vomiting were likely to occur because chemo has a direct effect on the vomiting center in the brain. Based on the contents of the bowl in front of me, it looks like Mikey is in the throws of experiencing that unwanted side effect firsthand.
“Oh Mikey.” I try to pull the bowl from him, but he tugs it back at the last minute and retches into it with force that doubles him over completely. I steady the bowl with one hand and rub his back with the other as he continues to gag and spit into it, moaning with each dry heave. I feel the damp moisture of sweat beading through the fabric of his shirt. When he lifts his head up, his eyes are wet and a line of red streaks down his left nostril to the top of his upper lip.
“Oh God, Mikey,” I gasp. He wipes his face with the heel of his hand, and his eyes widen until there’s nothing but white circling all the way around his hazel irises. His fingers are coated in thick, crimson blood. “I’m calling 911, Mikey.”
He nods, then collapses onto my bed.
***
“How long has he been vomiting?” Trav stands in the doorway to my bedroom. Ran and another paramedic have Mikey on a stretcher next to the bed and are checking his vital signs. At least that’s what I assume they’re doing. I honestly know next to nothing about medical procedures, only what I’ve gleaned from unrealistic TV dramas.
“Um.” I dig my hands into the pockets of my hooded sweatshirt and fiddle with the loose fuzz that coats the inside of it. “He said three hours? He had another round of chemo this morning.”
“And the blood. When did that start?”
I shake my head and it induces a shudder that I try to mask, but I’m sure Trav sees it. “I don’t know. I think right before he came in my room.”
“Alright.” Trav nods his head. I don’t remember actually seeing him last month during the accident, just being aware of his presence in the ambulance and his assistance in getting me to the hospital. He’s mildly good looking with a mop full of auburn curls that rivals the tight ringlets of a poodle. But his dimpled grin is what stands out. It’s a reassuring, friendly smile that you’d want to see in an emergency situation, so he’s definitely the right man for the job.
“He’s going to be fine. Most likely just an esophageal tear.”
“He has cancer.”
Trav places a steadying hand on my shoulder and I’m certain this is something he does with all of the people he treats. Something about him feels like a friend. “Right,” he says, “I know. And there are many things to worry about with that. But this is not one of them. He’s going to be fine, Maggie.”
Ran and the other paramedic roll the stretcher toward us, and we both step back from the bedroom doorway to allow for easier passage. Ran has his grip on the bed while the other guy holds a plastic bag with a circular ring at the top up to Mikey’s mouth. I clench my teeth and hum quietly to drown out the retching noise that continues to pour from Mikey. It doesn’t really work, but it’s all I can think to do.
Trav eyes me cautiously. “Come on, you’re riding with us.”
“How’s your leg?” It’s the first thing Ran has said to me since the ambulance pulled up to the house and it completely catches me off guard. Especially since he’s not looking at me, but still has his eyes fixed on my brother as he pierces the fleshy inside of his arm with the tip of a needle.
“Better,” I say, pressing my hands onto my thighs—a little too hard because I feel the pull on the injury underneath. “Thank you. You guys did a good job with it.”
“You liked the balloons?” It’s strange how it’s almost as though I can hear the shape his mouth makes as he speaks. Like I can sense those curved lips breaking into a flirtatious smirk just from the sound of his controlled, low voice.
“Yes,” I say, choking on the words because my heartbeats and my syllables are trying to inhabit the same space in my throat and there’s not enough room for both. Trav eyes me over my brother’s head and huffs out a slight laugh of air. “I liked them a lot.”
“I got that impression when I saw the one tacked to your