CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Jeff and I returned to Simon Cancer Center early on a Tuesday morning, just after Memorial Day weekend. Sunshine poured through the room’s plate glass while a different phlebotomist, this one female, used a syringe to fill vials with blood as Jeff lay on the chaise and stared at the ceiling. By now, his hair had thinned, and he weighed 155 pounds, twenty less than he had back in December when he visited Florida. His skin was pale, due to lack of outdoor activity, and his cheekbones seemed more prominent.

While we waited for Jeff’s lab results, Dr. Mashburn appeared, accompanied by ten or so medical students who didn’t look a whole lot older than me or Jeff. After shaking Jeff’s hand and mine, he introduced Jeff to the students before introducing me as Jeff’s partner.

“This is a teaching hospital,” Mashburn explained to Jeff, “and our students often accompany staff physicians on their rounds. With your permission, I’ll discuss your HL and describe your course of treatment.”

Jeff shrugged.

After Mashburn finished discussing Jeff’s situation, the doctor looked at Jeff.

“I should have your lab results shortly, and assuming they’re acceptable, we’ll begin your second cycle. I’ll be back later so we can talk. I want to hear how you’ve handled the ABVD so far.”

Mashburn charged off with his students in tow, while Jeff scowled.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Those kids stared at me like I was some kind of ghoul. This whole chemo thing’s making me look creepy.”

Twenty minutes passed before the phlebotomist returned to insert a catheter in Jeff’s forearm. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but this will cause substantial bruising, due to your low platelet count. It’s unavoidable, I’m afraid.”

Jeff made a face, just when Jennifer, the chemo nurse, appeared wheeling her pump with a bag of anti-nausea medication dangling from it. She greeted us with a smile before attaching the IV drip to Jeff’s catheter.

“Same procedure as before,” she told Jeff. “This’ll take a half hour, then you’ll infuse the ABVD.”

Mashburn returned, this time sans his student entourage. He studied Jeff’s chart for a minute or so before returning it to a hook on the wall. Then he stood at the foot of Jeff’s chaise while we talked.

“Tell me about the side effects from your first cycle. How bad have they been?”

“Pretty awful. The nausea hit me right away, then the diarrhea. I’ve dropped weight and don’t have much energy. As you can see, I’m starting to lose my hair, and I have a nice collection of bruises on my limbs. It seems every day I earn myself another one.”

Mashburn pursed his lips. “You’re avoiding restaurant food?”

Jeff nodded.

“Any fevers?”

“Not so far.”

“I’m concerned about your weight loss. I know food tastes terrible right now, but I want you to drink a few protein shakes, every day. You’ll find them at the drug store.”

I glanced here and there before lowering my voice.

“A friend gave us some marijuana; it controls Jeff’s nausea pretty well.”

Mashburn winked at me. “By law I can’t recommend Jeff use it, but if the weed helps, I won’t tell you to stop.”

It wasn’t long before Jennifer returned in her “hazmat” outfit, carrying a bag of ABVD she connected to Jeff’s catheter and to the pump beside Jeff’s bed.

“Feeling okay?” she asked him.

“Oh, just peachy, Jennifer—never better.”

I handed Jeff his Grisham novel, and I read To Kill a Mockingbird while the red liquid on the pole slowly dripped into Jeff’s vein. Nearly every chaise in the chemo center was occupied by a patient, many of whom I recognized from Jeff’s previous cycle. Some looked okay, but most appeared like pale scarecrows.

Forty-five maddening minutes passed, and I might have read three pages from Harper Lee’s novel. I simply couldn’t concentrate, knowing the poison was coursing through Jeff’s body, and dreading what lay ahead in the next hours and days.

As soon as the ABVD drip bag emptied, Jennifer detached the tube and removed Jeff’s catheter. Already, the back of his hand and the lower part of his forearm had purpled, and while we walked to the parking garage, Jeff examined the bruising.

“Jesus Christ, I look like I was in a car wreck.”

Before we left the garage, Jeff pulled a joint and butane lighter from the Impala’s glove box and lit up. Thankfully, he didn’t get sick to his stomach during the drive home, and we decided we would give Tyler money for more weed the next time we saw him.

