I took a deep breath. The simple act of standing felt like a marathon. My hips ached, the dull throb of bone against the hard institutional chair reminding me of how much of "me" had already vanished. My body was becoming a stranger, the padding of my youth replaced by sharp angles and a fragile, paper thin reality.
"Sorry," I whispered, clutching my bag . "I was just... I was hoping for better news. Something I could actually use."
"So was I, Amanda. Believe me," Dr. Robertson replied. Her voice was soft, but the finality in it was deafening. She opened a mahogany drawer and pulled out a glossy brochure. The paper was thick, expensive, and bore the serene image of a sunset over a calm lake. "This is an excellent hospice program. Your student insurance will cover all the costs beyond the deductible. There are specialists there, wonderful people who will be happy to help you navigate this transition."
It took every ounce of my remaining will to reach out and take that shiny trifold of cardstock. To me, it wasn't a brochure; it was a pamphlet for the afterlife. I squeezed it a little too hard, the edges crinkling under my thumb, a jagged crease ruining the perfect sunset.
"Thank you," I heard myself say. The words sounded hollow.
"I can, of course, continue to treat you," she added, her professional armor sliding back into place. "Addressing symptoms as they arise, infections, pain management, making sure you're as comfortable as possible for as long as possible. I am happy to remain your primary physician. But I cannot lie to you, Amanda. I cannot slow the progress of the leukemia anymore."
The oncologist hesitated then, her gaze shifting toward the window where the gray Cleveland sky looked heavy with impending snow. "There is... one other possibility. A chance in thousands. A specialist who operates outside our standard network. If it works..." She trailed off, cocking her head sideways as if she were weighing my soul on a scale. She gave a shrug so small, so infinitesimal, that I almost thought I'd imagined it. "Anyway, here is a card. You can hear him out, at least. Decide for yourself if the risk is worth the potential reward."
She extended a small, linen-colored business card. It felt heavy, much heavier than a piece of paper should be. It had a discreet black border, sharp and funereal. On it, there was no name, no clinic title, no list of degrees. Just a simple phone number, inscribed in elegant copperplate script right in the center. It looked less like a medical referral and more like an invitation to a secret society.
"Thank you," I repeated, my thumb tracing the raised ink of the numbers.
"I've already filled out the formal hospice referral," Dr. Robertson said, her voice returning to its steady, clinical rhythm. "All you need to do is give the facility a call, if that's what you decide. Or... the other number. He's expecting your call, too."
"Yeah," I said, my throat tightening until it felt like I was swallowing glass. "Goodbye, Dr. Robertson."
"Bye, Amanda. Try to enjoy your Christmas," she said with a reflexive, practiced pleasantry that stung worse than a slap.
"Yeah," I breathed. I shoved the hospice brochure and the mysterious card into my jacket pocket, my fingers lingering on the linen texture of the latter. I turned and stumbled from the office, the air in the hallway suddenly feeling too thin to breathe.
The carpeted corridors of the professional wing were a blur of activity. Brisk nurses in colorful scrubs and squeaky plastic clogs hurried past me, their faces full of a purpose I no longer possessed. I hated them in that moment, I hated their health, their long shifts, their complaints about being tired. What I wouldn't give to be tired for a reason other than dying.
I lowered my head, my hair falling forward like a curtain to hide the hot, angry tears prickling my lids. I measured the distance from Oncology to the nearest exit in my mind, a map of escape. Keep it together for just a few seconds more, Amanda. You're almost there, I hissed to myself.
I blew past the bank of elevators, unable to stand the thought of being trapped in a metal box with healthy people and their small talk. I burst through the heavy fire door into the stairwell, the sound of the door clanging shut behind me sounding like a cell door locking. I forced my tired, trembling legs to keep up as I flung myself down the stairs, the cold concrete steps vibrating under my feet.
At the bottom, I ducked out a side service door and into the biting winter air. I found myself in a small, semi-concealed alcove between two towering wings of the hospital. The brick was cold and damp, smelling of old rain and exhaust. No one could see me here. I was finally alone.
The strength I had been feigning evaporated instantly. I let my legs give out, my knees hitting the sidewalk with a dull thud. I sank against the institutional brick, the rough surface scratching through my jacket. I sat there in the dirt, half gasping and half sobbing, the weight of the five month sentence finally crushing the air out of my chest.