RE: Next steps and suggested reading—[email protected]
Treatments for Hodgkin’s Lymphoma | Canadian Cancer Society
How to tell your loved ones | Cancer Support Network
Preparing for Chemotherapy | Canadian Cancer Society
My heart races in my chest faster than it ever has, reading the websites over and over as tears begin to burn along my eyelids and my breath turns shallow. I grip on to the side of Dad’s desk with both hands, my knuckles turning white, as I try to stop the room from spinning.
“No, no, no,” I whisper aloud, shaking my head as I click on the tab with the email from his doctor. “He’s fine,” I tell myself, removing my jacket and tossing it across the room carelessly. “He’sfine,” I repeat, wiping my face against my sleeve, black mascara staining the cuff of my sweater.
“Everything all right in there, Prudence?” Tracy asks from down the hall. “Did you find it?”
I look up to the ceiling, blinking back tears.Shit.“Yes, sorry, coming!” I say, as cheery as I can force myself to sound, as I pick up Mom’s medication in shaking hands and walk back down the hall with it. “Sorry, I got a little—” I don’t finish my sentence, smiling as brightly as I can instead. “I’m just going to do some light organizing before going back to the party. Dad’s office is a safety hazard.” I attempt a joke, but I hear it fall flat.
Tracy’s eyes are curious, but her smile shows she’s none the wiser as she nods politely and says, “Okay, hon.”
Immediately, I turn back toward the office, shut the door behind me, and collapse into Dad’s desk chair. I bring my knees up to my chin, wrap my arms around them, and begin to cry—shaking as every possible wave of emotion washes over me and threatens to pull me under. My phone rings in my jacket pocket, vibrating against the metal filing cabinet I threw it onto, and I leave it there.
It couldn’t matter.Nothingcould matter.
I start reading the email and get hit with blow after revealing blow as I fight back tears unsuccessfully. Dad has known about his diagnosis formonths.His team has been delaying his treatment since. He asked for more timeagain—they said no this time.
Chemotherapy starts in January.
The symptoms of therapy will mean he can no longer keep working as he has been, or look after anyone but himself. He’ll most likely experience extreme fatigue, nausea, vertigo, severe headaches, upset stomach, and the list goes on and on.
But, despite all of this, his prognosis isgood.
His doctor states that they’reconfidentin his treatment and recovery. I read that part of the email over and over again. It says they arehappyto see the slow progression of his cancer. They claim he is ingoodhands. Such positive words for such a stunningly dark scenario.
And once I’ve realized I’m not facing the certainty of losing Dad forever, my emotions turn to anger. Inexplicably large, not previously experienced rage that Iknowis not all directed at him but seeks him out anyway. He’s lied to me. He said I could convince him that Mom could stay. He let me think I stood a chance at keeping this family together and everything the same when nothing wouldeverbe the same again.
He’s lied to me and he’s sick andeverythingis wrong.
My phone rings again, startling me as I read over the second of Dad’s left-open tabs. Mindlessly, I move to grab it out of my jacket, and as it stops ringing I see I have three missed calls from Milo.
I don’t hesitate to call him back. If I was going to let anyone ride out this horrible shitstorm with me, it would be him.
“Prue?” he answers on the second ring. “Hey, sorry for blowing up your phone, I just wanted to make sure that you were all right. Did you find—”
“I found them,” I say, my voice hoarse from crying. “Mom’s fine.”
“One second,” Milo says into the phone. I hear the noises of the crowd drift farther and farther away until he’s outside, thesound of gravel under his feet and crickets faint in the background. “Sorry, I can hear you better now. You found the meds?”
“Yeah,” I say, then sniffle back a wave of tears.
“Killer,hey,are you crying? What’s wrong?”
“Can you come here?”
“Of course, yeah. Did something—”
“I’ll…” I pause, a sad sort of hiccup that comes before tears steals my breath. “I’ll explain in person. I’ll meet you on the back porch, okay?”
“Okay, love. I’m on my way.”
“Milo?” I ask, tears breaking free and shaking my voice.
