I'm left sitting out there to wonder … did Barb refuse to answer me because she knew I'd be crushed to learn that her laughs are actually joyless acts to make people think she's going to be okay? Or did she refuse to answer me because it would crush her to admit that she can't be helped?
Chapter 29
It's been a hard day of driving, especially having just battled Portland rush-hour traffic to make it to the western side of the city on our journey to Cannon Beach. Even with the hour gained because of the time-zone change, it's close to nine PM when we make it to the campground because we had to stop at a grocery store to get some food and drink.
When we pile out of the Suburban, Connor immediately heads toward the bathroom. He's not having a good day, and we're all worried about him.
This morning, he came out of the room he shared with Barb looking even paler than before with dark circles under his eyes. Jillian immediately played "mom" and felt his forehead, declaring him to be hot to the touch. This prompted a stop to a drug store on the way out of Ashton to buy a thermometer, but it showed his temperature was very low grade at 99.1.
Connor insisted he must have a bug, but given his only symptoms were being pale and running a low fever, along with the fact he said he felt a bit tired, I was doubting that. Regardless, he shunned off our concerns, including a surprise suggestion by Barb that we stop at an urgent care to get him checked out. Instead, he directed us to haul ass to Cannon Beach and he slept most of the time, curled up in the corner of the backseat, covered with Barb's leather jacket she'd draped over him. We made stops only to gas up, use the restroom, and grab food to eat in the car. Each time, Barb gently shook him awake, and he was all smiles for us. He'd go to the bathroom, eat a little bit of food, and then go back to sleep. Jillian must have felt his forehead a million times. I know she was worried, but she didn't say a thing. Barb was worried too. She shared a few concerned looks in the rearview mirror with me when I'd periodically look back there to check on Connor.
Jillian meets me at the back of the Suburban, followed by Barb. With Connor well out of earshot, she tells me, "I'm going to sleep in the big tent with Connor tonight."
This doesn't surprise me at all, as Jillian is a hoverer.
What does surprise me is Barb saying, "If you want … I'll sleep in there with him. That way you and Christopher can have privacy."
Jillian narrows her eyes at Barb and snaps, "I don't need privacy with Christopher. I want to make sure Connor is okay."
Barb narrows her eyes right back at Jillian and leans into her. "I want to make sure Connor's okay too. You're not the only one who cares about him."
I really wish Connor were here to see this. Two women fighting over him. I bet it's a bucket-list item.
"I have an idea," I say smoothly as I pull the large tent out of the back. "Why don't we all sleep in this behemoth thing? It could fit ten people. That way we can all be assured Connor is okay throughout the night."
Jillian blinks at me, and Barb's shoulders relax as she says, "Good plan."
I turn to look at Jillian. "Cool with you?"
She doesn't say anything for a moment, but then she smiles at me. "Yeah … that's cool. Big ol' slumber party."
"I'm not painting anyone's toenails," I tell her seriously.
Barb snorts and pulls her pack out of the back of the SUV. Jillian giggles.
I smile to myself, hauling the tent to a good spot and dropping it there. As I unzip the bag to remove everything, Jillian squats down beside me. "You think Connor's okay?"
"I don't know," I tell her honestly. "I have no clue what it means to die from cancer. I don't know if his symptoms are a sign of that or if he's got a freaking cold. But he says he's fine. That's really all we can go on."
"Maybe I should call his mom," Jillian frets.
"Maybe you should let me be an adult," Connor says from behind her.
She stands up and turns to face him. I know she wants to retort with "but you're not an adult," but she wisely holds her tongue. She knows damn good and well that Connor, at the least, should be treated like an adult if for nothing more than the grace with which he's handled his diagnosis.
"I'm just worried about you," Jillian says apologetically. Barb walks up behind Connor, but she doesn't say a word.
"I get that," Connor says, but his voice is firmly non-negotiable. "But I cannot have you treating me like a baby. It makes me feel bad about myself, and I pride myself on my strength. It's what's gotten me through so far."
