But, of course, it was not a normal day, just as no day had been normal since that fateful one in March, when he had been told he had Ewing’s Sarcoma, a form of bone cancer. And now, on this beautiful summer afternoon, he was cooped up inside a hospital, fighting nausea, battling chemotherapy, combating cancer.
His mother had been there with him, but she had gone for lunch at his insistence, and he was rather glad. Though she had only been there a matter of hours, he was already sick of her hovering over him and somehow knew that deep down, she was probably enjoying their brief separation just as much as he was.
This whole scenario – the hospital, the medications, and naturally, the big c-word – made her very uncomfortable, he could tell. Although she tried to hide it, he could see it in her eyes whenever she looked at him. Every time a nurse came to check on him and adjust his IV, he noticed her gaze drift down to the catheter implanted just below his collarbone, where an IV line ran into him and dispensed his chemotherapy drugs, the drugs that had been making him violently ill and constantly nauseated for the past two days. It scared her, he knew, though she would never admit it. And he felt bad, but it wasn’t like there was a thing he could do about it.
The truth was, it scared him too. Not the catheter and the tubes and the stench of medicine – no, he was used to all that by now. It was simply the cancer that terrified him and the possibility that it would take away the rest of his life. He was only twenty-three, far too young to die, and yet, he very well could. His chances of beating the cancer were good; at least that’s what Dr. Kingsbury told him. But still, he had cancer, and cancer killed. That was the grim reality of it. And that was what scared him.
The door to his room clicked open, offering a welcomed intrusion into his bleak thoughts. He looked up, expecting to see his mother back already, but instead, a nurse walked in. Slightly relieved, he pasted on a pleasant smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes and mumbled a “Hi” in greeting.
“Hello,” replied the nurse, whom he hadn’t seen there before. He glanced at her nametag – Karen. “I’m just here to check vitals.” She had a cute accent... Australian, maybe?
“Hey, where you from?” Nick asked. “You from Down Under? Crikey!” he added, doing his best Crocodile Hunter impression.
A smile tugged on the corners of her mouth as she tried to keep a straight face. “Uh, no, I’m English, actually,” she replied.
“English? Oh, like from England?”
“Yes, England.”
“Oh. Like the Bayt-uhls.”
“Yes,” Karen replied, her eyes twinkling, smiling at him in a way that made him feel rather stupid. He shot her his half-smile, hoping to make up for it. “So, how are you feeling?” she asked, wrapping a blood pressure cuff around his upper arm.
Pausing to survey his symptoms, Nick was surprised to realize that he really didn’t feel too nauseous at the moment. He didn’t exactly feel good, for he was tired and weak and sort of clammy, but still, it was an improvement over the way he had been feeling earlier. Maybe he was adjusting to this new chemo after all.
“Okay, I guess,” he answered, as Karen pumped the cuff until it was uncomfortably tight around his arm.
“Your BP’s 120/70 – that’s very good,” commented the nurse as she unstrapped the cuff.
“Oh,” replied Nick. “Uh, good.”
“Now let me just check your temp...” She stuck a thermometer in his ear, and seconds later, it beeped. Pulling it out, she held it up and frowned at the reading on it.
“Don’t tell me I’ve got a fever,” Nick groaned, watching her expression carefully.
Karen bit her lip. “Let me take it again; this device is a bit dodgy at times.” She put the thermometer back into his ear, and again, the reading was met with a frown. “Well,” she sighed, “it looks as if you have a fever, Mr. Carter. 100.2.”
“Oh,” said Nick, “well that ain’t that bad. I’ve had temps much higher than that before. One time, a few years ago, I had the flu, and it was like 103-“
“I hate to tell you, but it could be serious,” Karen interrupted him grimly. “Fever is a sign of infection, and the chemotherapy lowers your white count, which makes it much more difficult for your body to fight infection. I’ll fetch a doctor.” She bustled out of the room, and something about the way she was hurrying made an icy block of fear form in the pit of Nick’s stomach.
