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 hazel eyes flashed green with alarm and flew from the doctor to Bree who perched serenely on the edge of the exam table her cascade of graying hair fell in waves down her back. 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 kind but 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 spoke, “My liver? That’s not encouraging.” Della, seated in a chair in a corner behind Bree, moved to the edge of the seat, her hands gripped the chrome armrests, 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 time you have left,” he replied quietly.
Della flinched, then 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.”
(‘Wow’ thought Della. ‘Just like in a cheesy soap opera… doctors really say that shit!’)
“I see,” whispered Bree as she looked down at her hands, her knuckles white from twisting her fingers, then up at the doctor, to ask, “How long?”
“Four to six months at the most. I can order a round of chemotherapy that might give you six weeks additional. The side effects are debilitating I’m afraid. ” he confessed as he looked sympathetically at Bree, her piercing slate blue eyes filled with tears while she bravely absorbed the news of her pending demise. Bree’s facial expression, normally a serenely smooth brow and a soft rosy glow on her high cheekbones, was transformed into a gray palor with the doctor’s words.
“I’ll give you a moment to process this information and then we will talk about how to proceed from here.” 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 the exam table 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’ve read the research I understand the outcome. I’m really okay.”
“How can you be okay when this guy has just given you a death sentence!?” spat Della in a too harsh whisper.
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 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, her palms moist with sweat, 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. Bree was tall, lean and lithe; regal in the way she almost floated into a room. She stood at the edge of the exam table looking pleadingly at Della.
“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.”
Della stepped outside the exam room so Bree could dress, standing near the closed door in case Bree needed her. The hallway was lined with exam rooms, nurses moving efficiently in and out of each room, the doctor taking his turn with the patient inside. Della wondered if the patient in each room received the same brutal news as Bree, and quickly hoped not.
The door opened and Della moved aside as Bree stepped out, the gauzy, flowing clothes she favored seemed to wear her today instead of the other way around.
Debi Tolbert Duggar, Author
All rights reserved by Bessie and Me Publishing
#Scattered First Draft
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