An audible gasp escaped from Della’s mouth with the same velocity as if she had been punched in the gut, robbing her of air. Her eyes flew from the doctor to Bree who perched serenely on the edge of the exam table, the flimsy patient gown seemed to swallow her slight body whole, one thin bare shoulder peeking out of the too big neckline. Bree’s facial expression was frozen in a tight, thin lipped half smile as she received the news.
Dr. Jordan, supposedly the best oncologist in the Chicago area, delivered the diagnosis in a wearisome tone as if he did this too many times already today, “I’m sorry Ms. Maxwell your recent CT scan reveals the cancer has metastasized to your liver, meaning it is no longer confined to the pancreas.”
Bree’s shoulders drooped slightly, her chin jutted forward valiantly, and her voice quivered as she asked, “What are my treatment options Doctor?” Della, seated in a chair in a corner behind Bree, moved to the edge her hands on either armrest, her muscles rigid, ready to spring forward and rescue her dear friend.
“The cancer has advanced to the stage where I’m afraid treatment would be ineffectual and lesson your quality of life,” he replied.
Della flinched as she sprang to her feet next to the exam table, behind Bree. She laid a hand on the small of Bree’s back, praying her anguish was not palpable.
“At the most we can hope to make you comfortable; this is an aggressive cancer Ms. Maxwell and I suggest you get your affairs in order.”
(Della thought ‘wow, doctors really say that shit!’)
“I see,” whispered Bree as she looked down at her hands for a moment, then up at the doctor to ask, “How long?”
“I can order a round of chemotherapy that might give you six weeks, but you will have maybe four to six months at the most,” he confessed as he looked sympathetically at Bree, her eyes filled with tears.
“I’ll give you a moment to process this information and then we will talk about how to proceed.” He left the tiny exam room, quietly closing the door behind him. The silence in the minuscule space was deafening as both women remained too paralyzed to move.
(Della thought: ‘what does he mean proceed from here? The funeral parlor to pick out caskets? Jesus, this was not good, not good at all.’)
Della finally found her voice and immediately went into ‘fix-it’ mode, stepping around to face her friend, “Bree, we will get a second opinion, we will go to Sloan Kettering in New York…they are bound to have better doctors there….I will call them today and arrange flights, we can stay with my daughter although it might be better to stay at The Plaza as my daughter can be neurotic and nervous and you don’t need that….
“Della, please,” Bree said forcefully, interrupting Della’s desperate ranting. Then in a softer voice she explained, “Dr. Maxwell and I have been down this road. We discussed the possibilities shortly after the biopsy revealed the tumor on my pancreas was cancerous. I knew my treatment options were limited at this advanced stage.”
Della grabbed both of Bree’s wrists, “Bree, look at me. You cannot give up! We will fight this, and we will get a second opinion!”
Bree shook her head, “I love you for caring Della, but there is no fighting, only acceptance for me. I’m really okay.”
“How can you be okay when this guy has just given you a death sentence!?” shrieked Della.
She immediately regretted her comment as Bree visibly shrunk a little more into the shapeless gown. Della wanted to take her by the shoulders and shake her. She was angry that Bree kept her symptoms and subsequent diagnosis from her, Tish, and Ann until it was too late. Bree dropped the awful news in their laps last week at dinner as casually as if she were relaying a dreary weather report:
“Do you want to order a bottle of pinot grigio to go around? Has anyone read Tartt’s new book? I absolutely LOVED the Goldfinch. Oh, by the way I’ve been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and the prognosis isn’t good. Could you pass the breadsticks Ann?”
Just like Bree, not wanting to inconvenience anybody even when her life was at stake.
“I’m sorry Bree, I’m just so angry! And dammit I'm scared! This isn't fair. We have substantially more life to live and I need you there with me.” Della realized her attempt to apologize only made her sound more selfish. The living become parsimonious when a loved one is diagnosed with a terminal illness or dies. What will my life be like without you? What about ME?
Bree took both Della’s hands in hers, squeezed tightly and said, “I just want to get dressed and go home. Please. Accept what I’m asking of you.”
Della stood for a solid minute, her hands in Bree’s grip, staring at her pleading eyes until she finally squeezed back, then stepped away from the table giving Bree space to climb down from her perch.
“Okay, Bree. Let’s take you home,” she sighed. Della slowly, as if she were moving underwater, retrieved Bree’s clothes from the hook on the wall and handed them to her.
“Shall I let Dr. Jordan know you want to discuss options?”
“No. Please tell him I will call.”
“But Bree, time is…”
“No Della. Don’t.”
***********************************
I took Bessie and my Wingman for a ride this morning through beautiful Lake County; shortly after leaving the traffic that started to thicken towards 9am, the character Della started talking to me.
I remember sitting with my dear friend Ann (not the character Ann) when she received the news that not only did she HAVE cancer but the cancer was spread throughout her body and into her brain. Ann struggled with a lack of energy and a persistent cough for months. Her advanced age was suspect ..."She's 83 what can you expect?" Finally, she was sent to Moffitt Cancer Center for tests which revealed what we all suspected but didn't want to acknowledge.
When the doctor called with the test results and diagnosis, I sat down next to Ann on the couch at her home, she placed the doctor on speaker. He was damn near jovial as he delivered the news, a string of complicated medical terms (Ann is a retired nurse so she appreciated the jargon), then pronounced, 'we will try to make you as comfortable as possible.' Just like Della, I felt as though I had been punched in the gut. Ann looked at me, the doctor still talking through the speaker, shrugged her shoulders and mouthed 'oh, shoot!' I felt like I was in emotional free-fall while Ann asked deliberate questions that I quickly noted on my phone so I could relay them to her daughter.
When she ended the conversation, I looked at her and said, 'Oh Ann, I'm so sorry!' Her reply? "no no no no no don't be sorry! I'm 83 this is not a tragedy. It would be a tragedy if you or Kerry (her daughter) were given this news!"
My only thought was "how will I continue without her in my life?" The characters in my book #Scattered are an intermixture of the women I've been close to for two or more decades. Ann has been gone now for nearly two years and I'm still asking the question 'how will I continue without her in my life?'
(This excerpt is the sole property of the author and cannot be copied or reproduced in any manner.)
Debi Tolbert Duggar is the author of the book 'Riding Soul-O'
Part Memoir, Part Travelogue, Part Spiritual Salvation
Available at Bessieandme.com or online wherever books are sold.
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