Where the River Ends - Charles Martin [110]
We participated in two trial studies that increased our hope, but while CAT and PET scans showed decreases in the size of the tumors, the tumors were still there. I investigated experimental and, according to some, radical treatments in Mexico, but that was a Hail Mary pass I was not willing to throw.
Six more months passed, we finished another trial run and then started the month-long wait before we could have more scans to determine if the drugs had worked. At the end of that month, I didn’t need the scans.
It started in the kitchen. She was trying to say apple and turned it into about five syllables. Then she murdered spaghetti and completely gave up on refrigerator. Slurring her words was a bad sign.
CAT, PET and blood scans confirmed inoperable brain metastasis. If there was any good news in this it was that this was the worst possible news. This was the basement. Dr. Hampton explained, “The tumor’s location rules out radio frequency ablation, which is highly successful…except when it scrambles your brains. We can’t go sticking an eight-hundred-degree probe into your noggin and expect you to wake up.”
“What about more chemo?”
He shook his head. “Chemotherapy is largely ineffective against brain lesions because the lining of the brain is quite effective at protecting itself against any sort of toxin. It’s called the blood-brain barrier and thus far, chemotherapy has not found a way through or around.”
I sat there listening but not listening. Dr. Hampton described her condition—and our final option. Abbie never blinked. She said, “I want the maximum dose that you can give me.” We drove to Jacksonville, checked into Mayo and I just sat there twiddling my thumbs while they shot Chernobyl into my wife.
For fourteen weeks, Abbie endured the near crippling effects of two six-week doses of radiation. She slept much of the time, which from a certain point of view, was good. It gave her less time to think or feel the effects of either the cancer or the radiation. I didn’t fault her. I missed her madly but sleep was the only hole she could crawl into. The only escape she had left. Every other avenue had been taken away.
When she was awake, we were limited in that the slightest noise, light or movement contributed to further nausea. This forced us to sit in dark, still silence. Just being together. It was about all we had left. Fortunately, they gave Abbie whatever she wanted for the pain, proving that lunacy can be a luxury.
Following her last treatment, they ran one final series of scans. Given her condition and the fact that she’d “earned” the right to go to the front of the line, they fast-tracked her results and that afternoon found us waiting. I needed a walk—something I’d been doing a lot of lately. I felt like a traitor leaving Abbie, but she was always asleep and I needed to clear my head prior to Ruddy walking in with the news. I whispered, “Honey, I’m going to go hunt a muffin or something.” I left and walked down the hall. When I returned, one of the nurses had slipped her file—and results—into the plastic box on the door. I stared at it and I thought of my wife, sitting in there dreading more bad news.
Watching my wife die was killing me. I was sick and tired of being absolutely and completely useless. I was engaged in a battle, a life-and-death struggle, that I could not win. In my estimation, the only thing worse would be watching your child fight disease. I know this because I had lied and said I was hunting a muffin when in fact I was searching for a parent’s face, which when I saw it would tell me they were suffering as much if not more than I. When I had found one and felt the sick consolation of knowing someone else on this planet was hurting as much as me, I returned.
I know that’s wrong. I know that is absolutely twisted. And I’m sorry for it.
I flipped open the chart and found the letter sitting on top of the stack. It was from the radiation oncologist who’d read the scans:
Dear Dr. Ruddy Hampton,
I have reviewed Abbie Eliot Michael’s most