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“How’s your daughter doing?”
I’m sitting in the cafeteria with Eliot. It’s been another long day, and it’s already past nine. Eliot just got off work, and we’re sharing a late dinner.
“I thought she was getting better, but it looks like she’s had some setbacks.”
He frowns. I can’t believe this put-together, handsome MD is Smelly Elly, the boy I tormented so badly back in Massachusetts. “What’s going on?” he asks with more compassion in his voice than I’ve heard from anyone other than Dr. Bell back in Orchard Grove.
“Well, she had something like a seizure last night. It stopped by the time they got her hooked up to the EEGs, but she was doing that foot pedaling thing and stuff. The doctors think it was from the fever.”
He nods. It’s nice talking to someone from a medical background who isn’t officially Natalie’s doctor. “How’s her temperature been?”
“They got it as low as 101 yesterday, but it’s been climbing up since then. It’s been around 103 most of the day. Not too bad, but ...” My voice trails off. Eliot’s a doctor. He can fill in the blanks.
“So it’s pneumonia she’s got?” he asks.
“Not exactly.” I try to remember the word the nurse used. “They said it’s something a little different, roaming something ... adenectomy ...”
“Roving atelectasis?”
I nod, thankful I no longer have to flounder. “That’s it. I don’t even know what it is. I just know it’s different than pneumonia.”
“In a way.” He goes off into some long explanation but stops when he realizes I’m completely lost. “Basically, it means her lung function is compromised.”
“Yeah. I got that part.”
He sighs. “You’ve been through so much. I’m sure you’re ready for a break by now.”
I don’t tell him what I’m really thinking. That I won’t get a break from taking care of Natalie until she’s dead. This is my life from now on. I can see it so clearly, for as long as she lives. Hospital stays. Ambulance rides. Medevac jets. Freaking out over every single fever, every single drop in O2. Could I use a break? God knows I need one. But since that’s not going to happen as long as my child’s still breathing, I guess I’m resigned to this kind of existence. Some women are soccer moms. Others have kids with special needs.
“Tell me something about yourself,” I say. It’s kind of late to be having dinner, but here we are, me with my burger and fries and Eliot with his huge no-cheese Caesar salad.
Eliot’s always had a nice smile. Soft eyes. I think that might be why I was so hard on him when we were kids. He took everything to heart, which made him such an easy victim. He refuses to let me apologize to him anymore, but I still feel bad for what I put him through. “What do you want to know?”
I grin. “Any girls?” My smile vanishes when I watch the pain darken his entire countenance. Good one, Tiff. “Or, you know, pets or anything?” I add.
He shakes his head slowly. “I was engaged a few years ago. You might remember her, actually. Amy Matthews? She was a grade behind me in school.”
The name means nothing to me, but I see how vulnerable he looks and wish to God I hadn’t brought this up. “I’m not sure if I knew her.”
“You’d remember her if you did. She was ...” He’s staring at his half-eaten salad. Why did I open my big mouth? “She was studying to teach kindergarten when she ...” He takes a sip of his bottled water. “She came down with ovarian cancer. Had spread too far by the time they caught it.”
I should have known. There was something quiet, something sad about Eliot I noticed from the moment we bumped into each other in that cafeteria line. I thought it had to do with all the drama he went through as a foster kid. How could I have been so blind? I need to take lessons from Sandy or something. She’s always so kind and comforting, and here I am sticking my foot in my mouth five minutes into our conversation. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He’s smiling again, but it’s like I can feel the heaviness weighing down on his shoulders.
I don’t know what I’m supposed to do next. Am I supposed to ask him what happened? Ask if she ever recovered, even though the answer’s already pretty obvious? I can’t just change the subject. How rude would that be?
“So did she ... I mean, is she ...” My face is hot from self-loathing.
“She passed away. Three years ago Christmas Day.”
“Christmas Day?” What were you thinking, God? Eliot’s not the type of guy to deserve any of this.
“Yeah.” He lets out a sad chuckle. “She wanted to make it to New Year’s Eve. Wanted to watch the ball drop ...”
“Is that why you went into oncology?”
My question seems to surprise him, like he was so lost in his memories he’d forgotten what we were talking about.
“Oncology?” he repeats, like he’s testing the word out for the first time. “Yeah, you could say that. Before she died, she wanted me to promise her I’d keep up with my studies. Wanted me to help others like her.”
I can’t imagine how hard it would be work your butt off at a job where you’re dealing with folks sick and dying from the same disease that killed your fiancée. Why did I ever bring up such a depressing subject?
“I think another reason I went into the field is because I saw how much of her life was stripped away at the end. The chemo. Everything like that. I found myself asking if it was really worth it. She was in so much pain. And all that did was extend her suffering a few more months.” He sighs. “There’s so many things wrong with today’s medical field. I just wonder ...”
His voice trails off. I’ve lost my appetite.
“She loved kids,” he’s saying, and I’m smart enough to let him talk and let go of whatever’s on his chest. “That’s why she chose kindergarten. She’d just gotten her first classroom of her own when she got diagnosed. Had to quit. Doctors told her she couldn’t be around all those germs. Sometimes I wonder ...” He takes a noisy gulp from his glass jar full of lemon-infused water. “I know it was the right call. Medically, I mean. But sometimes I think if she’d been able to stay in the classroom, she might have stayed healthier. Or at least happier. Had more to live for, you know?”
“She had you,” I remind him even though it sounds cheesy.
Eliot doesn’t respond. Something beeps in his pocket. He pulls out a pager. “I’ve got to go.”
“Everything ok?”
“Yeah, just a patient I’ve been ...” He mumbles the rest of his sentence and snatches up his tray. “Nice talking with you.”
“You, too.” I can tell he’s in a hurry, but I feel like it would be cruel to let the conversation end like this. I grab his wrist. Gently. Just enough to get his attention. “I’m really sorry.”
He smiles. His eyes are so kind and deep I could get lost in them for weeks. “Thank you,” he says. As I watch him leave, I wonder how many of Natalie’s doctors and nurses have horribly tragic stories like his in their pasts. And I wonder if I’ll be stuck here at Children’s long enough to learn each and every one.