Bridge to a Distant Star (22 page)

Throughout the interminable process, Fran took in Charlie’s every grimace, any utterance of pain. She had to clamp her jaw shut to keep from crying out herself. From physically stopping what she considered torture. In contrast, the nurses offered nothing but encouragements: “You’re doing great, Charlie. Hang in there. We’re just about done with this part. You can do this.”

Once he finally leaned on the crutches—the severed limb dangling oddly—Charlie barely had enough strength remaining to hobble out of his room. He took only a dozen steps down the hall before exhaustion overpowered his will.

Even so, the staff had nothing but lavish praise for Charlie, which produced a huge smile of pride, paleness suddenly replaced by the flush of exertion and the glow of accomplishment. Once the star on his soccer team. Highest scoring player. Captain. Held in esteem by all his teammates. Now reduced to these few faltering steps.

Though her heart knew a painful ambivalence, this time Fran joined the cheering section. “I’ve never been more proud of you, Charlie,” she told him.

Charlie’s hospital days were filled with time-consuming routines and exercises; every movement tended to be laborious and pain-filled—from slowly raising the angle of his bed to a sitting position, to using the breathing machine that helped clear his lungs. Even hosting visitors sapped his strength. One afternoon the entire soccer team visited, although—per Andrea’s strict orders—only four boys were allowed in Charlie’s room at a time. They were all noticeably uncomfortable at first, but Charlie quickly put them at ease. As expected, they were curious concerning how long Charlie would be in the hospital, the treatments he’d get, and especially, about the artificial leg. By the time they left, Charlie was thoroughly exhausted.

Fran noted his weariness and smoothed back the hair that hung over his forehead. “Seemed like that went well. You have a good time with everyone?”

“Yup. I really did.” Charlie yawned, suddenly so sleepy that he could barely keep his eyes open. “It was cool they brought the championship trophy for me to see.”

“Uh-huh. And now I think you need a nap. You’ve had quite the day and—” But Charlie was already drifting off to sleep; there was no need to convince him. Fran pulled a chair next to his bed and settled in, kicking off her shoes, tucking one foot up underneath her. She leaned back and rested her head against the back of the chair.

Contentedly, she simply watched him sleep until Dr. Chang slipped in, motioning for Fran to join her in the hallway. “Charlie getting some needed rest?”

Fran smiled. “Friends from his soccer team visited. They wore him out. And then he walked earlier today too—down to the end of the hallway and back this time.”

“Wonderful. He’s working so hard, making great progress.” Dr. Chang’s smile suddenly dissipated and she gave Fran a straightforward look. “That’s why we think it’s a good time to operate on Charlie’s lung.”

Fran felt the blood drain from her face. “So soon? I mean … I knew you planned to do that eventually. But is Charlie ready?”

“We want to be as aggressive as possible with Charlie’s treatment,” she explained. “Since he’s doing so well physically—Dr. Owens tells me she’s never had a patient heal so quickly—Dr. Owens and I think it’s the right time to do the surgery.”

Charles arrived then, overhearing Dr. Chang’s comments concerning surgery. He noticeably raised his chin as he thrust out his hand to shake the doctor’s. “That’s my boy! Good afternoon, doctor. Absolutely, Charlie’s ready.”

Dr. Chang smiled, nodding her head. “Our other concern is his emotional healing, however. How do you think he’s doing in that respect?”

Simultaneously—as though synchronized, yet slightly off-beat—Charles and Fran replied:

“He’s great.”

“He’s struggling.”

Both had been looking at Dr. Chang, but turned to stare into each other’s eyes. With reproach.

“Charles, you don’t see him every day, all day, like I do. How could you possibly make that determination? That snap judgment?”

“And how could you say he’s doing less than great?” Charles, immediately exasperated, pointed toward the nurses’ station. “They’re all saying Charlie’s doing fantastic. The nurses, the people who bring his meals, other patients even. You told me about his walk today, and how everyone he saw was amazed. Down to the end of the hall and back. Everyone notices how well he’s doing but you, Fran.”

