Bridge to a Distant Star - Carolyn Williford [57]
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