Inwardly, I winced. It was one thing to whine about my troubles to someone like Jenny—or even to Noah Spencer, before I’d realized who he was—but quite another to complain at all to a woman who was fighting so hard just to survive each day.
On the other hand, one of the things I’d learned over the years was that some patients yearned for normalcy above all else. Being treated like everyone else gave them a sense of well-being. I wondered if Angela fell into that camp.
Choosing to hedge my bets, I shrugged. “Nothing that didn’t feel better after a glass of wine with a new friend. But I did appreciate Noah letting me vent to him. You’ve got a winner there.”
“Don’t I though?” Angela beamed, and I thought suddenly of Mira’s description of Nico glowing when he was with Jenny. I saw the same kind of light in Angela’s eyes, as though she were lit from within. It gave me a weird feeling of unease and wistfulness; I was certain that no one had ever looked that way when he thought about me.
“He’s such a sweetheart,” Angela went on. “We’ve been together forever, but you know what? When I know he’s coming home, even if I just saw him in the morning, I get that same funny feeling in my stomach that I used to get when we were first dating. Like I just can’t wait to see him.”
“I get the sense he feels the same way.” I winked at her. “It was pretty clear he was chomping at the bit to see you yesterday, even though he was respecting your request to wait until after you’d finished working.” I paused. “What is it that you do? We didn’t talk about that yesterday.”
“Oh.” She looked vaguely embarrassed. “It’s kind of silly, really. I mean, what I do isn’t nearly as important as your job, or what Dr. Girard does.”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” I chided her gently. “We all bring something essential to the table of life.”
“That’s so deep. Makes me feel even more shallow.” Angela rolled her eyes. “Okay, well . . . I’m kind of like—I post stuff on social media, and I have a website, and I talk about things like make-up and hair products and fashion. In the last couple of years, I moved on to home décor, too, since Noah and I bought our house in Tampa.”
“Wait a second.” I leaned forward and gripped her arm. “Are you The Sideline Diva? Angela Rone-Spencer—I didn’t even put it together yesterday.”
“I know. Absolutely ridiculous, right?” Her cheeks pinked slightly, and her chest rose and fell as she heaved out a breath. “I thought I was allthatbefore I got this diagnosis. I mean, I was so arrogant. I had Noah, and everything that I wanted in the world seemed to just fall into my lap. I actually . . .” She shook her head. “God, I’m an idiot. I was planning out my potential pregnancy so that the high points—you know, the announcement, the gender reveal, the shower—would happen during the best times, when I could use them to boost my views.”
“You’re not an idiot, Angela.” I wanted to hug her, to offer comfort, but we probably weren’t to the hugging phase of our relationship yet. “You bring a lot of joy to people. Just because it’s making them look good or have someone to aspire to be like doesn’t make it any less important.” I tapped my chest. “I’ll happily admit that I follow you. And I loved to watch you do your makeup tutorials. My friends in Philadelphia and I liked your posts because you always seemed so real and down-to-earth. You weren’t stuck-up, and you used stuff anyone could get.”
Angela smiled. “Thanks for making me feel better. I’ve been struggling with a bunch of guilt since my diagnosis. You know—like, if I don’t live past twenty-eight, what have I brought to the world? What kind of difference have I made?”
“Guilt is not a positive, helpful emotion.” As an ND, I was always keeping my eyes open for teachable moments, and this was one. “It’s not going to help you get better—we know that negative feelings like regret and guilt affect brain chemicals and hormones. If you’d like, I can incorporate some exercises into your treatment to help you process and let go of that.”
She blinked at me. “Seriously? I thought you were going to recommend a psych consult.”
I chuckled. “Nah. I don’t think that would be an effective use of our resources. Let’s try this way, and then if you feel as though it isn’t working, or isn’t working well, we can talk about counseling. I don’t think that’ll be the case, though.”
“Thank you.” Angela struggled to her feet and bent over to wrap me in a hug. Apparently, I’d been wrong—wewereat the hugging stage. “This has been heavy on my mind for a long time, but even more so in the last couple of weeks.” She sat down again, resting her elbows on her knees. “I told Noah that I didn’t want to go public about my illness because of his career, but that was only partly the truth. I mostly didn’t want my followers to find out and feel sorry for me. I’ve been posting about everything but myself and hoping that no one notices. I hate doing that. I feel less than genuine, and then I get mad at myself for caring so much about stupid social media when there are people like Dr. Girard risking their lives for important stuff. When I think about him flying all over the world to help kids who wouldn’t have access to health care otherwise, I’m pretty sure I’m about as significant as a gnat.”
“Let me tell you something important, Angela.” I toed off my shoes and curled up my legs, getting comfortable in my chair. “This is something that not enough people understand. There’s no right way to have cancer. Some people need the support and affirmation of their family and friends—of everyone they know—so they spread the news far and wide. There’s nothing wrong with that. Other people don’t want to have to deal with constant visitors, with the responsibility of their loved ones’ emotion—so they keep it quiet. Between the two ends of the spectrum are a million different variations. None of them are wrong or invalid. All have merit. Howyouchoose to live is entirely your choice. Don’t let anyone—yourself included—make you feel that you’re doing it wrong.”
She shut her eyes and leaned her forehead onto her hand. “Thank you for that, Emma. You have no idea—no one has said that to me. Every single fucking decision I make, I’m second-guessing myself. I’ve been worried about how my choices affect Noah, our parents, his team . . . I feel like I have to be smiley cancer patient so that none of them are saddled with my emotions.”
“Well, now.” I smirked, folding my arms over my chest. “It’s time to let that shit go. I’ll go over some ways you can do that—some constructive thought patterns and intentions—but let me give you one piece of advice you can put into effect immediately. Do you like music?”
Angela cocked her head. “Love it.”
“Do you like to dance?”
She nodded, her eyes wide. “All the time. I was on the dance squad in high school and college both.”
“Perfect. Then what you want to do is close the door to your room, turn on your music as loud as you can, and dance. Dance your heart out. Tell the nurses you don’t want to be disturbed for half an hour. I’ll give them the go-ahead for that. Oh, and maybe don’t do it in the middle of the night, when other patients are trying to sleep. But you’re lucky, you’ve got the corner room over there, so no one will really be bothered.” I waited for a beat. “What kind of music do you like?”
Angela’s eyes sparkled. “All of it. Pop, yes, but when I’m working off a mad or something, I fall back on my alt rock favorites. The Killers, Modest Mouse, Bad Suns—stuff I can scream along to. Sometimes even old school punk from the 1980s.”
“Billy Idol,” I agreed. “Rebel Yellis one I can get behind.”
“Exactly.” Angela stared at me, a smile playing around her lips. “You think I can actually do that—blare my music without the other patients complaining?”
“I’d suggest earbuds or headphones, but I don’t want to damage your hearing. Try it, and if there’s a problem, you can turn it down. Or maybe I can get you a room somewhere that’s more isolated.” I stood up. “Let’s see how you feel after one crazy dancing sesh. If I could, I’d take you on a ride in the country. We’d go super-fast, put down the windows and crank it up.”
“Oh, if only.” Angela let her eyes drift close, but the hint of a smile remained on her lips. “That’s one of my favorite stress relievers.”
“Tell you what.” I nudged her shoulder. “When you’re done the bone marrow transplant and past the phase of being immune-compromised, you and I have a date. Start putting together the playlist now.”
