What's Left of Me

Parker groans when I pull his tongue into my mouth and start to suck on it. I remember he really liked it when I did that. His hands leave my waist and head. Before I know what’s happening, he’s standing and turning me so that my back ends up flat against his desk moving his hand under my shirt, brushing my skin with his fingertips until his hand reaches my breast. He cups it with his hand, squeezing it hard and causing me to let out a soft cry.

I feel the tingle of his whiskers brushing against my neck as he trails light kisses from my ear down to my collarbone.

“God, Aundrea. You smell so good. Like … sweet pears.”

I can’t help the moan that escapes my mouth as his hand slides into my bra, pinching my nipple. As if that’s his cue, he roughly brings his mouth back to mine.

The ache between my legs meets the hardness between his. There isn’t anything I want more than to feel him inside me. I lift my legs up and start to wrap them around his waist, needing to be closer to him. He reaches back and grabs my legs, securing me tightly to him.

“I want you so bad. Right now, Aundrea. Right. Fucking. Now.”

His words break the hazy cloud clogging my brain, and I muffle his name between our locked lips. My voice comes out raspy, begging rather than getting his attention to stop. Breaking the kiss, I grab Parker’s hand still squeezing my breast.

“Parker,” I say firmly. He doesn’t hear me, or just ignores me and moves his face into the crook of my neck, kissing me more. The stubble from his facial hair sends shivers down my spine.

“Parker,” I say a little louder this time, followed by a push to his chest. “We need to stop.”

Parker stops kissing me at the word stop and slowly stands up, panting as he releases my legs.

I stand up, fixing my shirt and running my fingers through my hair. “You said you wouldn’t make a move after I agreed.”

“Yes. After you agreed. I didn’t want you to agree yet, so I could do that.”

I don’t speak. I just stand there in front of him, panting for air and trying to calm myself after that kiss.

With two large strides, he’s right in front of me. He moves a piece of my hair off my face, reminding me of our dance the night we met.

“What do you say, Aundrea? Will you work here? With me?” he whispers at my mouth.

I’ll say anything you want. “Yes.”

I can’t believe I’ve just agreed to this.

“It’ll be fun,” he says with a wink.

Fuck.

When Genna and I make our way into the Mayo Clinic, she talks about running to the store to pick up some juice and crackers for me. I don’t pay her much attention. I just keep saying yes.

I get seated in a big, blue, cloth chair after my check-up with one of the oncologists. The nurse asks me to verify my full name, date of birth, and allergies.

“Aundrea Leigh McCall. March 14,1992. No allergies that I’m aware of.”

She explains the drugs I’ll be getting and to expect my first round to last three hours. I don’t know why they tell me the names because I’ll never remember. They’re these long names that I could never pronounce correctly. I don’t even know if the nurse pronounces them correctly or if she just sounds smart.

Normally the nurse applies a topical numbing cream over the port so that when they put the needle through the skin I won’t feel it, but I don’t have her apply it. The pain of a needle stick is nothing. Not after having a needle the size of my forearm shoved into my pelvic bone to take out my bone marrow cells! Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating a little, but the needle was seriously long!

After I’m hooked up and the drugs are flowing, I try to sit back and close my eyes. Relax a little.

When you get chemo, the offices usually have a light side and a dark side. One half is where patients can sleep or rest, and the other half is where they can read or talk to other patients.

I choose the lighter side. I can’t rest after my encounter with Parker. My body is still quivering from his touch, and as much as I try to come down from my Parker high, I can’t stop smiling. His parting words, “It’ll be fun,” won’t leave my mind. There is no doubt that working in the same space as him will be anything less than fun.

I’m still trying to get over the fact that I let him practically take me on his desk like that. What the hell is wrong with me? When he is near me, I’m no longer myself. I swear, he has some type of power over me. Okay, now my fictional life is becoming a part of my reality. Great! This is why my mom always tells me not to get so caught up in my books. Soon you won’t be able to tell what’s real and what’s not because you’ll just be living in that head of yours!

An hour later, the smile is finally wiped off my face as I reach for the trashcan and start to throw up. The nurse makes her way over to me and gives me something through my IV.

“There you go, honey. I gave you something for nausea. That should help.”

I try to say thank you, but the heaving won’t stop.

Normally the getting sick part doesn’t happen until that night or the next day. Why it’s happening now, I have no clue. Maybe it’s the higher dosage of drugs. Maybe it’s my nerves kicking in. I’m not sure.

After a short while, I stop throwing up just in time for Genna to show up.

“How are you doing?” She sits in the chair next to me, pulling out some crackers and apple juice and handing them to me.

Well, let’s see! I have tubes going into my body that are hooked up to a machine pumping toxins into me to kill off cells, all while being completely nauseated. Yup, I’m fantastic. Pull out the tea and cookies. Let’s have a party!

“I’ve had better days.”

“I’m sorry. The nurse said you threw up already?”

