Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 73042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
But she’s a mother. Mothers are supposed to worry.
So I went to the doctor to get her off my back.
I described my symptoms to the doctor, and she didn’t seem too troubled. They drew some of my blood for some tests a few days ago and then called me into the office to discuss the results.
My doctor—I think her name is Dr. Jenson—enters the room now. This is only the second time I’ve seen her. Before she drew my blood last week, I hadn’t seen a doctor for anything other than my annual gyno exam since I was in college getting tested for STDs.
She walks into her office. “Thank you for coming in, Raven.”
“Of course.” I chuckle. “Anything to get my mother to stop worrying.”
Dr. Jenson doesn’t join me in laughing. She takes out a clipboard with several pieces of paper stacked on top of it. “We received the results of your bloodwork yesterday. I’m afraid it’s a bit of bad news.”
An invisible fist tightens around my heart. Bad news? I’m healthy as a horse. I never thought that this would be anything serious. Just a few weeks of feeling mildly shitty. Things like that tend to balance out.
Don’t they?
I swallow. “What is it?”
Dr. Jenson takes a deep breath in. “You have cancer, Raven. Leukemia.”
And my world goes black.
Cancer? That’s a disease that other people get, not me. No one in my family has ever had cancer. I mean, I think I had a great-aunt who had skin cancer once, but she just had a mole removed and that was it.
Leukemia? That’s serious. The kind of thing people die from.
“You’re joking, right?” I stand up. “I feel fine, Dr. Jenson. I’ve just been a little out of sorts the past few weeks. Nothing serious.”
“You are of course welcome to go see another physician for a second opinion,” Dr. Jenson says. “But this kind of cancer can be aggressive. It would be in your best interest to start treatment right away.”
Treatment? She means chemo. I bring my hand up to my thick tresses of dark hair. I love my hair. I don’t want it to go away. I don’t…
“Of course, if chemotherapy doesn’t work, there are other options down the line that we can try. But they are invasive…”
The doctor might as well be speaking Swedish. Her words are no longer making sense. I sit there, nodding blankly.
After about three minutes of her speaking, I put a hand up. “Will I die?”
Dr. Jenson looks up at me, her gaze sympathetic but altogether far too businesslike. “With early treatment, the odds can be pretty good—”
“Give me a number, doctor. Please.”
She clasps her hands together. “You have about a sixty-five percent chance of survival.”
Sixty-five percent? That would be a D if I were in school getting a letter grade.
I guess it’s better than fifty-fifty.
Phenomenal. I have a slightly better chance than a coin flip at living.
Dr. Jenson rattles on some more. I don’t hear a word. Fifteen minutes later I leave the office with a handful of pamphlets and referrals.
I get to my home on my family’s ranch. I place all the pamphlets on my kitchen counter, strip off all my clothes, and lie down in my bed.
For an hour, I just feel empty. Shocked.
Then, ever so slowly, it hits me. Tiny bee stings, one at a time.
I have cancer.
I might die.
I’m going to lose my hair.
Oh, God, I have to tell my family.
And then the tears come. Just a few at first, but then a fountain erupts. I’m sobbing uncontrollably, clinging to my bedsheets for dear life.
They keep coming, and there’s no turning them off. It is only in the wee hours of the morning that exhaustion takes over and I finally fall asleep.
The stream of sunlight through my window wakes me up early in the morning. I’ve only slept a few hours. For a second I wonder if it was all a bad dream.
And then I remember.
But I’m out of tears. Nothing can come. I’m numb.
Numb…except for a tiny flame that erupts deep in my core. A flame of resolve.
This flame will stay with me over the next several years of cancer treatment. Sometimes it grows, enveloping my entire body, and sometimes it is almost completely extinguished.
But it never leaves me.
Because I’m going to fight this horrible disease. I’m going to kill it.
Even if it kills me in the process.
The sun cascades through my window as I wake up. I rise, throw my legs over to the side of the bed, stretching my arms over my head.
Vinnie and I had sex last night.
Correction. We made love.
He said he loves me. And I told him I love him.
God, I don’t know if I’ve ever been happier.
I look around. He’s not here. Odd. I throw on a robe. Maybe he’s an early riser, got up to make a pot of coffee.