Once we reached the Brucellis’, Jeff headed for the bathroom while I heated up a can of soup and assembled a turkey sandwich in the kitchen. But when I offered Jeff lunch, he shook his head before undressing and climbing into bed.

“I’m feeling weak. Just let me sleep, okay?”

Of course, both Mario and Catherine phoned me to see how things had gone, and after I explained the morning’s course of events to both of them, I sat at the kitchen table, sipping soup and staring out of the window above the sink. The day had warmed up, the sun shone, and I decided to spend some time outdoors.

After I finished my lunch, I checked on Jeff and found him asleep. I ran my fingers through his hair and kissed him on the cheek, but didn’t wake him. Instead, I eased his bedroom door shut. In my room, I changed into gym shorts, a T-shirt, and sneakers. I grabbed a backpack and my cell phone and wheeled Jeff’s Schwinn bicycle out of the garage. Then I cruised through the neighborhood, enjoying the sunshine on my shoulders.

I pedaled downtown to visit the Peru Public Library on Main Street, an impressive stone structure with an arched entryway, built in the early 1900s. Inside, the place was as quiet as an empty church, and not many people were present, just a staffer and a few older folks who sat at computer stations. I had Mario’s library card with me, and once I found the Fiction section, I picked out three books: Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five, The Catcher in the Rye by J. D. Salinger, and Wonder Boys by Michael Chabon.

At the checkout counter, a silver-haired man with skin as pale as cake flour scanned my books. “I read The Catcher in the Rye in high school,” he said. “It was quite controversial at the time, with the salty language and all. But I doubt it is today.”

“I read it during high school, too, and didn’t really like the book—I found it depressing—but now I think I’ll give it another try.”

The man handed me back the books and library card.

“I know Mario Brucelli; he teaches my grandson’s shop class. Mind if I ask why you have his card?”

After I explained, the old guy pursed his lips and shook his head. “I’m sorry to hear about Jeff. How’s he feeling?”

“Not too well. He just went through his second chemotherapy cycle, and it’s left him weak.”

The man nodded. “My daughter was treated for breast cancer, about ten years ago. The chemo darned near killed her. She looked like a hobgoblin, and of course all her hair fell out. She wore a wig for a few months as I recall.”

“Is she okay now?”

He lowered his gaze and rubbed his lips together. “I’m afraid we lost Paula; God rest her soul.”

Shit…

Back at the Brucellis’ house, Jeff still slept, so I brewed a cup of coffee and read Holden Caulfield’s rambling narration about his troubles at Pencey Prep. I found Salinger’s writing style mildly irritating, like I was stuck in a room with a snotty teenager who wouldn’t ever shut up, but decided to stick with the book. What better did I have to do with my time?

Jeff finally woke around 3:00 p.m., and he joined me on the living room sofa. He wore sleep pants, a T-shirt, and house slippers. His hair was in tangles, his face pale, but when I asked how he felt, he shrugged.

“I have the shits again, but my stomach’s calm at least. I may have a few more hits off that joint before my folks get home.”

I scooted over to Jeff’s side of the sofa and put my arm across his shoulders. Then I kissed his cheek. Jeff turned his face toward me, and we snogged like two kids in the back seat of a car.

I reached between Jeff’s legs to caress his erection. “Wish I could pleasure you with my mouth,” I said.

“You know the rules—no swapping fluids for a few days—but at least I can still get a stiffy, and that’s something to be grateful for.”

We kissed again, and I thought of the first time Jeff had penetrated me, when both of us were sheltered by my tent on the banks of the Peace River. I recalled how thrilling the experience was, and how satisfied I had been afterward, and now I longed to experience those emotions again. I considered asking Jeff to bone me using a condom, as suggested in his patient brochure, but I knew he was tired from the chemo cycle, and asking him to perform at that level might not be good for him.

“Just think,” I said. “when you’re healthy again and we’re both in Tallahassee, we can do all the outdoor activities we love most. And every night, we’ll fall asleep in each other’s arms. It’ll be amazing.”

“You know,” Jeff said, “my radiation therapy lasts seven weeks. I won’t be able to leave Peru until late October at the earliest, and what’ll you do when fall semester starts in August?”

