48. Cameron
Cameron
All I hear when I wake up this morning is quiet beeping. The steady sound of machines monitoring my body. It’s nothing new—I’ve lived with that sound since I was three years old. But today, it feels overwhelming and smothering.
Today is the day.
I blink up at the ceiling, feeling the exhaustion deep in my bones. They feel heavy, like they were filled with cement.
The past week of chemo and radiation has hollowed me out, leaving me feeling more like a shell of myself than an actual person.
My immune system is completely wiped, my body stripped to nothing, so the transplant will take.
All I can do is wait and hope Wes’s donation gives me something to build from again.
A soft touch brushes against my arm. “Morning, sleepyhead.”
I turn my head slightly to find Gabrielle perched in the chair beside my bed, her hair pulled into a messy bun, her eyes tired but warm. She looks like she hasn’t slept, but she still smiles at me.
I try to smile back, but I barely have the energy to lift my lips. “What does that make you? Since I know you haven’t slept.”
She shrugs, reaching for my hand, lacing her fingers through mine. “Someone has to make sure you didn’t try to run away.”
“Dang,” I say weakly, “you caught on to the plan.”
She huffs out a quiet laugh, but I can see the worry in her eyes.
A nurse steps in before either of us can say anything else. “Alright, Dr. Hayes,” she says, checking the monitor by my bedside. “How are we feeling this morning?”
I let out a slow breath. “Like I got hit by a truck…twice, back to back.”
She chuckles, unfazed. “Sounds about right. We’re just going to run some final tests before the procedure, okay? Get your vitals, check your blood work, and make sure everything is set for your infusion.”
I nod, letting them do their routine checks, poking and prodding, drawing more blood to send off to the lab. None of it is new. None of it surprises me. But that doesn’t make it suck any less.
Gabrielle doesn’t let go of my hand through any of it.
While I’m getting worked on, Wes is already in another part of the hospital, getting prepped for his own procedure.
They’re doing a PBSC transplant, which means Wes has been on medication for the past several days to stimulate his stem cell production.
His blood is currently being cycled through a machine, filtering out the cells I need before the rest get returned to him.
It’s a long process, one that leaves donors feeling wiped out and drained.
I’d feel guilty about putting him through it if he hadn’t threatened to physically fight me when I tried to talk him out of it.
I wish I could see him, joke with him, tell him not to screw up my new bone marrow. But all I can do is wait on this side of things.
* * *
For something that’s supposed to save my life, I expected more—more build-up, more fanfare, maybe even some intense background music. Instead, a doctor walks in holding a small bag filled with pinkish-red fluid—Wes’s stem cells.
Gabrielle tightens her grip on my hand as they hook the bag up to my IV, letting the new cells drip into my system through my central line. I try to stay calm, focusing on her instead of the quiet hum of the machines.
The infusion itself is painless, but that doesn’t mean my body takes it well.
Minutes pass, and the nausea kicks in first. A slow, creeping sickness that coils in my stomach, making me clench my jaw.
I swallow hard, breathing through my nose, trying to fight it back.
Then the fever comes—hot and sudden, burning beneath my skin like wildfire.
My whole body starts to shiver despite the heat, a cold sweat breaking out.
Gabrielle notices instantly. “Cam?”
“I’m fine,” I mumble, but even I don’t believe that.
A nurse moves quickly, checking my vitals, adjusting my IV flow. My heart pounds unevenly, my body trying to decide whether to accept or reject this new life Wes is trying to give me.
Gabrielle strokes my arm, whispering to me, trying to ground me.
It feels like hours before my body starts to settle, before the worst of the reaction passes. But the exhaustion? That lingers long after. I can barely keep my eyes open as the bag finally empties, the last of the cells disappearing into my bloodstream.
“That’s it,” the doctor announces. “Now, we wait.”
The next day is hell.
My body is weak, my head is pounding, and my bones ache like they’re breaking on the inside. I can’t eat, can’t drink, and every inch of my body is in pain. If I had the energy to produce tears, I would be crying right now.
Gabrielle stays with me, forcing me to take sips of water when I can, adjusting my pillows, whispering to me in the moments where I’m barely conscious.
Wes also visits, even though he looks like hell himself. “Damn,” he mutters, eyeing me as he drops into the chair beside my bed. “I thought I felt bad. You look like death.”
I crack a dry smile. “Thanks, man. That’s exactly what I want to hear.”
Wes leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Sorry.”
Gabrielle rolls her eyes but smiles anyway.
The next part of all this will be the worst part because we just have to wait—wait to see if Wes’ cells will take. Wait to see if my body will accept them or reject them. Wait to see if this will be the thing that finally—finally saves me.
I won’t ever be able to put into words how grateful I am for Gabrielle being here. I love just watching her sometimes, when she’s not looking, when she’s curled up in the chair beside me, dozing off with her fingers still wrapped around mine.
She’s the only thing keeping me from slipping too far into the exhaustion.
I love her so much it physically hurts.
All I can do is pray.
Not just for this to work. Not just for survival. But for time. As much as I can get.