Chapter 30

Cancer is vicious and underhanded. But in Alex’s case, it just waltzed through the front door and settled in. Innocuously, she could not shake the aftermath of the flu. It was only normal that her breathing and stamina would be affected, but after she wimped out of three tennis dates, and after a month of failed antibiotics and escalating hoarseness, her family physician ordered another chest x ray, and then a CAT scan.
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It took less than a week before Alex was referred to an oncologist, “There’s some concern, it’s not clear, let’s play it safe”—the doctor had said. “He’s the expert. Let’s see what he has to say.”
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With more work-ups and less assurances, Alex and Mike spent an impossible and short- fused weekend driving Amy to her dance lessons, dropping Andy and his friends off at the movies, shopping, fixing dinner, puttering, making love, making small talk—keeping their hands and minds busy—until Monday morning at 8 am, when they sat across from Dr. Mark Chambliss, Chief Oncologist at the New England Cancer Institute.

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“Mr. and Mrs. Fournier, I’m sorry to confirm it is lung cancer”, Dr. Chambliss said.

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Neither fear nor faith can protect a person from certain news. Defenseless, Alex and Mike both gasped. Alex instinctively put her hand across her mouth, as if to hold back a horrid bile.

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‘How many times has he said these words to how many other people?’, she thought. And whatever he would say next, how many of those other people lived, survived, thrived after this moment and this day that they could never, would never, forget?

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“We’ll treat it with a combination of radiation and chemotherapy. I’d like to begin next week.

You'll need to start on some medication before then, and we'll give you some help for anxiety and nausea.”

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Alex stared at Mike and then down at her clenched hands, which had ripped the wad of Kleenex she was holding to shreds. Mike was sitting straight up, military style, and chaulk white.

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“Whoa. Jesus. What stage is it, Dr. Chambliss?”, she asked.

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“It’s stage 3”.

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Alex and Mike knew what this meant. Still, she stared at this physician with the cropped grey hair and John Lennon glasses and said, “What are my chances? I want to know”.

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“Well” the doctor said, “25% of patients with stage 3 lung cancer survive two years or more. There’s no reason you can’t be in that 25%." He paused, looking to Alex and Mike for how much information they really wanted.

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“Look” he said, “I just saw a patient who was diagnosed four years ago. She’s in remission and feeling fine. It’s not always that way, but you’re young, strong, feisty. It’s non small cell lung cancer in a single site. We can treat this, Alex. We will treat this. You’re not a candidate for surgical resection so we’ll go in with radiation therapy in combination with chemotherapy. You’ll feel terribly sick, you won’t be the bell of any balls, but we’ll aim to knock it out.”
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In an instant, stunned and stupefied, without sound or movement, a primitive wailing moan rose from deep deep inside Alex's head . “Oh Amy, Oh Andy, Oh Mike, Oh Mom and Dad, Oh Lily.”. it cried, “Oh Lily, oh Lily, oh Lily.”