39. Zoey
39
Zoey
S torm clouds roll in early on Monday morning as I sit up in my bed, staring out the window with my hands shaking. Noah didn’t end up leaving until after dinner last night, and I’m so grateful that he stayed, but I also hope he doesn’t get in trouble for being tired at training today.
As for me, I’ve never been so tired.
I didn’t sleep. Last night wasn’t great. I was lethargic again, barely able to keep myself up to really be here in the moment with Noah, but my body just didn’t feel right. I needed to lay down, needed to pass out, and when the dizziness returned, I forced myself to yawn and watched with a broken heart as he put me to bed and demanded I get some sleep.
But the problem with lying in bed too early to sleep, your mind starts wandering, and despite knowing the signs and symptoms of leukemia like the back of my hand, I found myself researching it and looking up everything there was to know about the disease I’ve already beaten.
Maybe I’m just a hypochondriac, convincing myself of something that isn’t really there, but what if I’m right? What if the battles I’ve already won were nothing but a practice run for something bigger?
I’ve already cheated death once; I’m living on borrowed time. Maybe death is finally knocking on my door, demanding it’s time to come home.
Fuck.
My gaze sweeps to the clock. 6:30 a.m.
Mom and Dad will still be sleeping, but if I’m right, they would want me to wake them. Hell, they would be wishing I had mentioned something when I first started feeling off. I just didn’t want to believe it, and I didn’t want to repeat the most terrifying time of my life.
Figuring that Mom and Dad need to be up soon anyway, I get out of bed and pad toward my desk, scooping up the picture of me as a little girl fighting for her life. I hold it to my chest like a security blanket, and with shaky hands, I walk out of my room and down the hall.
I creep past Hazel’s room, not wanting to wake her or have to worry her, especially if this is something else. Perhaps I was right all along, and this is nothing but emotional exhaustion from being apart from the other half of my soul, but I know in my gut that it’s not.
It’s barely ten steps to my parents’ room, but by the time my hand curls into a small fist and gently knocks on their door, the tears are welling in my eyes.
I don’t bother waiting for them to tell me to come in, I just push the door open and slip straight in. Hazel and I aren’t the type to bother them often when they’re in bed, especially so early in the morning, so the second I walk in, Mom pushes up on her elbow, looking at me with furrowed brows.
She watches me for a second, her eyes adjusting to the fresh morning, and as she sees the tears staining my cheeks, she pulls her blankets back, welcoming me in. “Oh, honey,” she says, pulling me into her arms as I snuggle into her bed, still gripping the photo frame. “Don’t cry. Noah will be back soon.”
I swallow over the lump in my throat, my whole body now violently shaking as the tears turn into sobs. “It’s . . . It’s not that,” I tell her, pulling out of her arms, needing to sit up for this. “I . . . I have to . . . to tell you something.”
Mom looks up at me as Dad rolls over to face me, looking just as concerned, even more so as they both take note of the photo in my hand. I scramble over Mom, putting myself right between them, and they immediately sit up, sensing that whatever this is needs their undivided attention.
“Honey, what’s going on?” Dad murmurs, gently taking the photo out of my hand as though that could be the reason for my tears and wanting to separate me from it.
“I—” I cut myself off, not having the strength to get the words out as my heart shatters into a thousand broken pieces.
“Sweetheart,” Mom says, taking my hand and giving it a squeeze. “You’re starting to worry me. Is everything okay? Did something happen?”
I shake my head, trying to breathe through the painful sobs as I reach for the photo again. “I . . . I think it’s happening again,” I say, finally getting the words out.
Mom glances at Dad, and despite not seeing the look in her eyes, I can picture it clearly, and my panicked sobs grow even louder. “What do you mean?” she questions cautiously, a nervous tone in her kind voice.
“Mom,” I cry, leaning into her, and she wraps her arms around me, holding me closer than ever before. “I think I’m sick again.”
“Oh, honey,” she soothes, her hand rubbing over my hair. “Why do you think that? You’re perfectly healthy. We go for routine tests every year,” she tells me. “If something was wrong, they would have caught it at your last one. Besides, you know that the likelihood of leukemia returning after ten years in remission is slim to none.”
“I don’t understand where this is coming from,” Dad questions. “Are you having trouble at school?”
“Every teenager has trouble at school,” I throw back at him, not liking the accusation in his tone. “But I’m not just taking wild guesses at this. I feel it in my gut. I’ve been having—”
“Been having what?” Mom asks.
I swallow hard and glance away, ashamed to admit the one thing I’ve been so scared to say out loud. “Symptoms,” I murmur, saying the word as though it’s poison on my tongue.
