he was—I still couldn’t wrap my head around it—but he was a creature of another world entirely.
“After Winter Break,” I said, answer Geoff’s question. “I’ll know by then if the new treatment is working.”
“And if it isn’t?” Geoff said, his forehead creasing with concern. He set the pizza down.
“If it isn’t, I won’t be around long enough to make a relationship worth it,” I said bluntly.
He looked stricken. “Shaw—”
“Please, don’t. I can’t deal with that right now. After the break. I’m sure I’ll be doing better then,” I said, making promises I had no power to keep. I finished half of my sandwich.
“But we’re still on for studying for finals together, right?” he asked.
“As long as Lisette’s along to chaperone, sure.” I grinned at him, picking up the second half of my sandwich.
“Like she’ll let you study without her,” he said.
“She’s the one I have to kill, isn’t she?” I asked. “She told you I was sick.”
He looked uncomfortable. “I asked. She didn’t want to tell me at first.”
“But she did,” I said. “Oh, well. I’m sure she thought it was for the best. She always does.”
“She’s a good friend, Shaw,” he said.
“I know she is,” I said. I finished my sandwich. “And since she’s the one who told you about my cancer, she should be the one to have to put up with all the tension between us.” I said the word with deliberately exaggerated drama.
“You don’t trust me?” he demanded.
“Maybe,” I said, standing up and gathering up my trash and my bag, “I don’t trust me.”
With another grin over my shoulder, I threw away the trash and ducked out of The Dairy, feeling lighter than I had in days and leaving Geoff gaping at the table behind me.
C hapter Ten
A week later, I wasn’t feeling so optimistic. I had come down with a cold that had turned into a raging ear and sinus infection, and I was trying to gut it out and push through the last week of school before finals. I had been feeling so much better without the side effects of the alemtuzumab that I had almost managed to put out of my mind how sick I really was. But feeling better or not, I wasn’t healing. I was, slowly, inevitably, getting worse.
Dr. Robeson had hammered the seriousness of this kind of illness into me the first time I’d seen her. Opportunistic infections were a leading cause of death for victims of leukemia, she’s said—it was my white blood cells that were broken, so even as they multiplied out of control, they stopped doing their job of fighting invasions, large and small. If an infection didn’t kill me, then I could look forward to hemorrhage, catastrophic gastric ulceration, or drowning in my own fluids with pulmonary edema.
Good times.
I called Dr. Robeson as soon as I recognized the signs of another infection. She prescribed me a round of Ciprofloxacin over the phone. The infection could be viral, she explained, but waiting for a culture could lower the chances of the antibiotics being effective if is bacterial, given my compromised immune system. It was my third infection since I had been diagnosed with leukemia—and the second time I’d heard that spiel.
“Have you called to hospice?” she asked. “You don’t have to choose that path, but I do wish you’d at least talk to them.”
“No,” I said. “And I’m not going to. I called the other number that you gave me. The card.”
There was silence on the other end of the phone for a moment. “And how did that go?”
“It went well,” I said. “I think. I passed the screening. I’m supposed to call in two days and give my consent for the procedure.” I had tried to look up anything I could online, but the name Thorne and a phone number were not enough to give me any relevant hits. “Can you tell me about this company? Its name? The CEO’s background?”
“I’m afraid I
“After Winter Break,” I said, answer Geoff’s question. “I’ll know by then if the new treatment is working.”
“And if it isn’t?” Geoff said, his forehead creasing with concern. He set the pizza down.
“If it isn’t, I won’t be around long enough to make a relationship worth it,” I said bluntly.
He looked stricken. “Shaw—”
“Please, don’t. I can’t deal with that right now. After the break. I’m sure I’ll be doing better then,” I said, making promises I had no power to keep. I finished half of my sandwich.
“But we’re still on for studying for finals together, right?” he asked.
“As long as Lisette’s along to chaperone, sure.” I grinned at him, picking up the second half of my sandwich.
“Like she’ll let you study without her,” he said.
“She’s the one I have to kill, isn’t she?” I asked. “She told you I was sick.”
He looked uncomfortable. “I asked. She didn’t want to tell me at first.”
“But she did,” I said. “Oh, well. I’m sure she thought it was for the best. She always does.”
“She’s a good friend, Shaw,” he said.
“I know she is,” I said. I finished my sandwich. “And since she’s the one who told you about my cancer, she should be the one to have to put up with all the tension between us.” I said the word with deliberately exaggerated drama.
“You don’t trust me?” he demanded.
“Maybe,” I said, standing up and gathering up my trash and my bag, “I don’t trust me.”
With another grin over my shoulder, I threw away the trash and ducked out of The Dairy, feeling lighter than I had in days and leaving Geoff gaping at the table behind me.
C hapter Ten
A week later, I wasn’t feeling so optimistic. I had come down with a cold that had turned into a raging ear and sinus infection, and I was trying to gut it out and push through the last week of school before finals. I had been feeling so much better without the side effects of the alemtuzumab that I had almost managed to put out of my mind how sick I really was. But feeling better or not, I wasn’t healing. I was, slowly, inevitably, getting worse.
Dr. Robeson had hammered the seriousness of this kind of illness into me the first time I’d seen her. Opportunistic infections were a leading cause of death for victims of leukemia, she’s said—it was my white blood cells that were broken, so even as they multiplied out of control, they stopped doing their job of fighting invasions, large and small. If an infection didn’t kill me, then I could look forward to hemorrhage, catastrophic gastric ulceration, or drowning in my own fluids with pulmonary edema.
Good times.
I called Dr. Robeson as soon as I recognized the signs of another infection. She prescribed me a round of Ciprofloxacin over the phone. The infection could be viral, she explained, but waiting for a culture could lower the chances of the antibiotics being effective if is bacterial, given my compromised immune system. It was my third infection since I had been diagnosed with leukemia—and the second time I’d heard that spiel.
“Have you called to hospice?” she asked. “You don’t have to choose that path, but I do wish you’d at least talk to them.”
“No,” I said. “And I’m not going to. I called the other number that you gave me. The card.”
There was silence on the other end of the phone for a moment. “And how did that go?”
“It went well,” I said. “I think. I passed the screening. I’m supposed to call in two days and give my consent for the procedure.” I had tried to look up anything I could online, but the name Thorne and a phone number were not enough to give me any relevant hits. “Can you tell me about this company? Its name? The CEO’s background?”
“I’m afraid I
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