CHAPTER TWELVE
Chemotherapy
With the new day, I was more cautious in my choices of food. We breakfasted, then lunched, milling about the city until it was time for our afternoon consultation.
We were to meet with a Dr. E., an oncologist who specialized in cancer treatment; the surgeons would also attend. Playing the usual waiting game, we sat first in the lobby, and after our names were called, found ourselves in a room similar to that in which the initial pre-operative consultation had taken place. Neither Dad nor I knew what this meeting would portend; yet I felt that, although my hospital stay had reached its end, my wings were clipped, unfit for flight. There would be more trials, and more obligations; uncertainty seemed to breed obligation, for to it, I was unextricably bound.
Muffled steps were heard outside the door, and I had a slight sensation of de ja vu. Then the door burst open, and a tall man entered, booming a friendly "hello" to both of us. We all shook hands and seated ourselves; soon afterward, the three surgeons, Drs. T. M. and W., entered as well as a young smiling doctor who was there simply to observe. Dad rose again to greet the new comers. As the pleasantries died away, the business of the meeting came to our attention.
Because my tumor had been cancerous, there was naturally the question of whether surgery alone had been action enough to free the entire cellular structure from my body. As far as the surgeons could recognize, they had removed all cancerous cells, but since cells cannot be seen by the naked eye, the doctor's supposition could possibly have been incorrect; for this reason the meeting was called to determine the next course of action. Since mine was a rather unusual case, they felt at a complete loss as to the route which should be taken, and having stated several options decided to privately confer the matter. The doctors filed out of the room. Dad and I looked at one another. The whole situation seemed ridiculous. The surgeons were "certain" yet the state of my health was rendered "uncertain" by the presence of cancer. One word, and yet it made such a difference; it was almost mathematical; just as surely as positive and negative numbers, multiplied, equalled a negative response, certainty coupled with uncertainty yielded uncertainty. Moreover, I began to feel like a subject, someone against whom plots were devised; there was to be no specific method, no scientific plan in my treatment. . . and while I reserved faith in the doctors, I knew that an end had been reached wherein my self-confidence was worth just as much to my well-being, if not more.
When the doctors returned, they confessed that, although a decision had been determined, their means of arriving at said decision was quite simplistic and utterly devoid of calculation. The decision was literally pulled from a hat, producing a solution which read, "Chemotherapy," and to which they would adhere unless our wishes were opposed to it. At this point, the surgeons took their leave of us, and I voiced my farewells; they disappeared into the hallway, and the door slowly drifted back, to close silently and blot their retreating footsteps. It seemed strange that I should never see these men again when, for a month, they were daily visitors and trusted allies.
We were now alone with Dr. E. and the silent, smiling observer. Dr. E. explained the situation which had formulated, defining chemotherapy as a means by which cancer was cured, sweeping any and all lingering cells from the body with a deadly blow. In my case, the treatment was viewed simply as a protective measure, a guarantee, that all cancerous cells were wiped out; given such a characteristic, especially when considering my previously mentioned uncertainty, it was already obvious to me that we would not refuse the proposal. As we sat motionless to hear the rest of the definition, I became aware of the observing doctor whose eyes were riveted to my face with an uncanny, relentless fascination, while his lips remained curled in an unwavering smile; it mattered little where I would place my eyes, his gaze feasted on my features, ingesting hungrily every emotion my countenance displayed. I listened half-heartedly to Dr. E.'s conversation; he explained that treatments would be paid through the research funding since my cancer was a rarity, and would therefore place my family under no financial burden. It was nice that my experimental therapy would be no cancer on my parent's bank account, I thought dimly; my concentration was withering under the infernal scrutiny of the observer's beaming eyes and steadfast smile, for there was no benevolence in that plaster-cast smile, only a keen desire to devour one's expressions; and I knew that he waited for a certain look, a show of anguish, an emotional outburst.
Dr. E. continued. He was explaining the ways in which chemotherapy affected the patient. Something within me did not want to hear what would happen, yet my mind took it in; I would feel sick, nauseous, weak. I would be susceptible to infections and viruses… I would be afflicted with occasional aching… I would lose my hair… I could die. Tears, unbidden, welled up in my eyes so I tried furiously to will them away; I did not want to cry in front of those lidless eyes. It was rude, callous, to stare so unflinchingly as another's future was verbalized and deftly illustrated by a doctor who knew all of the hideous cruelties of which chemotherapy was capable.
Dr. E. passed a form to my father, instructing that both he and I read carefully, and sign if we were in agreement to its statements; our obligations, their obligations, etc., etc., etc. I was staring at my knees, fighting tears desperately. My head was bowed low to escape the face which would not leave my own, which granted no peace or meditation. Dad balanced the paper on his knees and signed his name with confident strokes; he passed it to me. "You can read it first," he said. My eyes were a haze which saw through the page. I did not need to read it, for I knew what I had to do; knowing, however, made it no easier.