Bridge to a Distant Star - Carolyn Williford [56]
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