No Attachments - By Tiffany King Page 0,74
even though the lump was large, they were able to remove all the cancer cells, but he wanted to treat it with an aggressive round of chemotherapy. Again, my father asked if I was going to call Nathan, but again, I resisted. A week after returning home, I was at the chemo clinic getting my first regimen of chemotherapy. The bitterness I expected to feel when they injected the needle in me was missing. My desire to fight for Nathan made each step that much more important. Instead of viewing the chemo as poison, I looked at it as a lifeline that would help me reach my goal. My optimism didn't change as I kneeled before the toilet puking up everything I ate. I pretended it didn't hurt when the first large chunk of hair fell out while I was brushing my hair. I didn't allow myself to dwell on how I'd been growing my hair out for the last four years, or how Nathan's hands had felt tangled in the strands. Wilma became a source of comfort I would have never thought possible. By October, all my hair was gone and I had lost ten pounds, which made my cheekbones stand out in an alarming way. Thanksgiving was spent in the hospital when my immune system decided to stop working. My time in the hospital floated by in a pain-filled haze as I fought to stay alive. Throughout it all, my father never left my side. He didn't mention calling Nathan this time, knowing this was what I had been trying to spare both of them from witnessing. At one point, in my painkiller-hazed state, I dreamt that Nathan was with me. Even on death's door, I was bitterly disappointed that the dream had to end. I was conscious enough when Dr. Davis told my father to prepare himself for the worst, and still, I fought, willing my body not to give up. Perhaps it was the dream that that gave me the will to fight harder. Three days after Thanksgiving, I was well enough to be wheeled out of ICU and taken to regular room.
"How's my favorite patient?" Dr. Davis said, entering my room the day after I'd been moved from the ICU.
"You only say that because I'm the most stubborn," I joked weakly.
"You are one tough nut," he said, sitting in the chair next to my bed. "So, how are you feeling?"
"Fair," I lied, smiling slightly.
He chuckled. "Does 'fair' now stand for being hit by a cement truck?"
I tried to shrug, but even that was too painful.
"I'll have them increase your pain meds. There's no reason you need to suffer unnecessarily," he said, patting my shoulder before standing up. "You have Nurse Ratchet call me if you need anything," he added, referring to the head nurse no one liked much.
"That would require me actually talking to her," I quipped, making him laugh as he left my room.
"How you doing, pumpkin?" my dad asked, entering my room with his hands full a few minutes after Dr. Davis had left.
"Fair," I said, giving him my standard answer. "What's all that?"
"I figured a few creature comforts from home would make your stay here easier," he said, setting my iPad on the rolling bed tray. "I brought some of those pajama pants you like to sleep in and a few t-shirts I found in your dresser," he added, placing the stack of clothes on the nightstand.
My eyes zeroed in on the stack of clothes as I spotted a familiar navy blue t-shirt that had been buried at the bottom of my dresser. The fact that he had to dig for it wasn't lost on me, although if he knew the significance of the shirt, he didn't show it. It didn't belong to me, but that didn't stop me from taking it when I had found it in my laundry basket when I packed up my stuff at the cabin. At the time, I had pressed it to my face, smelling the cologne Nathan wore with a touch of his masculinity. When we had arrived home, I had stowed it away and only allowed myself to remove it when the pain of missing him began to engulf me. Everything in me yearned to press it to my face now, but I knew it would raise questions if I asked my father to hand it to me. Not to mention, he would probably think I was a freak if I sniffed my shirt.
"How's