Barb steps around to Connor's side, and he turns to look at her. She puts a hand on his shoulder and says, "I don't think Jillian quite knows how to alleviate her fears with you, and I think that's because we don't understand what the fuck is wrong with you. We only know you're going to die from cancer. So maybe if you told us what is going to happen to you, and when, maybe she'll settle down."
I read her entire little speech to mean, I'm wigged out too but I'm too tough to say that, so I'll put this all on Jillian being a silly worrier.
I'm glad she said it though, because I've found fear of the unknown is one of the worst kinds of fears, and as of this moment, none of us know if Connor will drop dead on us. I mean … I doubt it. He's mentioned he probably has months, but still … I think he needs to share the details with us so we can all relax.
"What do you want to know?" Connor asks Jillian, completely buying Barb's cock-and-bull story that Jillian is the worrier. He doesn't notice as Barb sidles a bit closer to him so she doesn't miss a thing he might say.
Jillian's eyes cut to Barb. I see a flash of annoyance before they come back to Connor. "Fever … being tired … pale … in my mind, that makes me think it's the cancer doing this to you."
"Don't forget about the diarrhea I've had all day," Connor says with a grimace. "It could simply be food poisoning from those breakfast burritos we ate this morning."
"What's your prognosis?" I ask Connor, cutting to the chase.
"You mean-when will I die?" Connor asks me, and I can tell he's getting angry. For a kid who has been completely open, he's bowing his back up big time now that we're pressing for more details. I'm smart enough to understand that he doesn't like us worrying, and that's what's pissing him off.
"When … how … " I say with a shrug. "You know … details."
"You're a morbid son of a bitch," Connor mutters, but he casually pushes his hands down into his pockets and looks around at us. Finally, he says, "My original diagnosis was stage four alveolar rhabdomyosarcoma. That was when I was fifteen after I noticed a lump in my hand. They cut it out, did a CT scan and PET scan, and found that it had metastasized into some of my lymph nodes. I was started on aggressive chemotherapy and some radiation. The lymph nodes shrunk, and I was hesitantly placed into remission. But then four months ago, on a follow-up PET scan, it was found that the cancer had spread to my liver and lungs. They tried more chemo but it had no effect, so they stopped all forms of treatment."
I imagined what Connor felt like when the doctor told him he was terminal. That there was no hope. That his life would be over soon.
Was it the same feeling I had when I first regained consciousness and understood I'd lost part of my hand and might lose my leg? Or maybe when they told me they couldn't save my leg, and I knew I was going to permanently lose a major part of myself?
I search back, trying to recall exactly how bad I felt upon hearing those words, but for the life of me, I can't recall it. I don't know if I was shocked or angry. Sullen or withdrawn. Bitter or accepting. I don't remember anything about how I felt in those moments when such terrible news was dropped in my lap. Yet, I can't really imagine it was anything like what Connor probably felt.
All those weeks in group therapy when I was so angry for being there, refusing to believe that these people's problems could outweigh my own, seem trite now. I realize now that out of all of us, Connor has the shittiest rap. He's a young, vibrant, smart, and funny kid. He's someone who deserves to live.
I feel the heavy weight of despondency press down upon me-purely for Connor's benefit-and I have to admit to myself-to the very selfish asshole these people first came to know-that I have no clue what real hopelessness is like. I'm ashamed I never gave that kid credit for his trials until now.
Barb clears her throat and asks, "And I assume that the cancer will continue to spread and that's what makes you terminal?"
Connor nods. "It will keep growing. My liver won't be able to clean out toxins, my lungs will be impaired. Cancer can affect appetite and nutrition. Eventually, my body will just shut down on me."
Jillian gives a small cry, and I turn to see tears streaming down her face. I immediately reach out and pull her to me, and she buries her face in my chest. She takes in a ragged breath and lifts her face to look back at Connor. "Will you be in pain?"
It happens so fast that I'm not sure anyone caught it, but I saw the flash of deception in his eyes. He gives Jillian a smile and shakes his head. "No way. It will come on fast, and pain meds will control everything."