And suddenly, he didn’t feel well at all. Maybe it the effects of fever setting in, or maybe it was only psychosomatic, but all of a sudden, he was not only nauseous, but dizzy and trembling, cold one minute, hot the next. It felt no different than having the flu, but the flu was nothing, and this, according to the nurse, could be something.
Karen returned a few minutes later with a Hispanic man in a white lab coat – the doctor, Nick assumed. She was speaking rapidly to him in her quaint British accent. “I took it twice, Gustavo, and the reading was the same – 100.2 degrees Fahrenheit.”
“You are right; it could be an infection,” replied the unfamiliar doctor in a heavy Spanish accent.
Deliriously, Nick smiled, finding it interesting to hear the two very different accents blending together as the nurse and doctor conversed. But immediately, the doctor’s attention was turned to him, and the serious expression on his face wiped the hint of a smile from Nick’s.
“I am Dr. Lugo, Mr. Carter,” the doctor said.
“Uh, hi... where’s Dr. Kingsbury?”
“She’s not on call at the moment. She should be here later this evening. But do not worry, I will care for you until she arrives,” assured Dr. Lugo, leaning over Nick’s bed and pressing his fingertips into Nick’s neck, feeling all down his jawline. His hands were cool and felt nice on Nick’s warm skin. “Your glands are swollen. You are developing an infection.”
“So what does that mean?” Nick asked nervously.
“It means we are going to move you into the Intensive Care so that we can observe you more closely.” Nick’s heart thudded rapidly in his chest; he didn’t like the sound of that. “Karen, order a CBC and lytes and call transport.”
“Certainly, Dr. Lugo.” Karen walked out, leaving Nick alone with the doctor.
“Are you moving me now?” he asked.
“In a little while, when transport comes to take you to the ICU. I need to get going now, but I will come to check on you later. Your nurse Karen will be back to take some blood in a few minutes.”
“Okay,” Nick said grudgingly, and Dr. Lugo left the room as well. He lay there, nervous and frightened, until Karen returned.
“I just need a blood sample,” she said, “and I can take it from your central line without having to stick you.” Nick nodded, used to this by now. He tugged the strings tying his hospital gown in the back until they came undone and let her slide the gown off his chest and shoulders so that his catheter was exposed. Karen expertly inserted a needle into the port, and a few minutes later, she had a small vial of his blood. “I’m going to take this to the lab now,” she told him. “Someone should be here to take you to ICU in just a bit, Mr. Carter.”
“Thanks,” Nick replied dully and watched her leave again.
Lying alone in his bed, feeling weak and feverish, he thought of his mother and wondered if she would be back after lunch. Suddenly, he wanted her there with him. The prospect of being shipped off to the Intensive Care ward by himself scared him. ICU – that was for really sick people. He didn’t like to think of himself as “really sick.” But the reality was slowly sinking in – he was really sick. Not only did he have cancer, but now an infection... an infection that, according to the doctor and nurse, could be very serious. They both seemed worried, which made him terrified. Infection, intensive care... God, what if he died?
His whole body felt like it was on fire, and then, suddenly, he was cold again. Shivering under his meager bedcovers, he was suddenly painfully aware of his own mortality. He had been ever since the diagnosis of Ewing’s Sarcoma, but now, listening to his heart beat erratically in his ears and feeling the perspiration slide down his burning forehead, he really felt it... the fear, the fear of death.
“Are you Nickolas Carter?”
Nick looked up to see a short black man in navy blue scrubs standing in his doorway.
“Yeah,” he said weakly, and the man nodded and came further into the room, wheeling a gurney with him.
“Can you slide on over to this for me?” the man asked, positioning the gurney right next to Nick’s bed. Nodding, Nick painfully eased himself onto the gurney, realizing just how weak he had become. The man covered Nick in a thin sheet, tucking it around his chest and put the sides up on the gurney, making Nick feel somewhat like an infant in a crib. Then, without a word, he wheeled Nick out of the safety of his room and off toward the unknown world of Intensive Care.
***