“What?” Dad questions, his whole body stiffening. “What do you mean? You’ve been having symptoms? You’re perfectly healthy. What symptoms?”
“I’ve been lethargic every day,” I tell them in a small voice, barely whispering the words, not brave enough to meet either of their horrified stares. “And not just had a big day kind of lethargic. I’ve been heavy, sometimes barely able to even pull myself out of bed. I’ve been falling asleep all the time and having no energy to do anything. And then there’s the dizziness,” I add, pain slicing straight through my chest. “I lied the other day . . . about my hip.”
“What are you talking about?” Mom whispers, her voice breaking as she clings on to my hand so tight that I fear my fingers will break.
“I didn’t slip on water,” I admit with a heavy sob, so ashamed of myself. “I fainted. I fell into the vanity and slammed my hip into the sink, and it’s not the first time. I fainted on my birthday.”
“What?” Dad demands. “Your birthday was back in February.”
“I know,” I say, my voice a little louder. “I was with Noah, but we just assumed I was getting sick. Everyone at school was coming down with the flu, and maybe that’s all it was, but . . . I don’t know. What if it wasn’t and it’s been gradually getting worse since then?”
Mom holds me so damn close, I can barely breathe as Dad gets out of bed, pacing in front of the window. “You’re sure about this?” he asks, a strange tone in his voice that I’ve never heard before. “You really think it’s back, that you’ve . . . relapsed?”
I shrug my shoulders, not really sure what to say. “I think I’m getting sick, and I really hope that I could be wrong, that there’s some other explanation for this, but you’ve always taught me to trust my gut.”
Mom silently cries at the thought of me getting sick in the same way, while Dad tries to think rationally about this. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do,” he finally says, his eyes filling with unshed tears. “We’re going to go about our normal day, have a shower, get ready for your day, and after Hazel is dropped at school, your mother and I will take you to see Dr. Sanchez to get some tests done. After all, there’s no need to panic or jump to conclusions until we’re certain.”
I nod, the lump in my throat now so big it’s almost impossible to breathe. “Okay,” I say, my voice breaking as the tears continue flowing. I glance at Mom, meeting her green eyes that are so identical to mine. “What if—”
“Don’t do that, my precious girl,” she weeps. “Don’t start asking yourself what if until we know. If it comes down to that, then we’ll cross that bridge then, okay? For now, positive thoughts.”
I nod, and with that, Mom scooches back in her bed, pulling me down with her and into her side before pulling the blankets right up to our chins. Her fingers brush up and down my arm as Dad excuses himself to go to the bathroom, but instead of hearing the shower running, I hear the subtle sound of his broken cries.
Mom and I stay like this until Dad finally emerges from the bathroom, dressed and ready for the day. We hear Hazel down the hall, turning on her music and singing, completely oblivious to the way my whole world feels as though it’s about to crumble. “I’ll drive her to school,” Dad mutters, barely just going through the motions. “Then I’ll head back here and pick you up.”
Mom and I sit up and nod, and with that, Dad is out the door, putting on the performance of a lifetime as he tells Hazel to hurry her ass up and get out to the truck.
I get up out of my parents’ bed, and as I go to walk out of the room, Mom stops me and pulls me back into her arms. “We’re going to be okay, Zo,” she promises me. “Whatever comes our way, we’ll fight it together. You’ve beaten this beast before, and if it comes down to it, you’ll beat it again. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met, my love. You’re a survivor, and whatever this is that has got you not feeling your best, you’re going to get past it.”
I bury my face into her chest, the tears starting all over again. “I’m scared, Mommy,” I cry, clinging to her shirt.
“I’m scared too,” she tells me, gently pressing her fingers to my chin and lifting until I meet her eyes. “But the beauty is that we have each other to be scared with, and when you have someone holding your hand, sometimes those scary things really aren’t so bad.”
She gives me a warm smile, and with that, I make my way out of her room, still clutching the photo, desperately needing it to remind me that even in the face of the impossible, I’ve beaten all odds, and if I can do it once, then I can sure as hell do it again.
W hen I was a kid, Dr. Sanchez’s office seemed huge, but now, it’s nothing more than a regular doctor’s office. Perhaps it’s because when I was young, looking at the doctor who cured my cancer, I always saw her as larger than life, but as the years went on, I gained a better understanding of my illness, and everything was brought into perspective. And now as I sit in this office, I’m filled with nothing but fear.
My parents sit on either side of me as I hold my hands in my lap, trying to conceal just how frantically they’re shaking. We’ve been here for two hours waiting for a chance for the doctor to squeeze us in. She’s highly recommended, and getting an appointment with her can sometimes be impossible, but I’ve been a frequent flier here for over a decade now. I’m on a first-name basis with most of her staff and nurses, and when I walked through the door, they were more than happy to try and squeeze us in. I just hope that this is all for nothing.