“I’ll take a leave of absence and stay in Peru. We can move to Tallahassee once you’re done with your treatments and feeling okay again.”

“I doubt your dad will be too happy about that.”

I shrugged. “I’m not leaving here without you, so it’s not up for discussion.”

Jeff chuckled.

“What is it?” I asked.

“You’re a persistent bastard, aren’t you?”

I rearranged my limbs and fixed my gaze on Jeff’s.

“I wasn’t always. For the longest time, I accepted whatever life tossed my way, but not anymore. I won’t let your cancer steal what we have between us—I couldn’t stand losing you. So, if I have to miss fall semester, I will.”

*

On Thursday morning, two days after Jeff’s second chemo cycle, I woke to the sound of him vomiting. I found him squatting on the bathroom floor with his head hanging over the toilet bowl.

“Hey,” I whispered, “are you okay?”

When Jeff looked up at me, his face was light green in color, his eyes bloodshot. He resembled a zombie in a horror film, but I did my best not to let him know how ghastly he appeared. He spat twice into the toilet and then flushed.

“Get me a bottle of cold water, will you?”

In the kitchen, Mario looked up from his newspaper to say good morning. The room smelled of freshly brewed coffee and fried bacon, but after what I’d just seen in the bathroom, the thought of eating breakfast made my guts churn.

“Jeff’s sick to his stomach,” I said.

Mario put down his paper. “Should I check on him?”

I shook my head. “He’s a mess right now, and would only feel worse if you saw how bad he looks. Let me get him cleaned up first, then you can stop by his room before you leave for work. Give us twenty minutes.”

Mario didn’t argue with me.

Back in the bathroom, I turned on the shower and pulled Jeff to his feet. “Let’s bathe; you’ll feel better when you get yourself clean.”

After he drank some water, Jeff slipped out of his underwear and climbed over the tub’s rim, while I kept a firm grip on his upper arm so he wouldn’t fall. Then we stood under the warm flow of water, and I soaped Jeff’s limbs with a washcloth. He swayed while I scrubbed his armpits, buttocks, and back, but at least his eyes looked somewhat normal now, and the greenness in his face had faded.

“I guess the effect of the weed I smoked last night must’ve worn off,” he said while I shampooed his hair and scrubbed his scalp with my fingertips. “My stomach was so jittery I barely made it in here.”

When I looked down at the tub’s floor, strands of Jeff’s hair glided across the porcelain and cruised toward the drain.

Minutes later, Jeff wore sleep pants and a fresh T-shirt, and his hair was neatly combed. He sat up in bed when Mario knocked on the door jamb, and even did his best to smile.

“Hey, Dad.”

Mario sat on the mattress beside Jeff. He was dressed in a Dickies work shirt and matching pants, along with steel-toed boots, and he smelled of aftershave lotion. He patted Jeff’s thigh through the blanket.

“I understand your stomach’s upset this morning?”

Jeff nodded. “But I’m feeling better now that I showered. Jakub’s taking care of me, so everything’s okay.”

Mario glanced at me and smiled before returning his gaze to Jeff. “You’re lucky to have Jakub around. In fact, we’re all fortunate he’s here.”

“Does Mom feel that way?”

Mario drew a breath. “Your mother’s having a tough time dealing with the fact you’re seriously ill, so accepting Jakub into our family right now is difficult for her. Try to be patient.”

“Jesus, Dad. Not only is Jakub taking care of me around the clock, he’s helping with the daily chores and the yard. Hell, he’s even painting the goddamned house; what more does she want?”

Mario gazed into his lap. “You have to understand; our archdiocese considers homosexual activity a sin.”

Jeff scowled and shook his head. “She’s not being fair to Jakub or me. I’m keeping up my end of the bargain we made. I go to Sunday mass with you and Mom. Jakub and I only get affectionate in private, at least when we’re in Peru, and we sleep in separate bedrooms. In return, Mom needs to accept us for who we are.”

“I’m working on it,” Mario said, rising to his feet. “Anything I can do for you before I leave for work?”

Jeff shook his head. “Jakub has everything under control.”