I turned to Fran who held out her arms. "Thank you for everything," I said.
"Honey, I should be thanking you," she replied. "But I want you to do something for me. Fight. Fight hard. If anybody can beat this, I know it's you. I believe it in my heart."
After swearing to them both that I would come back for a visit when I "beat the cancer's ass," Tressa's words not mine, we loaded up in my car and drove out of town. The hardest part was leaving without saying goodbye to Nathan. Tears had cascaded down my cheeks as my father steered the vehicle onto the highway, leaving Woodfalls and Nathan behind. Writing the letter had of course been another cowardly act on my part. I had stood at the window the previous evening listening to my father and Nathan's conversation. My heart had stuttered before racing out of control when Nathan professed his love for me. At that moment, I knew I would try and fight the cancer, but I couldn't ask him to stand by me if in the end I lost.
Wilma was actually the thing that wound up distracting me from my grief. She made it known right off the bat that she didn't like the carrier we had picked up for her to ride in. We'd barely been on the highway for ten miles when I eventually caved and let her out. Placing her on my lap, I was relieved when she immediately calmed down and curled up in my lap and promptly fell asleep. She was the comfort I needed as I stroked a hand over her furry back.
The trip home was longer than I remembered. I chalked it up to the frequent kitty bathroom breaks. By the time we'd on the road for a few days, I was just ready to be home. I felt completely exhausted, even though I did none of the driving, but even watching the changing landscapes as we drove had become taxing. My dad insisted on driving the entire time. I tried to argue, but the truth is I was grateful. Wilma continued to sleep on my lap, so I let her stay out of her carrier the entire trip. Each mile that separated Nathan and me weighed heavily on me. It seemed impossible to miss someone as much as I missed him. It went beyond the sexual connection we shared. I missed the conversations we shared and how we seemed completely in sync with each other. Maybe all of that had just been an illusion since he was trying to get close to me, but something inside me told me otherwise. By the time we arrived back home, my brain was a muddled mess and I no longer knew what I should believe.
We arrived back in Florida on a balmy eighty-degree day and I acutely missed the cooler temperatures of Woodfalls. Wilma and I settled into my father's house since I had given my apartment up when I had left four months ago. I left my boxes in storage, seeing no point in dragging them out until we knew what we were facing.
Two days after arriving home, I was back at the one place I'd wished I would never have to visit again.
"Ashton, I hear we may have a problem?" Dr. Davis said, entering the room where I was perched atop a paper-covered exam table wearing nothing but a smock.
"I think so," I said as he washed his hands in the small sink.
"Symptoms?" he asked with his back to me.
"Fatigue, loss of appetite, aches and pains and sleepiness," I parroted, fidgeting on the table.
"And you've had these symptoms how long?" he asked, putting his stethoscope to my chest.
"Four and half months," I admitted, waiting for his ridicule.
"I see," he clucked. "Are they the same now or worse?"
"Worse," I answered as he checked my lymph nodes with his fingers.
"Fever?"
"Once, but I think it was just a cold," I answered, fighting to keep my thoughts away from thinking about how Nathan had taken care of me during the fever.
"Possibly, but it could be a sign of something more serious, as I'm sure you're aware of," he said, finishing his exam.
"It's back," I stated.
"I don't like to fry the egg before it's hatched, but your symptoms are troublesome. I also don't like the lump I felt under your right arm. The first step is to do some blood work and biopsy the lump," he said, patting my leg. "You get dressed while I fill out the paperwork. We've fought it before, we'll fight it again."
I nodded, accepting his words. In one swoop, he'd crushed the little bit of hope I had been harboring that I was wrong. I knew the blood work and biopsy were just a formality.
"Are you going to call Nathan?" my father asked when I told him.
I shook my head no before heading to my room before my tears could fall. I found it ironic that for years I had no problem keeping the tears at bay, and now with the mention of one name, I was a mess.
My predictions proved to be true as the results from the blood work and biopsy came in. The lump under my arm was taken out, and I was scheduled to start chemotherapy immediately. Dr. Davis was confident that even though the lump was large, they were able to remove all the cancer cells, but he wanted to treat it with an aggressive round of chemotherapy. Again, my father asked if I was going to call Nathan, but again, I resisted. A week after returning home, I was at the chemo clinic getting my first regimen of chemotherapy. The bitterness I expected to feel when they injected the needle in me was missing. My desire to fight for Nathan made each step that much more important. Instead of viewing the chemo as poison, I looked at it as a lifeline that would help me reach my goal. My optimism didn't change as I kneeled before the toilet puking up everything I ate. I pretended it didn't hurt when the first large chunk of hair fell out while I was brushing my hair. I didn't allow myself to dwell on how I'd been growing my hair out for the last four years, or how Nathan's hands had felt tangled in the strands. Wilma became a source of comfort I would have never thought possible. By October, all my hair was gone and I had lost ten pounds, which made my cheekbones stand out in an alarming way. Thanksgiving was spent in the hospital when my immune system decided to stop working. My time in the hospital floated by in a pain-filled haze as I fought to stay alive. Throughout it all, my father never left my side. He didn't mention calling Nathan this time, knowing this was what I had been trying to spare both of them from witnessing. At one point, in my painkiller-hazed state, I dreamt that Nathan was with me. Even on death's door, I was bitterly disappointed that the dream had to end. I was conscious enough when Dr. Davis told my father to prepare himself for the worst, and still, I fought, willing my body not to give up. Perhaps it was the dream that that gave me the will to fight harder. Three days after Thanksgiving, I was well enough to be wheeled out of ICU and taken to regular room.
"How's my favorite patient?" Dr. Davis said, entering my room the day after I'd been moved from the ICU.
"You only say that because I'm the most stubborn," I joked weakly.
"You are one tough nut," he said, sitting in the chair next to my bed. "So, how are you feeling?"
"Fair," I lied, smiling slightly.
He chuckled. "Does 'fair' now stand for being hit by a cement truck?"
I tried to shrug, but even that was too painful.