X had his first meeting with Dr.C, his new oncologist. This would be the man that would help him conquer the disease in his body. The first meeting was grim. X’s father and J.J. were there when the doctor began to discuss his condition. He briefly covered what the protocol would consist of when he came to a comment that really had affected everyone in the room. X had asked what his chances were for recovery and survival.
The doctor said that he had a five percent chance of living.
He continued by saying that his proposed protocol was for a life extension of a few years.
Everyone in the room fell silent.
J.J. bowed her head. X’s dad looked out the window. X was stunned.
Momentarily X was living outside of his own reality. It must have been just a nightmare he thought.
Dr. C continued by saying something that X would never forget.
“The statistic says five percent of the people with your condition will survive. You are not a statistic. You are a person."
It was an important statement because X realised that each person is truly unique. There were so many different possibilities and factors that could’ve affected the situation. Too many conditions for the human mind to comprehend. X knew he had to believe that the protocol would work. He knew he had to believe in his health, his doctors, his family and God for the protocol to work, regardless of what the percentages said.
X received his first chemotherapy treatment that day. The nurse came into the room wearing rubber gloves and holding a bag of clear liquid. Crystal clear like the running water of the creek. Clear like the water in your body, but unlike this water, this fluid is infused to kill the unwelcome visitor. Unfortunately it also kills the body’s friends. X had been scheduled to be in the hospital for a five-day treatment program.
The day after he received his first bag of chemo, his hair had begun to fall out. It came out in large clumps. He’d awoken in the morning to find his pillow saturated with a toxic smelling sweat and clumps of fallen hair. X had run his fingers though his hair, pulling out hair without any force. Laying in bed with the itchy smelly mess was too much for him. He asked the nurse if someone could shave his head. Shortly afterward, an event coordinator for the kids came by with a big smile, an exuberance of energy and hair clippers. She asked again if he really wanted to do it. X told her to shave it. A few careful swoops over his head was all it took to take the last hair that X would ever know on his head. X felt his head. Just thin prickly fuzz remained.
Later on, X got out of bed. He had managed to find a way to drag his chemotherapy stand while walking on his crutches. He went into the bathroom and looked into the mirror for the first time since the day he’d broken his leg. He instantly cried. In one weeks time he’d gone from a strong, tall man with a full head of hair to a cancer patient. He looked into the mirror as the tears fell, noticing his shaved head, the swollen bandaged leg, his white face, the deep black circles under his eyes, an internal catheter in his chest attached to a bag of chemotherapy. Over and over he said to his reflection, “What is happening to me? What is happening to me?”
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