She would receive one treatment a week. Every Friday. There would be six cycles before they did another CT scan to see if the medicine had worked. A port was placed in her arm to prevent damage to her veins and to make her visits less painful. They weren’t sure when or how often the side effects would take place. They didn’t know to what extent they would be either. She would more than likely have nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, mouth sores, weakness, fatigue, hair loss, weight loss, and a lot of fucking discomfort. But the talk of blood transfusions and low immune system was what concerned me most.
She would be more prone to infection, which could result in her being hospitalized. Dehydration was another potential side effect, which would also cause her to be hospitalized. My job was to try and make sure none of these things happened. I couldn’t prevent all of it, but I could keep her eating, drinking, and away from any sneezing, sniffling motherfucker within a hundred-mile radius.
When I’m back at the clinic, I’m led to a room where the brightest thing inside of it is Saylor and her yellow, stage-one bag of Skittles. The room doesn’t offer any privacy. A dozen reclining chairs are arranged in a semicircle with a big nurse’s desk that sits centered in front of them. All the chairs are occupied, with Saylor sitting in the one third from the end.
There are people ranging in age from teenagers to senior citizens. Saylor seems to be having a conversation with the two old men sitting next to her. The doctor warned her that these people would likely be the same people she saw every week. He also told her that it was very common to come in and find that someone has passed. His suggestion was to not mention it or discuss it with other patients, because studies showed that it caused a decline in people’s health when they experienced the loss of someone fighting the same battle they were.
I don’t see why in the hell they would make you sit in a room full of people fighting for their lives anyway. It’s fucking depressing. Couldn’t they put them in a cubicle or something?
When Saylor’s laugh fills the room, I’m drawn to her, and I notice everyone else is too. I wonder if this place has ever been graced with someone like Saylor. Even though these people are sick and possibly dying, they should be happy they are getting the gift of Saylor Samson. I’m sure she will win them all over and, judging by their smiles, she already has.
“Dirk!” Saylor calls, motioning with her hand for me to come over. She is the happiest I’ve seen her all day. I make my way over, and am introduced to the two old men beside her. “This is Hershel and Ralph. Guys, this is my Dirk.” I like how she says my Dirk. I shake hands with the men, whose grips are strong even though their bodies look tired and weak.
I pull a chair up next to Saylor and present her with a bag of Skittles. Lucky for everyone else in the room, I bought several bags. After Saylor orders me to get some medicine cups from the nurse’s desk, we begin filling them with candy and then I’m instructed to pass them out. An hour later, I’m asked to step out while they begin unhooking some of the patients, and I leave to a chorus of “bye, Dirk” and “thanks for the Skittles.”
I call Shady once I’m in the waiting room with the other chemo patients’ families, who all look like they’ve done this a few times before.
“Yeah.” The distress in Shady’s voice has me turning my back to the unmindful people in the room.
“What’s wrong?” I bark, trying to keep my voice down.
“Nothing that you need to worry about. I’ll be there in the morning.” I don’t like Shady’s attempt at blowing me off, and I’m thinking that he isn’t alone.
“Who is with you?” I ask, this time making sure to lower my voice as much as possible. It’s not the people in this room I’m worried about; it’s the ones in the room with him.
“Nobody. I’m just having a bad day. How’s Saylor?”
“She’s fine. Stop trying to change the topic. What the fuck’s wrong?” This time I growl, and the lady sitting closest to me frowns, but doesn’t look up from her crossword puzzle.
“We bought you the six months you needed with cash. But I’ve been doing some digging and it looks like they’re planning an attack. They’re gonna go back on their word, Dirk. Or either they’re fixing to demand more. The club can’t afford to give them any more.” Fuck. I drop my head and walk out, knowing I’ll have to walk a block to smoke a cigarette and knowing it will be worth every step. Fucking smoke-free environment.
But when I’m outside, I light up immediately, needing the nicotine more than I care about the ticket I’ll get if I’m caught.
“How much more you need? I’ve got about half a mil. I can probably get that much more.” Just the thought of paying those assholes any amount of money pisses me off, and I’m sure there will be indentions in the concrete with every stomp of my foot.
“We’re already giving them five, Dirk. Something tells me an extra million isn’t going to make much of a difference.” His words shatter me. My club was giving up a lot just to spare me six months. I guess they thought it was the least they could do considering I was preventing them from losing the club altogether.
This was my family. And they were willing to lose every dime we had just to grant me my dying wish—to live long enough to take care of Saylor.