Bridge to a Distant Star - Carolyn Williford [59]
Earlier, Charlie’s entire soccer team, along with the parents, had come to visit. The usually boisterous boys were subdued as they waited to hear about Charlie’s condition. When informed about the seriousness of the injury—though not of the cancer or possible amputation—they were even quieter in their shock. Above all, Charles didn’t want their sympathy—didn’t want that for his son. So he thanked them for their concern and asked them to continue praying, encouraging the sober boys by insisting Charlie would come through surgery just fine.
At the sound of the door opening, both Charles and Fran instantly stood—Fran’s body rigid, attention focused on the two people who possessed information that would shape the remainder of their lives. Charles, towering over the two diminutive doctors, leaned toward them in a way that appeared to fill all the air around them.
Dr. Chang took a step backward. “First let me reassure you that Charlie’s doing just fine. All his vitals are good.”
“And his leg?” From Charles.
“I’m so sorry. We did everything possible to try and save it, but Charlie’s leg had to be amputated above the knee.”
Fran began sobbing hysterically and Charles groped toward her, taking her hands in his. Soothing, hushing, imploring, “Francine, Francine. Please, Francine.” She wouldn’t look up at him, only stared down into her lap, crying despondently. Her grief had become a vortex, despair feeding upon itself.
Charles attempted to reach her again. “Lennie.”
She quieted then. Looked up at her husband, a shadow of recognition mixing with sorrow. Fran hadn’t heard the endearing name in years.
When they were dating, Charles said she reminded him of his grandmother’s tea set—Lenox bone china. Fragile, delicate, beautiful. So he’d given her the pet name, calling her Lennie in moments of tenderness, and then later when she’d suffered her first miscarriage. After that, Charles discarded the name, deciding it only encouraged her to fight less. To surrender far too easily, giving in to defeat and failure. And miscarriage after miscarriage.
“You’re not keeping anything from us, are you? I mean, is Charlie really—?” Fran asked, fearfully.
Dr. Chang reached over and took Fran’s hands between her own. “He’s fine, Mrs. Thomason. We wouldn’t withhold vital information about a patient’s health, so you can be assured that Charlie’s doing well. He truly is.”
Charles blurted out, “How long for the recuperation? Before he can have a prosthesis fitted?”
Dr. Lee brought his hands up as though holding off a rambunctious child. “Mr. Thomason, Charlie’s going to need time to heal. And with chemotherapy, well, you have to give this process adequate time. Give Charlie time.”
Dr. Chang was nodding her head in agreement. “The stump must fully heal. The sutures, the inevitable swelling. And this is based on the assumption that we’ll have no problems like an infection along the way. We’ll get to a fitting as soon as possible, Mr. Thomason. Dr. Owens will help us determine when the time’s right.”
“Listen to me.” Jaw set, Charles’s tone was intense, nearly threatening. And although he was looking at Fran, his comments were also directed toward both doctors. “We’re going to fight. And we will beat this … this cancer. Next year at this time, I promise you Charlie will be playing soccer again.” Charles pointed his index finger into the air. “One year from this day”—with each word, he stabbed out again for emphasis—“Charlie will be out on that field.” Point made, he leaned back, crossing arms over his chest.
The doctors exchanged knowing looks, but they refrained from responding and instead directed their comments toward Charlie’s recovery in ICU and how long before he’d be released to a room. “Charlie could be in the ICU for two to several