“I'm sorry, but surgery would be insoluble.”
One sentence.
A sob tears through the room as the doctor's words hang in the air.
The 16-year old blinks as her mother hugs her father before pressing a kiss to her temple. Anna swallows with difficulty as her hand struggles to encircle her sobbing mother’s shoulder.
Shaking her head, she winces at her stiff neck as a pang shoots through it. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, terrified that she heard correctly. “Could you say again? W-what type?”
Dr. Mastlio smiles softly, shuffling the papers on her desk before pulling out a file a finger thick. Sorting through the stapled reports and documents, the surgeon sets aside a packet of test results and scans before closing the ruby-red folder and placing it in the file cabinet behind her desk.
Flipping the packet around so that the three in her office can see it, she taps her pen to a certain set of words and numbers. “As you know, you have been in and out of remission for various cancers. The most recent one, a glioblastoma, was removed before it invaded the prefrontal cortex a year ago. Minimum damage was made to Broca's Area, which may resolve itself with speech therapy. However, and this is not something I take joy in mentioning, the surgery to remove it was too invasive and left you paralyzed from the waist down. Unfortunately, it is permanent.” As the doctor takes a breath, the girl tries to steady her breathing.
A small cry brings her back to see her father gripping the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles are white. “She won't ever walk again?” The words are whispered as he hangs his head, moving his hand to squeeze her shoulder as her mother all but falls in the wooden chair.
Dr. Mastlio shakes her head. “I'm sorry, but it's impossible. She may regain some movement to avoid sores but her muscles have atrophied. Which brings me to the reason why I called you here today.”
Anna tilts her head as much as her aching neck allows, taking in the pitying expression of the doctor. “It's back, no?” Violent coughs hack their way up her throat as her lungs spasm, cutting off her air and causing the last word to be whispered, an after-effect from her lung cancer.
The doctor frowns, standing and rounding her desk before gently leaning Anna forward. Placing a hand on her back, she rubs her back as the coughs settle down enough for the girl to breathe properly.
Returning back to the other side of the desk, the doctor shuffles the papers, before placing one in front of the three. “Your white blood cell count has been elevated the last few times which is why I ordered a complete body MRI.” She flips to a new page, a scan, tapping a specific spot on the page as Anna's face is devoid of blood and her parents share a look. “You have developed rhabdomyosarcoma in your left ventricle.”
A shocked laugh comes from the girl, before she doubles over laughing until she runs out of breath. “Well,” she whispers, tears clogging her throat. “Guess it happens.”
“Anna!” Her mother scolds her, placing a hand over her mouth. “Is there really nothing to be done, doctor?” She asks, voice quivering.
Her father, ever the silent man, speaks then, reaching over to take his wife's hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Honey, maybe it's time for us to be a family.”
The meaning of the words take a few minutes to sink in before her mother shakes off his hand. “No!” She turns to her husband, and Anna looks down to worrying hands. “She is our child, Marcus! How can you say something like that!”
“Look at her for once, Carla! Really look at her. Without the fantasy of your mind!” The man motions to his daughter, all but screaming at his wife. “She's not said it to spare your feelings, but it's apparent. Anna's tired. She deserves to rest and be with her family!”
A whimper draws three pairs of eyes to the shaking teen, and her mother sighs before standing and making her way to her daughter. “I'm just not ready to let you go.” The whisper is spoken quietly as the woman encircles her daughter, placing her chin on Anna's head. She turns to the doctor, who is simply observing quietly, unwilling to interrupt the heartfelt moment. “Are there really no other options?”
Dr. Mastlio tilts her head as she fingers the pages. “Chemotherapy might buy her time, but the tumor has already invaded the aorta and the valves. We have yet to receive the results from the CT scans that were taken yesterday, but based on what I have seen today, it would be apparent that she has rhabdomyosarcoma starting to encroach on her lungs and trachea as well.” She sighs, shaking her head. “Surgery could be an option, but with scar tissue caused by past surgeries, it would have to be as a last resort. I am sorry.”
Anna strains her head to release it from her mother's grip, licking her dry lips before leaning forward slightly. “Chemo would happen when?”
“In a week, three sessions of 5 days over a month with a week in between for rest. However, I caution you to think it over as the effects from your last session have yet to dissipate. A simple fever could kill you.” The doctor slips out two pieces of paper out of a different folder. “Think it over before you decide. In the meantime, here are some clinical trials that may slow down the progression in the event that the chemo doesn't take effect. The trials have seen some success, but that is for the less advanced cases. Here are different Hospice options that might be suitable in the event that the trials don't take, as well.” She slides the papers over and Anna's mother takes them with shaking hands. “As much as it pains me to say, if we don't see progress with this chemo session and whatever trials you decide to undertake, Anna will be considered terminal.” Dr. Mastlio stands then, rounding the desk and placing a hesitant hand on the girl's shoulder. “I'll give you some time to discuss the options, but I would like to see her back in three days. You can schedule the appointment out at the front desk.” She produces a card from her coat pocket, which she hands to Anna's father. “If anything, and I mean anything, comes up with her health or you have any questions, do not hesitate to give me a call.”
“Of course, thank you, doctor. For everything.” Standing, the two parents make quick work of following the doctor while pushing their daughter's wheelchair.
YOU ARE READING
The Mourning Pilgrimage
General FictionCW: Talk of cancer, death of characters, medical procedures and terminology Anna Venerus has been battling cancer since she was a newborn. After being in and out of remission seven times in 16 years, she got the news anyone dreaded. The cancer was b...
