Chapter Nine
Cedar
I stood at the sink, scrubbing my hands with meticulous care.“Dr. Cedar, it’s time,” a theater nurse called out, her voice gentle but firm.
I nodded—though she couldn’t see me—my thoughts still lingering with Connie, the little girl who’d captured my heart.
As I rinsed my hands, I recalled the first time Connie walked into my office, her bright smile illuminating the room despite the pain her little body held. Her parents, Mark and Emma, stood on either side of her, their eyes filled with worry.
“Dr. Cedar, please help our baby,” Emma had begged, her voice trembling.
Connie’s initial diagnosis was Stage II Wilms tumor. It was safe to say the odds were in our favor, but the road ahead would be challenging.
I couldn’t pretend to fully understand everything Mark and Emma were facing, but I wasn’t a stranger to the pain in their hearts.
“Dr. Cedar, how do you explain this to an eleven-year-old?” Emma asked, her eyes searching. “How do you tell her she has cancer?”
I’d smiled, recalling my own experience with delivering difficult news. “You tell her the truth, Emma. Let her know it’s a tough road, but that she’ll always have both your hands to hold,” I replied, looking between Emma and Mark.
Emma nodded, a faint smile on her lips. “Connie’s been asking a lot of questions. She wants to know if she’ll lose her hair.”
I remembered Connie’s words, spoken with unshakable conviction: “I don’t really care about my hair, Dr. Cedar. It’s going to grow back, and it’ll be more beautiful. And I know God’s got this, Dr. Cedar. He’s going to heal me… just like He did with the ten lepers.”
I couldn’t help but smile at her faith. That Bible story remained one of my favorites from Sunday school. I wished we all believed so easily. Connie was the bravest little girl I’d ever known.
Although I wasn’t a surgical oncologist, Mark and Emma insisted I scrub in for Connie’s procedure, saying they’d feel more at ease with me there. I understood their anxiety; I’d grown attached to Connie, too.
The nurse’s voice broke through my reverie. “Dr. Cedar, are you ready?”
I took a deep breath, refocusing on the task at hand. Connie’s life hung in the balance, and I was honored to be part of the team fighting for her.
I entered the operating theater, holding my hands up, palms forward, above shoulder level. A sterile nurse helped me with gowning and gloving.
Connie lay on the table, her eyes fixed on me—fear etched on her face. It was a stark contrast to the cheerful girl I’d seen just a week ago.
“Hey, kiddo!” I said, forcing a bright smile. “You’re doing great.”
She tried to smile back. “Dr. Cedar, will I be able to play soccer again?”
“Absolutely, Connie,” I replied. “You’ll be back on the field in no time.”
A hint of a grin tugged at her lips. “I’m going to score a goal just for you, Dr. Cedar.”
My heart swelled with emotion. “I’m looking forward to it.”
Dr. Patel, our anesthesiologist, introduced himself. “Hi, Connie! I’m here to help you sleep through this. You’ll be just fine.”
Connie nodded, her small shoulders visibly relaxing.
There were seven of us in the room: Dr. Ken, the lead pediatric surgeon; a urologist, Dr. Lee; Dr. Patel, the anesthesiologist; two surgical nurses; one scrub technician; and me, the seventh member of the team.
“All right, Connie,” Dr. Ken said, his tone reassuring. “We’re going to take good care of you. This will be over before you know it.”
“I’m scared,” Connie whispered.
I stepped closer, taking her hand in mine. “You’re not alone. We’re all here for you.”
Dr. Lee tried to help. “Hey, Connie! I heard you love puppies. Got a favorite breed?”
Her eyes lit up. “Yeah! Golden Retrievers!”
“Mine too! My Golden, Max, loves fetch,” Dr. Lee replied.
She giggled, her fear momentarily forgotten.
Dr. Patel chimed in with a grin, “And I have a cat named Whiskers, the biggest troublemaker you’ll ever meet.”
Connie’s smile widened, the room filling with warmth and reassurance.
Just before she drifted under anesthesia, Connie’s gaze locked onto mine. “Dr. Cedar?”
“Yes, sweetie?”
“Will you pray with me?”
My chest tightened. “Of course, Connie. Let’s pray together.”
***
The surgery was expected to last four to six hours, a typical duration for Wilms tumor resection. However, about two hours in, I noticed Dr. Ken’s expression turned grave as he examined the ultrasound images.
“Cedar, we’ve got a problem,” he whispered.
My heart sank. “What is it?”
He pointed at the monitor. “Possible tumor thrombus in the IVC. Let’s confirm with a fluoroscopy.”
The anesthesiologist quickly arranged for live imaging. Dr. Ken carefully opened the retroperitoneal space, and the fluoroscopy confirmed our worst fear.
“Tumor thrombus in the IVC,” he announced, his voice tight.
My stomach knotted. This complication seriously reduced Connie’s prognosis.
Without hesitation, the team sprang into action, working to remove the thrombus and repair the damaged vessel. Dr. Ken requested additional instruments and consulted vascular surgery for guidance.
Four hours later, we finally completed the thrombectomy and IVC repair. Instead of the anticipated six hours, the surgery had lasted nine. We started around eight in the morning and didn’t leave the theater until nearly five in the evening.
As the anesthesiologist began reversing Connie’s sedation, Dr. Ken and I prepared to face her parents.