“I think we’re both too focused on Charlie’s physical healing, Charles. I don’t know that either of us really knows how to judge his emotional response to the amputation. The cancer. I just don’t know—”

Dr. Chang broke into their exchange. “I haven’t noted any clinical signs of depression,” she interjected. “But that doesn’t mean he won’t get depressed later. I’m looking for more specifics. Say, uncontrolled weeping. Or the opposite—withdrawal of any display of feelings. As though Charlie’s shut down emotionally.” She raised her eyebrows, looking from Charles to Fran, expectantly.

Charles was vehemently shaking his head
no.
Fran replied, “No, he’s not … not doing either of those.”

“Any major changes in his personality—from before the surgery? I’m not ruling out any changes. Charlie’s been asked to deal with a monumental change of direction in his life. That’s a significant adjustment for anyone, let alone a child. So it’s more a matter of how
well
he’s dealing with that.”

“He’s still Charlie, now isn’t he, Francine? Still the same Charlie.”

Fran had to agree. “He’s such a trooper. Sometimes I think he’s doing better with this than we are.”

“If that’s the case, then I think we should proceed with the surgery. We try to balance pushing Charlie’s body too far physically with the need for the urgency of treatment. We feel Charlie has the best chance if we surgically remove the metastases from his lung. Followed by aggressive chemo.”

“What does that mean? Aggressive?” Fran crossed her arms across her chest.

“We want to use multiple drugs. We’ll try several, in different combinations. It’s trial and error until we get the right combination.”

“How often?”

“Again, that’s dependent upon how Charlie responds. But probably two or three weeks of treatment followed by a week off.”

Feeling numb, Fran could only nod, but Charles doggedly pursued the doctor’s reasoning. He had obviously been doing his own research, and though clearly somewhat annoyed, Dr. Chang answered his questions calmly and with grace.

“Let’s focus on what’s most important,” Dr. Chang insisted, pulling the conversation back where she wanted it. “Charlie’s healing and treatment and getting a prosthesis … all of that will be affected by a positive attitude,” she continued. “That’s what is key here, what makes a tremendous difference. But he still has a long way to go.” She momentarily fumbled for an explanation. “It’s like he has to climb Mt. Everest. And yes, we’re all here to help him—you two especially bear that responsibility. But in many respects? He has to climb it alone.”

“Ultimately, it’s just him and God, isn’t it?” Fran said. “Charlie needs to trust God, to rest in his strength even more than his own.” Fran’s voice was small, seeing the reality of Charlie’s difficult journey from a new perspective.

Charles’s reaction, however, was the polar opposite: His face suddenly flushed bright red, and he balled his fingers into tight fists. With emotions tightly held in check and voice controlled, he still seethed, “No, it’s absolutely
not
just him and God. Charlie’s got all of us to support him. Me, you, the doctors, his teammates, other friends. Pastor Greg and his teachers. We’ll all prod him on however we need to. Because he’s certainly not going to merely sit back and rest—in God. In any way.”

Embarrassed, eager to diffuse Charles and the awkward situation, Fran smiled nervously. Placed a slightly trembling hand on Charles’s arm. “Yes, I … I obviously misspoke.” She turned to direct attention away from Charles toward Dr. Chang. “When do you want to do surgery?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

Not a sound from Charles, but Fran gasped, “That soon?”

“There’s no infection in the leg. The sooner we get this done, the quicker his body can completely heal. And the sooner we can begin the chemo.” Dr. Chang eyed the two of them for a moment, obviously debating. Then began, weighing her words as she did so, “Has Dr. Owens spoken to you about our observations of children who have cancer?”

Charles and Fran exchanged a tentative glance. “No.”

Dr. Chang pursed her lips, tucked her hair behind an ear. “They often exhibit this unnerving … sensitivity. It appears that, because they’re forced into experiences far beyond their years, they develop an uncanny appreciation for what’s truly important in life. And the children who are Christians—believers—demonstrate an amazing sensitivity to God that’s …” She stopped abruptly, taking in Fran’s openmouthed response. “What is it, Mrs. Thomason?”

“This is uncanny. Charlie and I just talked about that very thing.”

Charles raised an eyebrow in irritation. “When? You didn’t tell me this.”

