Bridge to a Distant Star (18 page)

She turned back to Charles and Fran, and then to Greg. “Pastor Trent, maybe you could lead the Thomasons in prayer while I step out?” Greg barely had time to respond before she stood and seemed to add as an afterthought, “I’m a believer in the great power of prayer.” She slipped quietly out the door.

Greg twitched uncomfortably, the awkwardness and intimacy of the moment making him feel like an invading stranger. Recognizing Fran and Charles hadn’t had one moment by themselves to absorb the horrific news, he looked anywhere but at them; it was as though he were observing them naked—emotionally, spiritually. His pastor’s heart longed to provide comfort and encouragement. Give them a sense of hope and help them feel God’s love. But Greg was suddenly paralyzed, struck dumb.
What could I possibly say to them,
he wondered,
that wouldn’t sound clichéd or trite?

Through clipped words, Charles spoke up, interrupting Greg’s ambivalent thoughts. “Well, I suppose you should pray, Greg. Before these supposed doctors come back.”

Fran fixed a reproachful glare on him. “Charles. How can you not appreciate—?”

“
Just stop it,
Francine.” Charles winced with apparent disgust as her nose dripped and she reached to dab at it. “
Yes,
I’m angry. That these doctors would even consider …
amputation?
I mean, how antiquated can you get? Certainly no respectable doctor does that sort of barbaric thing anymore. And no son of mine is going to be a … a
cripple.
I’ll threaten to sue if she mentions it again.”

“And if Charlie’s
life
is at stake, Charles? Think about the ramifications of what you’re saying.” Fran turned toward Greg, saw that he sat leaning over with his head down, staring at the floor, hands clasped in front of him. “Greg,” her voice hoarse with entreaty, “please pray for us now. We desperately need …” She let the words trail away.

When Greg straightened up, Fran saw tears spilling from his eyes too. His display of compassion touched her deeply, and she blinked back a flood of new tears. Greg coughed. Wiped unashamedly at the tears as he frantically thought,
God, I don’t have the faintest idea what to say. Help me, please, Lord.
Aloud, Greg replied, “It would be my privilege.”

The suffocating room felt like a cavern to all three of them. Every sound—the irritating background buzz of the overhead fluorescent light, the squeak of Charles’s sneakers on the linoleum floor when he drew his feet beneath him, the crisp rustle of Greg’s windbreaker jacket as he switched positions in his chair, and Fran’s sniffs—all appeared magnified. For a few seconds, those sounds so occupied Greg’s thoughts he could concentrate on nothing else.

With trepidation, he began, and after several long moments of prayer in which Greg simply admitted their desperate need for God, he fell silent, and the room remained still until Dr. Mia Chang entered—a tiny, demure woman, but obviously well respected by the manner in which the other doctors deferred to her. All attention turned to the oncologist. And the ominous sheaf of papers she held.

Charles and Fran appeared to be holding their breath, their faces glued to Dr. Chang’s, seeking any sign of hope. Their unmasked vulnerability was uncomfortable for Greg to witness, but unlike Greg, the doctors had observed it many times before. They weren’t inured to its effects; blatant suffering still pricked their hearts, especially in relation to children. But they had learned to function in spite of it; the success of their jobs depended upon that ability.

“I’m sure you have questions for us. We can’t answer them all yet.” Dr. Chang glanced at her watch. “We need to wait for the results of the bone scan.”

Charles’s impatience made him terse. “We’d like to know. Is it cancer?”

Dr. Chang lifted her chin, answering him directly, voice unwavering. “We won’t know for sure until we get the results of the biopsy. But unfortunately, everything points to a diagnosis of osteosarcoma. And it appears to have metastasized to Charlie’s lungs. I am so sorry.”

For the moment, Fran had no more tears.
This can’t be happening,
she heard her mind repeat, over and over.
It’s not real. This can’t be happening to us.

Charles’s denial came in another form; he became an automaton. Facts—black and white responses devoid of emotion—would serve to delay making this information personal. Pertaining to
his
son.
His
pain. He clenched his jaw, sat more upright. Leaned toward Dr. Chang as though he were about to threaten her.

“How do we cure it?” More of a demand than a question.