Emma looked at us anxiously. “How did it go?”
Dr. Ken drew a deep breath, choosing his words carefully. “The surgery was more complex than we expected. There was a tumor thrombus in the inferior vena cava.”
Mark’s face fell. “What does that mean?”
I stepped in gently. “It means the tumor had spread into a major blood vessel. We had to repair it, which increases the risk of recurrence.”
Tears welled in Emma’s eyes. “Is she…” She paused to steady her voice. “Is my baby going to be okay?”
A lump formed in my throat. I wanted to promise them she’d be fine, but I couldn’t. “We’ll need to monitor her very closely. The next forty-eight hours are crucial.”
Connie wouldn’t be in a coma, but she’d be heavily sedated and on ventilator support to stabilize her.
“When can we see her?” Mark asked, his tone steadier than Emma’s.
Dr. Ken answered, “She’ll be in the ICU. Two visitors at a time. We’ll let you know when she’s stable enough for the pediatric ward.”
Emma nodded, tears streaming down her face, and I felt my own emotions surfacing—my stomach twisting with empathy and anxiety.
After updating the family, I excused myself, signing out early. As I walked through the hospital corridors, the walls seemed to close in, pressing the day’s tension into my chest.
I drove home on autopilot, replaying every detail of the surgery in my mind. By the time I pulled into the driveway, exhaustion draped over me like a heavy blanket. I hadn’t eaten since morning, but the idea of food made my stomach turn.
Inside, I headed straight for my room. Mom and Dad weren’t home; they’d gone to a Bible study. The silence was unsettling, a reminder that Connie and her family were still fighting their own silent battle at the hospital.
I collapsed onto my bed, letting the day’s weight wash over me. My eyes fluttered shut, and before I knew it, I drifted into a fitful sleep.
I wasn’t sure how long I’d been out when my phone buzzed, startling me in the quiet room. Squinting at the screen, I saw Flynn’s name.
“Hey,” I answered, forcing myself to sound alert.
“Hey, beautiful,” he said, warmth in his voice. “I’m on my way to your house. Are you ready?”
I rubbed my eyes. “Ready for what?”
He chuckled. “You forgot? The health charity event is tonight.”
I groaned inwardly. “Oh—I’m so sorry. I had a long day at the hospital.”
Flynn’s tone grew concerned. “Everything okay?”
“It was tough,” I admitted, not wanting to burden him with the details. “I’m pretty tired.”
“If you’re not up for it, you can skip—”
“I’ll be fine,” I cut in, determined not to let him down. “I’ll get ready now.”
“Sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Great. I’ll be there in twenty.”
After a quick shower, I laid out two gowns. Flynn had given Heather and me carte blanche for this event, and Heather made sure I looked like a million bucks.
One option was a champagne-colored Versace with intricate beading. The other was a custom Oscar de la Renta: a breathtaking sapphire-blue gown with off-the-shoulder sleeves and floral embroidery across the bodice.
I chose the sapphire-blue, loving how the silk chiffon cascaded down my legs like a waterfall. It fit snugly at the bodice, highlighting my curves, and the color made my gray eyes pop.
Heather had paired it with crystal-encrusted Jimmy Choo stilettos, a matching Judith Leiber clutch, and sapphire-and-diamond jewelry. The delicate necklace and earrings sparkled like fireworks under the light.
I swept my hair into a chignon, letting a few wisps fall free, and applied a light touch of makeup. By the time Flynn arrived in his tailored tux, I felt put together—on the outside, at least.
“You look stunning,” he said, offering his arm.
We drove to the event, but my thoughts stayed with Connie and her family. Flynn’s company, Hope’s Horizon, had organized the charity gala to support cancer research and patient care. The venue, brimming with influential guests, buzzed with conversation and clinking glasses.
Flynn and I mingled, shaking hands and exchanging polite smiles. He introduced me to business partners, colleagues, and philanthropists.
“Cedar, this is Dr. Patel, one of our major donors. He’s been instrumental in keeping this dream alive,” Flynn said, guiding me toward a small group.
As we chatted, I noticed Flynn switching effortlessly between English, French, and Chinese, charming people from all backgrounds.
I leaned in, whispering, “I didn’t know you spoke so many languages.”
He smiled. “Comes with the territory. Language can open a lot of doors.”
I watched, impressed, as he navigated the crowd. Soon we joined a circle of donors, and Flynn launched into a conversation about new cancer treatments and technologies.
“Cedar, have you met Mrs. Hernandez, one of our esteemed board members?” Flynn asked, turning to a poised woman.
Mrs. Hernandez extended a hand. “Delighted to meet you, Dr. Cedar. Flynn’s told me wonderful things.”
Throughout the evening, items went up for auction—luxury vacations, exclusive art pieces—with a substantial portion of the proceeds benefiting the cancer foundation. Yet as the night progressed, I struggled to keep up with the constant mix of medical innovations and high-stakes business deals. My mind drifted to Connie’s pale face, making it hard to focus.
Eventually, Flynn was pulled aside for more networking, leaving me to navigate the crowd alone. The onslaught of introductions and small talk made my head spin. I felt like an outsider in a world of polished negotiations, every moment reminding me of Connie’s uncertain future.
Overwhelmed by emotion, I slipped away as discreetly as possible, seeking a quiet spot to breathe—and perhaps to cry.