at work all day, and you get sick the minute you see me? Is this a bid for sympathy, or do I have this effect on you?” he asked, not realizing what she'd been through all day, and she didn't want to tell him she'd lied about what had happened at the office.
“Very funny.”
“Do you think you're reacting to this emotionally, or maybe you're allergic to this stuff?” He just couldn't understand it or believe it. He had never seen anyone throw up that violently or that often.
“Trust me, it's the chemo,” she said again. “I have a sheet that tells you what to expect. Would you like to read it?”
“Not really,” he said honestly, “I'll take your word for it.” And then, as though he were still trying to explain it, “You were never like this when you were pregnant.”
“I didn't have cancer, and I wasn't having chemotherapy,” she said dryly, still trying to recover from the onslaught. “Maybe that made a difference.”
“I think this is psychological. I really think you should call your doctor.”
“I did. She said this is unfortunate, but normal.”
“It doesn't seem normal to me.” He didn't want to understand it. He had complete denial.
In the end, they went to sleep, and when she awoke the next morning, she was nauseous again, but she didn't vomit. They both went to work normally, and she took Annabelle to school, which made her feel better. Every little step toward normalcy was a victory suddenly, and she managed to get through an entire morning at work without feeling sick or being distracted.
It was only that afternoon, working with Brock again, that her turkey sandwich got the better of her and she wound up back on her bathroom floor feeling like she was dying. He didn't hesitate to come in this time, and she was shocked to realize that he was holding her head and her shoulders while she vomited and she didn't even care. In fact, it was less frightening not to be alone and have him with her. She was ashamed for feeling that way, but when she lay against him afterwards, she looked up at him, wondering why he did it.
“You should have been a doctor.” She grinned foolishly at him. This was certainly one way to establish a friendship.
“I hate the sight of blood,” he confessed.
“But not the sight of vomit? What is it with you, you like women who throw up?”
“I love ‘em,” he laughed. “I ended a lot of dates like this in high school and college. I got pretty good at it. Things are supposed to be a little more sophisticated in New York, but maybe not, huh?”
“You're crazy,” she was still too weak to move, and they were sitting on her bathroom floor again, as she leaned against him. “But I'm beginning to like you.” It was kind of like being married. There was no embarrassment, just her need, and his willingness to fill it. For a moment, she wondered if God had sent her just the right friend at just the right moment.
And then Brock sounded more serious, when he spoke to her again. “My sister went through this.” He sounded very sad when he said it.
“Chemotherapy?” She sounded surprised, as though no one had ever been through it before her.
“Yeah. Breast cancer just like you. She almost gave up the treatment plenty of times. I was a junior in college, and I went home to take care of her. She was ten years older than I was.”
“Was?” Alex asked nervously, and he smiled.
“Is. She got through it. You'll get through it too. But you have to do the chemo, no matter how bad it gets, or how terrible it is, or how much you hate it. You've got to do it.”
“I know. It scares the hell out of me. Six months seems like forever.”
“It isn't,” he said, sounding older than he was. “Dead is forever.”
“I get it. Honest.”
“You can't screw around, Alex. You have to take the pills, no matter how sick they make you, and go for the treatments. I'll go with you if you want. I went with her. She hated them, and she was afraid of needles.”
“I can't say I loved it either, but it didn't seem so bad, until I started puking my brains out. But then again, it's one way to meet friends.” She smiled up at him and he grinned. He wasn't wearing his glasses and his tie was askew. He had a blond