But, eventually, the nausea faded, and the vomiting stopped. Weak and exhausted, yet relieved, Nick fell into a dreamless sleep.
The rest of the week was both boring and torturous, with Nick taking chemo on alternating days. And at the end of the week came what Nick had been dreading the most – the surgery to insert his catheter.
As it turned out, the procedure was barely surgery. Nick was taken to a sterile room, where he was givens injections of local anesthetics and sedatives to relax him and dull the pain. Though he would have rather been asleep, he was awake through the whole thing.
A young male doctor who looked only a few years old than Nick did the procedure, explaining it as he went along. “I’m threading the catheter into your subclavian vein now,” the doctor would say, and though Nick could not really feel the pain, he would wince.
But eventually it ended. The doctor carefully taped a big piece of gauze to Nick’s chest, hiding the catheter before Nick could see it.
“Now,” he said. “Before I let you go back to your room, we need to discuss how to care for your catheter.”
Nick made a face; it sounded like the catheter was his new pet guinea pig or something.
The doctor didn’t seem to notice, though, and continued seriously, “You need to clean the area around the catheter opening and change the gauze dressings daily. For the first two weeks, you have to keep the area dry. Either cover it with plastic wrap while taking a shower, or take a bath or sponge bath and keep it dry. After that, you can shower normally, but make sure you change the dressing as soon as you get done – you don’t want it to stay wet. It should take at least six weeks for the area to fully heal; after that, you can use soap and water on the area and cover the opening with just a band-aid. Oh, and finally, no swimming.”
Nick had been nodding along, only half paying attention, but at these words, he looked up with a jolt. “No swimming?” he repeated. “You mean just until it heals, right?”
“No... I mean no swimming as long as you have the catheter,” the doctor reiterated. “Catheters can easily become infected, and swimming in dirty water will most likely cause an infection. And when you’re on chemo, infections can be especially dangerous because your immune system is weakened. So absolutely no swimming.”
Nick’s heart sank. Swimming was one of his favorite ways of exercising; he loved the water, loved his pool, loved the ocean... and now it was all being taken away from him. Just like everything else. His bone cells, his hair, his looks... his hopes, his dreams, his future...
His life.
***
The following day was Saturday, the best day of the week, in Nick’s opinion. And that Saturday was especially good, for after two agonizing weeks in the hospital, he was finally going home. He had been waiting all week for this blessed day; his song “Is It Saturday Yet?” had taken on new meaning.
As he drove himself home that morning, the world around him seemed much different. Looking out the windshield as he drove, the sky seemed bluer than normal, the grass greener. People were everywhere, in cars, on bikes, walking down the sidewalks... going about their usual business. And though he knew it was irrational, it made him angry. And jealous. How could these people act so normally, like nothing was wrong, when he was on chemotherapy for a form of bone cancer? How could their lives seem so in order when his was in turmoil?
It was so unfair. But life itself was unfair. If things were fair, Nick, who had once had everything going for him, would not have gotten cancer.
But things were not fair.
Nick pulled through the tall gates enclosing his property and parked his car in the driveway. He shut off the ignition but did not get out right away, instead sitting and gazing up at his sprawling mansion. Home sweet home. Well, things definitely weren’t sweet now, but still, he was glad to be home. Opening his door, he struggled to crawl out of the car and grabbed his crutches, opting to leave his overnight bag (more like two-week bag) in the car; he didn’t feel like trying to haul it into the house right then.
The walk up to the front door was slower than ever; Nick felt very weak – whether it was because of the chemo or just lying around for two weeks, he did not know – and his left shoulder and upper chest were tender from the catheter, so trying to hoist himself around on crutches was not at all easy. But eventually, he made it indoors and stopped just inside the foyer, panting, his arms trembling from exertion.
Immediately, he heard the familiar sound of toenails scraping against the hardwood floor as his dogs came tearing into the foyer to greet their master, their tails in the air, happily yapping.
“Hey, boys,” Nick greeted them tiredly, as the pugs scrambled around his feet. One of them jumped, knocking against his left knee, and he gasped in pain. “Ow, damn you!” he cursed, nudging the small dog away with one of his crutches. Whimpering, the animal slunk away, and when he did not bend down to pet the others, they immediately followed suit.
“God, I’m such a friggin’ loser,” Nick muttered, as he stood there in the doorway, watching the dogs abandon him and still trying to catch his breath from the trek into the house. Only weeks ago, he had been in great shape, his body muscled from working out. Now it seemed he was already starting to waste away.
Suddenly both frustrated and furious, he slammed the door as hard as he could. It snapped shut with a bang that shook the entire room. Behind him, there was a loud crash and the tinkling of broken glass.
Turning awkwardly around, Nick saw that his painting of the ocean had fallen off the wall again. Grunting, he leaned his crutches against the wall and, with effort, bent down to pick up the picture. As soon as he did, shards of glass fell from the frame. Turning it over, he saw that this time, the glass face of the frame had totally shattered. It was ruined; he would need to get a new piece of glass for it another day.
With a sigh, he sat the painting carefully down on the floor, where it sat forlornly, jagged pieces of glass still clinging to the rim of the frame. Symbolically, it reminded him of his own life.
Broken.
***
