Bridge to a Distant Star - Carolyn Williford [55]
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