He shoves the file into my hand, his disappointment unmistakable. ‘Discharge the woman.’
I know I have to follow his instructions. He’s the boss, and you don’t contradict the boss, least of all in a hospital. But until I have the test results, she’s not going anywhere.
Clutching the woman’s file to my chest, I say goodbye and leave the room. I’ve barely closed the door behind me when a furious kind of helplessness surges up inside me. Why doesn’t he believe me?
I really need to calm down.
Inhale.
The test results will show that I’m right.
Hold.
Then Dr. Franks will realize his mistake, but that is by far not the most important thing.
Exhale.
The patient will live because we recognized her illness early enough. She will laugh, love, dream, and follow her path. She will watch her children grow up, find great love, and decades from now look back with a smile on this life that was given to her. She will do all the things Lilly can no longer do.
The door in front of me is white, and in one spot right next to the handle the paint has chipped off. Darkness lurks in this patch and looks as if it might seize the entire door at any moment. The fact that I’m standing here as if I were set in concrete and can’t go in is ridiculous. My future is waiting behind this door, and it’s the only one I have. Besides, I know how inpatient chemotherapy works, I know every routine, every move, all the facts. Even so, my fingers are trembling and sweating at the same time, my breathing is shallow, my thoughts are racing. I grope for the extra-long earrings I’ve been wearing ever since I shaved my head and no longer have anything else to hold on to.
I take one last breath, then I step inside. My gaze first falls on the light colors on the wall, then on the cozy recliners lined up along the window front. If you only saw them, with the blankets and pillows laid out, you might think this was a wellness area.
But there are also IV stands, pumps, and emergency equipment. Nurses in blue uniforms, doctors checking that everything is in order.
Patients with partly bald, partly hairy heads, some of them emaciated and pale. On the recliner next to the floor-to-ceiling window sits a woman who looks to be about my age. She’swearing a colorful scarf on her head, her deep blue eyes find me, she gives me a friendly nod.
At that moment a nurse spots me. We take care of the paperwork, and when she then asks me to choose a free seat, I pick the one next to the woman with the colorful scarf.
‘Hi, I’m Lilly,’ she says as I sink onto the recliner. ‘Your first time?’
I nod. ‘Nyla, nice to meet you.’
She raises the back of her chair and turns toward me. A pendant flashes beneath the zipper of her hoodie. Delicate, silver, very simple—it’s her name. Lilly. Three small blossoms grow from the ends of the Y. A daisy, a snowdrop, a poppy.
‘That’s gorgeous.’ I point at the pendant.
She reaches for the chain, her bony fingers touching the metal lovingly. ‘It’s one of a kind, my own design.’
Very creative, to decorate the Y and not the dot on the i, which I’ve seen as a heart, a flower, or a sun so many times already. ‘Really pretty.’
The nurse inserts the IV line; I can feel it, but I don’t look.
‘Why are you here?’ Lilly’s fingertips play with the pendant.
‘Hodgkin lymphoma. And you?’
‘Same.’ She lifts her hand for a high five. ‘Then I guess we’re going to rock this together, huh?’
My hand meets hers, my gaze sticks to her face. Lilly’s cheeks are hollow, her skin pale. ‘Which cycle are you on?’
‘The sixth.’ For a moment her eyes turn watery, but she quickly blinks the tears away. ‘So I’m a pro—you can snag all the tips from me,’ she adds, giving me a wide smile.
‘How many do you have left?’
She lifts her shoulders, probably wanting to seem casual, but I can tell she isn’t. ‘The doctors are estimating nine, but that keeps changing.’
Nine cycles? Wow, that’s rough. I’m expected to have four.