“Yeah, I think it was just because I didn’t have breakfast.”

Even though I’ve been through this before, a part of me can’t help but be scared. It’s the unknown. I don’t know what to expect this time. My oncologist, Dr. Olson, has tried to prepare me for this round of chemo, explaining that because it’s a higher dose I’ll be sicker than I’ve been before. The good news—yes, there’s good news in all of this—is it should only last a week; maybe a little over. Then I’ll feel fine until my next round. So, basically, I’ll have chemo, be sick for a week, have a week of feeling okay, and then have chemo again. Oh, and that’s all if it goes according to Dr. Olson’s plan.

After just over three hours, I finally leave the clinic. The nurse sends me home with a few puke bags. I wish there was a better word for puking than vomiting or throwing up. Nothing sounds good. But, then again, it’s not supposed to. It’s an ugly word to describe a disgusting action.

I'm given another Zofran and a prescription for it before I go home. It’s an anti-nausea medication that dissolves under my tongue, but it’s not working.

I throw up the entire drive home. Genna offers comforting words while rubbing circles on my arm. Normally, having someone touch me while I’m sick is annoying, but in this case I don’t mind.

Jason meets us outside when Genna pulls in. I’m guessing she called him at some point, and he decided to leave work. He opens my door and helps me out of the car with one arm around my waist. His other hand holds a larger bucket for me as I slowly walk into the house, stopping once to dry heave. My head is spinning and my abdominal muscles hurt badly from being clenched so tightly.

After Jason helps me onto the couch, Genna comes over with a large water bottle and soda crackers. I know I need to eat and drink something. The worst feeling is dry heaving. No one likes it. Hell, no one likes being sick either. And nothing is worse than being sick where nothing comes out except for nasty green stomach acid.

The rest of the day and evening pass by slowly. I throw up every fifteen minutes, or at least it feels like it. Genna keeps wiping my face with a cold washcloth, and Jason refills my ice water when needed. Neither leave my side all night. When I’m puking my guts out, someone is right there rubbing my back. When I get a side ache or neck cramp from being curled in the fetal position, one of them is right there rubbing the ache away.

I hate people taking care of me.

I hate feeling helpless.

I hate feeling lifeless.

But right now, I’m more than grateful for these two. And, as much as my muscles ache, and as exhausted as I am …

I refuse to give in.

I refuse to back down.

I refuse to submit.

I refuse to cry.

Chapter Six

I haven’t paid attention to what day it is or to the activities happening around me. I’ve simply concentrated on trying to keep food and liquids down and make it through to the next hour, all while not leaving the comfy bed that has become my home the last few days. There are times I have just prayed to fall back asleep so that I won’t have to feel the muscle cramps any longer.

Jason went to work the day following my treatment despite staying up all night with Genna taking care of me. He acted as if only getting two hours of sleep was nothing, and didn’t complain once about sleep deprivation.

Genna hasn’t left my side, catering to my every need. She brings me ice chips or water, food when it sounds appetizing, and even reads to me when I don’t have the energy to hold a book or my Kindle any longer. When I suggest getting me a bell to ring when I need her, she responds by rolling her eyes. I, on the other hand, think it is a reasonable request, mainly to have some entertainment.

Everything that Dr. Olson told me I would feel following my first chemo treatment is true: nausea, headaches, fatigue, sore throat, and no appetite. But what she didn’t prepare me for were the mouth sores. It’s funny how one ache goes away, just to be replaced with others.

I’ve had small mouth sores in the past, but never to this extent. Three days after chemo, I can barely open my mouth. My gums, the insides of my cheeks, and even the roof of my mouth are filled with open canker sores. I can barely speak, let alone eat or drink anything. When I try, I can feel the sores stretching and burning, causing tears to fill my eyes. Genna suggests I try sucking on ice cubes to help my mouth from getting too dry, and that seems to help.

Jason tries telling me about a home remedy of salt water and gurgling to make them disappear, but when was the last time he had nine canker sores in his mouth at one time? Salt water may be okay when it’s just one, but nine? I don’t think so.

When Monday comes, I finally feel as if I’m able to leave my room. I only make it halfway down the stairs when I need to stop and sit on the staircase. I can’t stand that only walking ten feet makes me feel like I’ve just run a mile.

“Hey, you. You need some help?” Jason asks.

“Oh, no. I got it.” And I do. I just don’t know how long it will take me to make it to the couch that has been calling my name since the moment I stepped out of my bedroom.

“Okay. Well… I’ll just be over there.” He points behind him where the staircase opens to the living room. “If you need me.”

“Thanks.”

To the normal person, waking up on Mondays can suck. Let’s face it: who enjoys having to wake up early on a Monday to start your week over again? For me, it is something I’ve missed. I swear, when I beat this cancer I will never complain about it ever again. Why? Because it means I’m healthy. It means that it is a day other than Saturday. It means I have something to do, or somewhere else to be, other than at home, sick and feeling helpless.