“Huh? Shave your head?”
Without any sadness, remorse, or regret, he says, “Uh huh. This mop of mine is going to start falling out in clumps and I don’t want the mess all over the house. I decided I want to shave it off to save myself the trouble. I have one of those barber clippers from when I used to wear my hair almost shaved. So, will you do it?”
“You trust me that much?”
He busts out in a knee-slapping laugh. “Seriously, Cate. I’m asking you to shave it all off. How can you possibly fuck it up?”
“You’re talking to the person who tried, unsuccessfully I might add, to wax Louise. Remember?”
“How can I forget? But I’m not asking you to wax my head. I wouldn’t dare do that.”
We both are in fits of laughter now. Finally I say that I’ll do it, as long as he doesn’t hold any fuck ups against me. So, later that day, I watch all of Drew’s gorgeous hair fall off as I work the barber’s clippers over it. And when I’m done, I can’t believe how damn sexy the man looks bald.
“You are the only man who looks as good without hair as you do with it.”
“Aww, you’re just saying that.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Get over here, Cate.”
I climb on his hairy lap and give him a smooch. “I hope you don’t usually ask your barber to do this.”
“My barber’s name isn’t Cate. It’s George. And no, I don’t. But he wouldn’t mind, because he’s gay.”
By Sunday, Drew is back to feeling pretty good. I hate to leave, but I have to get back to Purdue.
“I’m fine,” he insists. “Go. You have a shit ton of stuff to do. And don’t try to fool me.”
I wrap my arms around him, hating to let him go. “I’ll call as soon as I get back.”
“And I promise to call if I need you.”
He repeats his treatments every Thursday for a total of three and then gets two weeks off. At the end of the first round, I’m at his place on a Saturday. He’s watching TV and I’m writing, and I happen to glance at him. His cheeks are as pink and flushed, almost sunburned looking.
Crossing the room, I touch his forehead with the back of my hand and he feels terribly warm. He has a thermometer in the bathroom, so I go get it. A half hour later, we’re headed to the hospital. One of the problems with chemo is it kills your white blood count and makes you very susceptible to infections. Chemo patients must be very cautious and if they spike a fever, they need to be admitted to the hospital. That’s where Drew ends up. He has what’s known as an FUO—a fever of unknown origin. And it can be life threatening. His temperature was one hundred three when I took it. I’m freaking, but don’t want him to know it.
As soon as we get to the hospital, they put him on a gurney and wheel him into one of those tiny cubicles. A nurse comes in and attaches an IV line to the port they put in prior to his chemo—it’s a direct line into his bloodstream that’s attached to his chest. This way they never have to stick an IV into his vein. Then she draws several tubes of blood and says a doctor will be in.
An hour later, his oncologist cruises in, smiling.
“How do you feel?”
“Hot,” Drew says.
“Yeah, we’re doing blood cultures now, but you know how long those take. You’ll be out of here before they grow anything. I’m starting you on the big gun antibiotics prophylactically. Sorry man, but you’re in for the duration. We’re gonna add some stuff to your regimen to prevent this, too. You’ll get a room in about an hour. You need anything?”
“Can you cover my rotation for me?”
His doctor laughs. “I’ll get your attending in here. We’ve got you, man.” Then he turns to me and says, “No kissing and wash the hell out of your hands. I would prefer if you wear a mask and gloves around him, Cate. He’s in a risky situation right now.” He walks to cart, grabs a box of masks and gloves, and hands them to me.
“I understand.” Then he’s gone.
Before I get the chance to speak, Drew says, “Go home, babe. I’m so sleepy. I’m probably gonna nap all afternoon. This fever takes it out of me. You’ll be able to get your work done.”
“Maybe so. I can bring you back something to eat.”
“No, I meant go home home. I’m in for the week. I feel wasted. You have so much work and I know you’re blowing smoke up my ass when you say things are fine. Just go home and get your shit done. Come back Friday and I’ll be ready to go home. I promise.”
“Drew! I can’t leave.”
“Cate, come here.” He pats the bed so I sit. “Realistically, what can you do? And give me an honest answer.”
He’s right. I can’t do anything for him that he can’t do himself.
“See. I can hold my own dick to pee,” he says, winking at me, “but if I really needed help with that, I would tell you.”
I can’t help the bubbly giggle that spurts out of my lips.