“It was just after surgery; I simply forgot to tell you, Charles. I discounted it as … I don’t know … maybe an odd effect from the anesthesia. He’d had a dream about stars and was babbling on about being able to see them all so clearly. And I told him something my mother had said years ago—that people who see stars clearly can see God’s will more clearly too.”

Dr. Chang smiled. “That is amazing. But here’s my reason for bringing this up: Charlie’s a bright child, obviously. I have the impression he was pretty intuitive even before he got cancer. But he’s going to be even more so now … have this ‘sixth sense’ … whatever you want to call it. Bottom line is that he’s going to pick up on things.” She paused, looking from Fran to Charles. “Lots of things. And
anything
that might interfere with our patient’s recovery, Dr. Owens and I are concerned about.”

Charles stared back at her, returning her steady gaze. Finally, breaking the tension, he stated matter-of-factly, “Fran and I will take that into consideration, Dr. Chang.”

They started toward the room, but Charles reached out to stop Fran. “Let’s agree on something before we go in. Charlie’s to only hear positives—that the surgery will get rid of all the cancer.”

Dr. Chang broke in. “I can’t promise that, Mr. Thomason.”

“Are the odds good you’ll get it all?”

“Tests show we have an excellent chance, but—”

“Then you can tell Charlie exactly that, can’t you?”

She smiled, solicitously. “That’s what I had planned to tell him.”

Fran reddened; she closed her eyes and sighed. But Charles, either oblivious to or ignoring Dr. Chang’s gracious nuance, had already charged into Charlie’s room.

After Dr. Chang told Charlie about the surgery, she waited patiently, granting him time to absorb the news. Then she gently asked, “Are you worried about the pain, Charlie? Because we can help you with that.”

“Yeah. Some.” He swallowed, as though deliberately ingesting his fears. Charlie looked from Fran to Charles, his parents flanking the sides of his bed. “But I can do this, I know I can. Right, Dad?”

Charles gave his son a thumbs-up sign, his face glowing with approval. “Of course you can, son. Of course you can.”

The hospital room sizzled with the exchange between the two, the hidden expectations. Stripped to its core, the connection between father and son was palpable in its vulnerability and cry for the most basic of needs.
Survival. Acceptance. Love.

Then Charles’s voice knifed into the void and Fran visibly started. “So, tell them again, Charlie. Tell Dr. Chang the surgery tomorrow is a go.” His dark eyes bored into his son’s hazel ones.

Charlie obeyed. “Let’s do it. I want to get it over with, I really do. It’s that much faster I’ll get the chemo started and done. And that much sooner I’ll get my leg.”

“That’s my boy.”

According to Dr. Chang, the surgery the next morning went extremely well. She reassured Charles and Fran the doctors were hopeful they’d gotten all the cancer and that Charlie’s prognosis looked excellent.

Fran thanked God for his goodness.

Charles praised Charlie for his courage to go ahead with the surgery, and then charged him to work even harder to recover.

Point.

Counterpoint.

With Charlie wedged squarely in the middle.

The next few weeks presented Charlie with one seemingly insurmountable challenge after another. He sailed through the lung surgery only to learn that infection had settled into his stump. It was a devastating blow. After the infection healed, he began chemotherapy—which sent him reeling from its considerable side effects. It appeared to be two steps forward, three back, until Charlie hit the fifth week after his initial diagnosis and surgery. His youth and overall excellent health kicked in and he began winning small battles. Charlie was released from the hospital, and from then on, progress was amazingly steady.

Though rehabilitation was a grueling process, Charlie attacked it like he would have charged for a goal on the soccer field. His rehabilitation team insisted he was their best patient ever—way beyond his years in maturity, determination, courage, focus. So that Charlie would gain the greatest possible mobility with his prosthesis, they put him through a punishing workout of various exercises—stretching, water and resistance therapy, weight training. Any increase in how far Charlie could stretch his severed limb brought a grin of victory. Each quarter pound more he could lift produced an exuberant fist-jab. Efforts by Dr. Owens to properly shape his limb as it shrunk to its more permanent size—to ensure the prosthesis would fit well—evoked stoic decisions on Charlie’s part to simply endure. That was all anyone could ask of him during that particularly painful part of his therapy.