Mom has been quiet all morning, and Dad has done what little he can to keep us both from falling apart, but truth be told, he’s right on the edge as well.
Hope has been blowing up my phone all morning, wondering where I am and if I’m alright, and so far, I haven’t had the energy to respond, and it makes me feel like a cold-hearted bitch. But as soon as we’re out of here and I’m back home, I’m sure I’ll be feeling up to it. Right now, the fear of the unknown has my complete, undivided attention.
I’ve told Hope all about my past with leukemia and spoken about it openly, something I never really did with Tarni. Sure, she knows about it, but it was mentioned almost as an afterthought and then quickly shrugged off as though it didn’t matter. Hope though, she asks questions, wonders about that time in my life, wants to know how it all went down, and she makes me feel normal for still feeling the need to cry about it despite being cleared over ten years ago.
The nerves from sitting in this very office are eating me alive, and my knee bounces. I avoided Noah’s call this morning, knowing if he heard the sound of my voice or the tremble of fear within it, he would have jumped straight back in his car, leaving training behind. So, I settled for a quick text, letting him know I was running late and that I’d call him after school, making it two people I’ve let down today.
I’m not that person who hides things. I don’t lie to my friends, and I sure as hell don’t avoid Noah’s calls, especially when I’m in a constant state of missing him. But they will understand. They have to.
Dr. Sanchez’s office door opens, and as I look back over my shoulder, Mom places a steadying hand over mine, trying to help calm me.
Dr. Sanchez walks in, and a wide smile immediately spreads across her face. “Oh my, Zoey James,” she says fondly. “You seem to grow another whole foot every time I see you.”
Despite my nerves, a genuine smile pulls across my face, and we all stand up. Mom goes in first, giving Dr. Sanchez a warm hug before making the usual small talk. How have you been? It’s wonderful to see you again .
When the doctor walks around her desk and takes a seat, she’s looking at me like I’m a personal achievement of hers. “You must be seventeen now, is that right?” she asks, dropping down into her desk chair and flipping open my file.
“Yes, that’s right,” I say, watching as she scans over my paperwork, her brows furrowing. “We’re coming up to the ten-year anniversary of when you declared me cancer-free.”
“Indeed we are,” she says, a strange note in her tone. “However, according to my paperwork, I’m not scheduled to see you for another two months.” Her head snaps up, her honey-brown eyes scanning over my face in a new light. “What’s going on, Zoey?”
My gaze drops away in defeat. “I’ve been having symptoms,” I tell her as Mom reaches for my hand again.
“What kind of symptoms?” she pushes.
“I’ve been lethargic, having dizzy spells, and fainting,” I tell her. “No energy and tired all the time.”
“Okay,” she says, her gaze dropping back to my file as she digs a little deeper. “I see you’ve been keeping up with all of your scheduled tests. When was your last one?”
“Last December,” Mom supplies.
Dr. Sanchez nods before plucking papers from the back of my file and studying them closely, and I can only assume these are a copy of my latest results, though we were told everything was good, no cause for alarm. “Alright, so everything looks as it should on these results, but since you aren’t feeling well, I’m happy to bring forward your scheduled test,” she tells me. “Though I’m sure you’ve done your homework and are aware that a relapse after ten years of remission is quite rare, it’s not unheard of.”
I nod. I spent the whole night reading all about it.
“When did you start noticing these symptoms?” she asks.
I give her the whole rundown, the same way I’d done with Mom and Dad this morning, and she takes in every little detail like a sponge.
“Right, okay,” she says. “So, these symptoms could be signs of a number of different things. I think we need to do a complete blood count, just so we can narrow this down a little. In the meantime, we’ll get started on your bone marrow aspiration. How does that sound?”
“Terrifying,” I tell her honestly.
“I know, but let’s get some results back before we start fretting. This could be a simple case of anemia, or it could be something a little more serious.”
Mom nods, listening to everything the doctor has to say before spouting a million questions I would never have thought to ask, but I suppose this is what happens when you’ve already been through this once before.
They chat for a few minutes, and Mom is already asking about plans of action, but Dr. Sanchez is reluctant to go into too much detail before we get my results.
“Alright,” Dr. Sanchez finally says. “Let’s get you in my exam room and we’ll do a thorough check-up, draw some blood, and get moving on your bone marrow aspiration.”
With that, we all stand, and as Dad pulls me into his side, holding me tight, we make our way into Dr. Sanchez’s exam room, hoping like hell that our lives aren’t about to crumble into a million irreparable pieces.