Lilly
Closing my laptop, I sigh with frustration. I can’t concentrate on my work and I’m afraid I might mess something up since my head’s not fully in the deli game. At least my dad is spending a few hours there this morning so he can check on things.
We’ve settled into a workable routine this week. I stay at the hospital during the day with Aiden and work on deli business. My dad comes at dinnertime and we all eat together. I’ll stay for a few more hours to hang with my family, then I go home to sleep. Dad stays all night with Aiden, claiming the recliner is quite comfortable, but I don’t agree with that sentiment.
In the early morning, he leaves to go open the deli so Georgie can come in at his normal time again. Dad stays for a few hours and then leaves the restaurant in Georgie’s capable hands so he can go to his outpatient rehab program. He attends a ninety-minute counseling session three times a week and he sometimes catches AA meetings at the hospital. When needed, Dad will go back and help out at the deli, but at least three times a week he’s committed to working out at the local Y and I love to see him taking his health so seriously.
I was truthfully concerned that a return to life with a busy restaurant and very sick son would immediately be too much, but on the contrary. I think keeping him busy has been good for his soul.
It’s not my dad preventing my mind from focusing though. It’s the young boy sleeping in the hospital bed beside me. Leaning forward in my chair, I cross my forearms on the rail and rest my chin there. I stare at Aiden as he slumbers, his chest rising and falling so gently, sometimes I can’t even see it move.
Aiden had a small cough when I arrived and coupled with the fever, I’m beyond concerned. I demanded his nurse page Dr. Yoffe to come see him. I have no clue if Dr. Yoffe is even on rounds duty this morning, and I don’t care. I want to talk to him and not any of the other oncologists as he’s the one Aiden and I are closest to. He gives it to us straight but with such an air of calm, you can’t help but have hope, even in dire times.
It didn’t help any that Aiden wasn’t hungry and wouldn’t eat his breakfast. He said he was too tired and just wanted to sleep and that had me in a near panic. If there’s one thing that rebounded the fastest after his transplant, it was his appetite. To me, a healthy eater is a healthy person, and the minute he didn’t want food this morning, I became convinced everything was imploding.
There’s a soft knock on his door and I lift my head to see Dr. Yoffe walk in along with a female doctor I don’t recognize.
I scramble to my feet, glancing over to see that Aiden is softly snoring and not roused at all by the visitors. Dr. Yoffe’s kind brown eyes glance at my brother and then he nods toward the door, indicating for me to follow them back out.
When I step into the hallway, Dr. Yoffe introduces me to Dr. Simbiglia. “She’s a pulmonologist I’ve asked to consult on Aiden’s case.”
“Because of the cough?” I ask.
Dr. Simbiglia nods. “His X-rays show some nodular opacities in the upper lobes that could suggest a fungal infection. I want to do a bronchoscopy to take a sample so we can confirm that, and also to get a better look at his lungs.”
I cross my arms over my belly. “Is that a surgery or something?”
“He’ll have a mild sedative and be awake during the procedure, although he probably won’t remember much of it. He might have a sore throat after but otherwise, it’s not too terrible.”
My gaze moves to Dr. Yoffe. “And what does this all mean?”
“It means with the fever, cough and X-ray, we suspect an infection. We did blood cultures that aren’t showing any known bacteria, so we think it’s fungal. This will confirm it and then we’ll know exactly what to treat him with.”
“But it can be treated,” I press, not even caring that there’s a slight hysterical rise in my tone.
Dr. Simbiglia answers, “There are some very good drugs out there but the problem is that Aiden’s already immunocompromised since his white blood cell counts are still quite low following the transplant.”
“Let’s not let ourselves worry just yet,” Dr. Yoffe says, patting my shoulder gently. “Let’s confirm what it is first and get him started on the right medications, okay?”
I nod, because really… what else can I do?
“We want to examine Aiden, so we’re going to need to wake him up.” Dr. Yoffe moves past me into the room with Dr. Simbiglia motioning for me to precede her. Stepping to the side of the bed, he pats Aiden on the shoulder. “Hey buddy… your favorite doctor is here.”
Aiden’s forehead wrinkles but then his eyes open slowly. “Hey.”
“Mind if I listen to your chest?”
I watch as Aiden sits up straighter in the bed and Dr. Yoffe listens with his stethoscope. He then introduces Dr. Simbiglia who also listens, but her face doesn’t reveal a thing.
“We need to do a test on you, Aiden,” Dr. Yoffe says. Even though he isn’t the one who will be performing it and it’s not his specialty, he’s Aiden’s primary doctor and the one he trusts the most.
