."
His eyes are still shut, and I notice that he's slightly shaking, most likely from the shock his body is experiencing.
"I'm not mad, bud. I'm just really worried." My eyes travel up and down his body sprawled on the hospital bed.
Is this what it feels like when they look at me? Because this is probably the most vulnerable thing anyone can experience.
"I'll be alright," He whispers.
I step back and let my dad help him up, wincing when he whimpers and falls limp into his arms.
"Brynne, sweetie?" My dad's voice oddly sounds like it did when I once was a little girl, "Can you grab a wheelchair?"
I nod and quickly walk out of the room, searching the hallways for what he needs. Pulling my IV cart behind me, I grab the nearest wheelchair and take it back as fast as my legs will take me.
When I return, my dad has managed to drape Grant's muscular arm around his shoulder and gently sets him down into the chair I have retrieved. Grant gasps as the pressure hits his sore hip, and my breath hitches.
My dad wheels him from behind the curtained room and into mine with quick haste. He avoids Grant's left side while lifting him onto the high bed.
"There we go," His strong words work their way into Grant's furrowed face. My dad removed his hands from underneath Grant's underarms, and I drape the blanket across his body, tucking in the sides like how he does for me every single night.
I sit in the chair on the edge of the room, and my dad follows, trying not to disturb Grant as he falls asleep.
He keeps his eyes on his son, even as he sits down to finally rest from all the exertion the day has brought him. I notice a hand-shaped bruise on his forearm that probably came from Grant and how tightly he was squeezing him.
I stare at my devoted brother and only feel unworthy of his love. He's done so much for me; and yet he always feels as though he hasn't.
My dad's head turns towards me, and gives me a weak smile, uncertain of how I've reacted to all of this. I only show my feelings by resting my tired head on his shoulder and keeping my eyes on the hospital bed.
"I can ask them for another room," He coos while kissing the top of my bald head.
"No, I want to stay with him," I immediately respond; without hesitation.
My dad nods his head and relaxes in his seat.
His strong arms provide a safety blanket for me to rest while I take a turn caring for Grant.
It's the least I can do after all he's done for me.
Grant. My brother.
My protector.
Today, I am his.
His sister.
His protector.