Cracks in the Sidewalk(76)

“This time I want you to stay here for three days,” she told Elizabeth. “We’ll need to run additional tests.”

That Friday Doctor Sorenson came into Elizabeth’s room carrying an armful of charts and X-ray films. Her solemn expression told everyone that something was terribly wrong.

Claire edged closer to Elizabeth. Doctor Sorenson nervously slid her eyeglasses back onto the bridge of her nose.

“Have the headaches been getting worse?” she asked.

Elizabeth nodded.

“Any vision problems? Pain in your back or legs?”

Elizabeth nodded again.

Claire was shocked. “Liz, why didn’t you say something about—”

“It wouldn’t have helped,” Doctor Sorenson interrupted. “The chemotherapy treatments are no longer working. Elizabeth’s tumor has become extremely aggressive and has almost doubled in size over the past four weeks.”

Claire gasped. “What can we do?”

“Unfortunately nothing. We’ve run out of options. There are no more miracle drugs. The only thing we’ve got left is possibly the power of prayer.”

Rebecca Sorenson took Elizabeth’s hand. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice cracking.

“Sorry?” Claire repeated, tears pooling in her eyes.

“What about increasing the chemotherapy treatments?” Elizabeth asked.

Doctor Sorenson reluctantly shook her head. “I’m afraid not. Your tumor has developed a resistance to the drugs, so they’re no longer effective against it. If we escalate the treatments it might actually stimulate the tumor’s growth, because cancer cells become more aggressive as they struggle against chemotherapy drugs.”

“What then?” Claire asked. “Does Liz just wait to die?”

“Knowing Elizabeth,” Doctor Sorenson answered, “I believe she’ll choose to live life to the fullest for whatever amount of time she has left.”

“And how long is that?” Elizabeth asked. “How long do I actually have?”

“There’s no way of telling. It could be months, a year, maybe two. It all depends on how rapidly the size of the tumor increases.”

After that there was nothing more to be said, but Doctor Sorenson did not hurry away. She stayed for nearly a half-hour assuring them that she would be there for whatever they needed. She told them she would make certain Elizabeth was kept comfortable and pain-free. Before leaving the doctor handed Claire two prescriptions.

“When the pills aren’t enough to control the pain, let me know,” she said. “I’ll arrange for a morphine drip.”

~

The Sunday before Valentine’s Day Elizabeth and the children pasted red hearts on lace doilies. They dunked heart-shaped cookies in strawberry milk and listened to a story about Gertrude and the Lost Valentine. Elizabeth hugged each of the children to her chest and said nothing about the pain, but once they left Charlie had to carry her to the bed.

That was the last day she played on the floor. As Doctor Sorenson promised, the pills eased the pain but also caused such drowsiness that Elizabeth often fell into a sleep that lingered through much of the day and night. Still determined to spend time with her children, she took the pills from Sunday afternoon through Saturday morning and turned them away on Saturday evening so that she might be alert when the children came to visit.

The following Sunday and each Sunday thereafter, the children visited in the bedroom. Christian curled into his mama’s lap and Kimberly cuddled so close that a breeze couldn’t pass between them. But David began positioning himself on the far side of the room, turning a deaf ear to his mother’s words as he played with Lincoln Logs and Tonka trucks.

Kimberly made up for David’s lack of enthusiasm. She begged and pleaded for story after story.

“Tell about when I was a baby,” Kimberly would say, snuggling closer.

The request lightened Elizabeth’s heart, and even on those days when pain shot through her head she would stretch her memory to recapture the minutest details of some special day. Each story was a gift for her children tied together with her ribbon of memories.

Time and again she tried to draw David into the group. “Do you want to hear about when you were a baby?” she’d ask. But he’d turn his attention to some toy and pretend not to have heard.

Such sullenness bothered Claire, and twice she confronted the boy.

“Do you hear your mother talking to you?”

The first time she received a halfhearted shrug. The second time David added another Lincoln Log to his fortress and then purposely knocked it over.

Although David claimed no part of the story-telling, Elizabeth still included tales of his childhood. Despite a feigned disinterest in the middle of one story David said, “Daddy was the one who bought me that rocking horse!” With that he shot an accusatory look at his mother.

No one could change David’s behavior, and week after week he grew more withdrawn and sullen. Several times Claire took him aside to ask what troubled him.

“Nothing,” he’d answer, then stand there with his eyes narrowed and an expression of distrust stretched across his face. The moment she paused for a breath, he’d slip away.

In the first week of April the temperature became milder, and Elizabeth asked her father to take her out in the wheelchair. For nearly an hour they traveled up one street and down another, past newly-greening lawns, potted tulips, and freshly-painted fences. But the warm day of sunshine and promise faded into a night with pain pounding through Elizabeth’s head and into her spine.