With calm, reassuring words, Dr. Yoffe explains the procedure and Aiden asks questions. I can see on his face he’s scared. You’d think a boy who’s had his bones drilled into to extract marrow could handle anything, but he’s still just a kid.
I move to the side of the bed, take his hand and give him a reassuring smile. “Piece of cake. Dr. Simbiglia said you probably won’t even remember the procedure.”
Aiden swallows hard and nods, followed by a slight coughing fit. I pull my hand free of his so he can’t feel my tremble of worry and move to get him a cup of water.
“When will we do this?” Aiden asks.
“I’ll put the order in now,” Dr. Simbiglia says with a wink. “We want to get some good medicine in you, so no sense in waiting, right?”
Another nod. This time he smiles bravely.
The doctors make their goodbyes after promises to deliver the results as soon as they get them. When we’re alone, Aiden asks, “On a scale of one to ten, how worried are you?”
“Pfft,” I say with a wave of my hand. “Maybe a two. Okay, if I’m honest… two point five at the most.”
Aiden laughs and that starts him coughing more. I reach over and hand him the water, insisting he take a drink.
“How do you feel?” I ask after he swallows a few sips.
“Really tired,” he says. “But Dad and I stayed up late last night talking, so I think that’s all it is.”
I don’t buy that for a second. I watched the way he was sleeping this morning and it wasn’t just a nap to catch up on a few missed hours. He was under hard and heavy.
“Well, go back to sleep. I’ve got some work to do but I’ll probably go down for a coffee first. Want anything?”
Aiden shakes his head, burrowing back under the covers. I start to turn away but he says, “I don’t think we should tell Dad about this test.”
I spin back toward him. “Why not?”
“It might cause him to drink again.” He flushes with what I think might be a bit of guilt for his lack of confidence in our father.
Moving back to the bedside, I sit in the chair and reach over the rail for his hand again. “Aiden… it’s not our responsibility to keep Dad from drinking. That’s all on him. He has to learn to deal with tough times and he has the necessary tools to do it. We have to let him try, and we have to be ready for him to fail. He might fail, actually. But we can’t hide things from him. That wouldn’t be fair to him or even us. Make sense?”
“Yeah,” he says dejectedly. “I just don’t want you to have to deal with Dad getting drunk and me getting sicker—”
“You’re not getting sicker,” I say heatedly, squeezing his hand. “You’ve got a little cough and fever. It’s probably just a cold. You’ve been doing so well and getting so strong. This is nothing.”
“Really?” he asks, all his fears playing out in that one hopeful word.
“Absolutely. One more test to add to your repertoire of things you can use to impress the girls when you go back to school. A few new medications and you’ll be as right as rain.”
Aiden sighs with relief. “I was worried. I mean… I don’t feel good, and they’re doing tests, so…”
“Did Dr. Yoffe seem worried?” I ask, which is kind of a misleading question. Dr. Yoffe always projects calm. Even when he was giving us the grim odds of a transplant succeeding, he radiated an air of optimism and hope because he’d seen many successes in his career and Aiden was no different from any of those kids.
Aiden shakes his head, plucking thoughtfully at his blanket. “So you’re going to tell Dad and Boone what’s going on?”
“I’m most definitely telling Dad and in fact, I’ll call him when I go down to get coffee. But I don’t know when I’ll tell Boone.”
“Because he’s away in New Jersey and is focused on the playoffs,” Aiden concludes. “Don’t want to mess up his mojo, especially since they lost last night.”
“No, silly,” I drawl, standing up and rubbing the short, fuzzy hairs sprouting from his scalp. “Because there’s nothing to tell. Nothing to worry about. Simple little test that’s being done just so they know the correct drugs to give you. Why even bother him with something so inconsequential, right?”
“Totally,” Aiden agrees.
Although in truth, none of this feels inconsequential. It seems overwhelming and I’ll update Boone after I get the results from the bronchoscopy. No sense adding anything to his already full plate until I have more details, especially since they lost game three last night. It was not pretty and when I talked to Boone for a few minutes after he got back to the hotel, it was the first time I’d heard him stressed over his job. He was tired and frustrated and all I could do was sympathize with him. Sadly, I’m not sure I did a good job of it since I don’t have a great handle on what the playoffs really mean to this team. Hockey is still very new to me and I’ve been so preoccupied with Aiden that I feel like I’m constantly playing catch-up with Boone.
Regardless, I will be true to him and honor his request to keep him in the loop, and I’ll just have to eat the guilt I’ll feel by potentially messing up his head while he’s in the middle of the playoffs.