“We treat it”—substitution of the word
treat
lost on Fran, but not Charles—“by first of all, surgery. We’ll remove the mass and the affected bone. Then, we’ll start a course of chemotherapy. We may also need to use radiation therapy.”

Charles’s eyes bored into the doctor’s. The shift from nonfeeling, robotic responses to seething anger was so abrupt that Charles himself was taken by surprise. But he’d been thrust back into his childhood, was once again the insecure eleven-year-old. His vision was filled with hazy memories of his father—the sight of his emaciated, pallid arm next to his robust one. His inability to do more than barely squeeze Charles’s hand. Sounds … moans and pitiful cries that he heard through the wall of his bedroom. He remembered breakfasts of cold cereal, sitting alone at a Formica table. Bleakness. Hopelessness that somehow resided still in the memories of all his senses.

“How can you be so sure about all of this? Have you seen it?” Charles shouted at Dr. Chang.

“Charles, please,” Fran whispered under her breath.

“The pictures were very clear, Mr. Thomason, showing a spot on one of Charlie’s lungs. But it appears to be a limited stage cancer, which is good news. That means his prognosis is more encouraging.” She paused to let that information sink in, then continued, “I don’t want to rule out surgery on Charlie’s lung, as that’s the direction we may choose to go—followed by chemotherapy. For now, the tumor on his leg is our first priority. We don’t want to put him through any more trauma than is absolutely necessary. Besides a biopsy on the lung, the only surgery we’ll be doing at this point is his leg.” Dr. Chang’s demeanor changed from informational to compassionate, and her tone softened. “I know this is hard. I’m so sorry. So very sorry.”

The muscle in Charles’s jaw tensed. “And what’s the … the survival rate for …?”

“Please, Mr. Thomason,” she immediately interrupted. “We don’t have enough information yet. After Charlie’s surgery, after we get the tests back from biopsies, then we’ll discuss treatment. And Charlie’s future. Fair enough?”

“This is intolerable, doctor.” Charles’s eyes bored into hers, testing. Threatening again.

The doctor seemed unfazed. “The bone scan will tell us that and help us decide—once we’re in surgery, and can judge better—whether we can do the limb-salvage surgery. Or, if necessary, to amputate. We need you to sign some forms, give us permission to make that call while we’re in surgery.”

Charles’s stare intensified, an overt attempt to intimidate. His tone was eerily calm as he said, “Let me state this clearly: You will not take off my son’s leg. I will never give you permission to do that. And I demand you do everything possible to save his leg.”

“Charles—” Fran began, but Dr. Chang broke in.

“Please understand. Limb-salvage surgery could leave his leg severely deformed, and artificial limbs are now so advanced that Charlie might actually be more active with a prosthesis than with a disfigured leg. But more importantly, because we believe the cancer has metastasized, and depending on how adversely Charlie’s tibia and knee are affected, you could very well be risking your son’s life to not give us permission to amputate.”

Silence. Charles’s body was frozen, rigid in his anger.

And then Fran’s weak, hushed voice broke into the vacuum. “Where do I need to sign?”

Charles looked at her in disbelief, his eyes wide, mouth gaping. “You’re going to agree to this? Just like that?”

She pursed her lips—an attempt at a measure of control—but then a sob escaped as she cried out, “I want …” Fran swallowed, choked out the words, “I want … my son. I want my precious son.” Her voice broke completely then, and she let out a haunting wail. “I don’t care if he’s missing a leg. I don’t care if he’s deformed or without hair or whatever they must do to save him.” She waved a hand toward the doctors, an admission of their presence. “Don’t you get it, Charles? I want him alive. I want to hold him in my arms. I want to feel his heart beating. I want to watch him grow up. I want … I want
Charlie.
”

The room was deathly quiet except for the sound of her sobbing.

Charles dropped his head a moment, and then looked up, his face a picture of brokenness. The skin on his face went suddenly slack, eyes dilated, mouth hanging awkwardly open. He nodded meekly, the fight in him—for now, at least—dissipated. He watched Fran sign the papers, and then reached for the pen himself. “Is there a possibility …? Could Charlie—could he die during this surgery?” The pen shook in his hand.

