Cullin Mitch - The Post-War Dream

Still, there had been another battle Hollis never quite anticipated facing, that most enduring of wars — as sweeping, widespread, and illogical as any which were waged in his lifetime; yet it was a taciturn offensive, routinely countered on a microscopic level, where the defending generals and corporals and lieutenants wore white coats and aqua green or light blue uniforms, and the randomly chosen, ill-prepared foot soldiers often dropped hard and irrevocably at the front lines; their deaths were now so numerous that a towering monument etched with their names would, most likely, climb beyond the moon. But this, too, wasn't to be his war, not truly; it was Debra's time at the front, it was her fight — and the best he could do was aid her, standing by as a reliable ally, fearing all the while that her defeat would also serve as his defeat.

Nonetheless, luck had always been at their side. When the 1994 North-ridge earthquake jolted Los Angeles, their Arcadia house was badly shaken yet escaped any serious damage, nor were they affected by the L.A. riots of 1992 — watching the neighboring violence unfold on television like a cheap action movie, remaining safe in the suburbs while police helicopters raced across the sky. They had evaded freeway accidents by milliseconds, and they had also hiked along an Eaton Canyon trail which, on the very next day, was submerged by a flash flood, the rapid waters then sweeping a Hispanic family of four to an untimely end. As a couple, they were first spared from harm in the early 1960s, somehow avoiding injury after their Chrysler got caught between club-wielding members of the American Nazi Party — who were parading through the streets of Monterey Park to demonstrate against interracial marriage — and an angry gathering of civil-rights protesters which had lined the sidewalks to confront the white-supremacist marchers: rocks sailed back and forth above the Chrysler, vehicles in front and behind them had windshields smashed, a bystander was struck by a brick, and yet, as would happen again and again, they miraculously weathered the turmoil without receiving as much as a scratch. They were, as Debra usually commented whenever tragedy had narrowly avoided them, blessed with an abundance of good fortune.

So we will survive this, Hollis had told himself. In order to have a future together, he had needed to survive the Korean conflict, and, in turn, she was obligated to draw out that future together by overcoming her cancer. You have no choice, he thought. If I could survive getting shot to find you, you must survive this to keep us from being apart. Defeat isn't an option, even should the battle lines remain.

Although now the harsh August of his military past risked being rivaled by the heartbreaking August of his sedate present — this last August, almost two years since Debra was diagnosed — when the medical options had dwindled down to the possibility of a single clinical trial, after a fourth and final round of chemo had proven less effective than the first round. But the end of chemo didn't crush Debra's spirit; rather, an expression of acceptance passed across her face, some small relief taken from the understanding that she would no longer have to endure the harrowing side effects of treatment — the chemicals burning through her veins, the low white cell blood counts and the numbness and the fatigue, the secondary ailments inherent to fighting off the disease. And there was, too, that final thread of hope, a phase-II clinical trial aimed at inhibiting the growth of blood vessels which supply tumors with blood.

“It's what is known as an antiangiogenesis drug,” Dr. Langford had told Debra and Hollis.

“What does that mean?” Hollis asked.

Seated behind her desk, Dr. Langford moved her center of gravity forward as she calmly spoke, bringing her elbows to rest upon papers and folders, clasping her hands together: “Well, basically, antiangiogenesis agents get in the way of the cancer, interrupting its growth. Of course, we won't know how well it'll work until we've given it a shot — the tumors might not shrink at all, or, best case, the growths could be stopped from spreading. Who knows. The good news is you won't experience the debilitating side effects that characterize chemotherapy. However, a few risks are still involved — ”

“I don't care about risks,” Debra said. “Believe me, there isn't a risk I wouldn't take right now.”

Hollis's hands clutched the chair arms. “What sort of risks?” he asked, sounding unusually sharp.

Blood clots leading to a stroke — Dr. Langford stated matter-of-factly, eyes fixing on Debra — or fatal bleeding in the lungs. “The fact is, there's about a twenty percent chance of this drug resulting in your death. Should clotting occur, though — and should a lethal break or rupture transpire — it'll happen quickly. You won't have much warning, and you'll feel little if any pain.”

“Fair enough.” Debra gave a slow but confident nod. “I can live with that,” these last words producing a lingering, incongruous smirk on her face.

Then came a promise from Dr. Langford, a straightforward agreement made to the sickest of her patients: at the point the disease became unstoppable and nothing more could be done to prolong the patient's life in a meaningful manner, she would say so without hesitation. “Except we're not quite there yet,” she said, lifting her chin slightly and running a hand up over her throat. “Not yet.” Even so, Dr. Langford wanted Debra to begin considering end-of-life decisions, to ask herself what she wanted to do with whatever time she had left. “In other words, do you want to spend your time receiving therapies with a low rate of response but documented rates of toxicity? Or, instead, would you like to take a trip, go visit somewhere you've always wanted to see, or perhaps accomplish something special? One doesn't necessarily exclude the other, mind you. But it's important thinking along those lines — while you can.”

“I understand,” Debra said. “I understand,” she repeated.

As for Hollis, Dr. Langford suggested he look into attending a class on caregiving at Gilda's Club, as it would likely come in handy. “It's not an easy role to play,” she told him. “Also, you must take care of yourself, continue doing the activities you like — don't let yourself feel guilty for allowing yourself to enjoy life during this difficult period. It's okay, and I'm telling you it's okay. You've got absolutely every right to do some things just for yourself, and that'll give you the capacity of taking better care of Debra when and if it should come to that.”

Hollis averted his eyes and sat stiffly and awkwardly. Why are you saying these things? he thought. Why are you telling us this now?

“He worries too much,” he heard Debra say, her voice suddenly breaking, and felt the warmth of her hand briefly squeeze against his wrist before retracting.

“I know he does,” Dr. Langford said, pushing a box of Kleenex across her desk.

His hands began shaking, his eyes started welling. Debra sniffled beside him, but he wouldn't glance up. He refused to acknowledge her tears, because she wasn't supposed to weep; she didn't do that: she was the stronger of them, he had always told himself. Nor would he recognize those other tears forming around Dr. Langford's eyes, brushed away by the doctor's fingertips as Debra both chuckled and wept, saying, “Damnit, doctors aren't supposed to cry. That's not right.”

Dr. Langford chuckled too, even as the tears continued. “Oh, lord,” she said, breathing deeply and then exhaling. “The day I quit crying is the day I really should stop being called a doctor.”

Both women laughed, each one reaching for a Kleenex. It isn't funny, Hollis wanted to say; instead, he forced a smile, his hands shaking uncontrollably but imperceptibly, and gazed at the woven gray patterns infused throughout the industrial carpeting around his shoes — a perfectly flat, cold expanse of fabric, befitting an office where the illusion of hope was kept in check by a less ideal reality. But the faint trembling of his hands wouldn't cease — not while he wrung them together, or hugged Dr. Langford goodbye, or drove off into the desert toward Nine Springs with Debra staring out the passenger window, lost in thought as her palms slid on her jeans. His hands shook in the driveway, when opening the passenger-side door, helping Debra rise to her feet, unlocking the house; they shook inside the entry-way — in the living room, in the bedroom, in the bathroom — while holding the unused vial of pain pills left over from Debra's surgery, the safety cap slipping his grasp and falling into the sink, his unsteady fingers pinching two pills and bringing them to his mouth.