Dr. Owens answered, “With any major surgery, that’s always a possibility. But Charlie’s vitals are stable. There’s no reason that should happen.” Compassion bathed her voice. “We intend to take the very best care of your son, Mr. Thomason.” She deliberately looked over to include Fran, too. “Mrs. Thomason. We know he’s your most treasured possession.”

“You mentioned Charlie possibly being more active? What could Charlie do with this … prosthesis?”

“One of our patients had his leg amputated two years ago,” Dr. Owens began, sensing an opening for encouragement. “He jogs, rides a bike, plays in the baseball league. He’s fourteen now, still growing. He needs to have the prosthetic device refitted often, but it’s amazing what he can do.”

“And what name do all the kids call him?” Charles’s voice was thick with cynicism, but pain veiled his eyes.

Dr. Chang spoke up. “Actually, you might be surprised by that. When our patient’s hair fell out from chemotherapy, every boy on his baseball team volunteered to shave his head too. And when the idea spread to his class at school, every male teacher and boy in his class
also
shaved off his hair.
Every single one,
Mr. Thomason. Does that sound like ridicule to you?”

Chastised, feeling awkward, Charles mumbled, “I’d … I’d like to see Charlie now.”

The doctors nodded, and they all filed out silently—but not before Dr. Chang reached over to squeeze Fran’s hands. For a fleeting moment, through that vulnerable gaze, Fran caught a glimpse into the doctor’s soul—the hallowed ground of the suffering of other children. The horrors of chemotherapy and radiation and amputation. Hope accompanied by setbacks and heartbreak. And death, despite all her valiant efforts. Dr. Chang sighed deeply, and then Fran stared at the doctor’s back as she hurried down the long hallway.

Greg lightly touched Charles’s arm. “I need to give my wife a ring, and then I’d like to call Pastor Perkins—if that’s all right with you, so that he can be praying?” Greg gave both Charles and Fran a firm hug before he watched them walk away from him.

Instinctively, they reached for each other’s hands.

Charlie’s room contained various medical machines with paraphernalia spaced all around the walls. But the area where the bed should be was starkly bare.

The emptiness was a stab to Fran’s heart, and she picked up Charlie’s soccer shirt. Putting it to her face, she breathed in her son’s smell. Without consciously realizing it, she swayed, humming a nursery song.

Charles stood beside her and whispered, “I can’t believe this.
Why Charlie?
Out of all of those boys, why
our
son? He should be out there playing soccer right now. Not here in this … this …” He glanced around the room, grimacing. “Certainly not here in this pathetic, ugly hospital. Waiting to have his leg …” He let his voice trail off, and then put his head in his hands.

“Maybe … maybe he’ll still be able to do those things,” Fran whispered. A wistful statement, not given with much hope. In her mind’s eye, Fran saw Charlie with an ugly, awkward metal leg that stuck out at an odd angle from his shorts. Pictured his sitting on the sidelines, reduced to merely cheering on his teammates. The image nearly broke her heart.

Head still buried, Charles took a deep breath. Exhaled. “I want my son too, Francine. I want him to live.”

“I know that, Charles. I know.” And she then willingly brought back the imagined picture of Charlie. Recognizing that at least he was alive in that vision.

Charles moved to the other side of the room, observing her. With his feet spaced wide apart, arms folded across his chest, he said through gritted teeth, “I will fight this, Francine.” His entire body went rigid. But his eyes were nearly burning with intensity. “Whatever we face, we will not give in to it. Not ever.
And Charlie will fight this too.
”

“Fight what, Dad?” Charlie’s voice sounded groggy, weak. “Did we win the game?” As orderlies rolled Charlie’s bed back into its place, Charles and Fran moved to either side of him. Fran gently took Charlie’s hand in hers—it was bruised from the IV, and Fran frowned at the tender spot—while Charles gripped the bed’s railing. The paraphernalia of IVs hooked up to a tall, gangly pole, various monitors beeping and humming, and several nurses tending to the positioning of each line distracted Charles. His eyes took in every machine, every line attached to his son. He blinked rapidly and then gripped the bed rail so tightly his knuckles turned white.