But Gemma was neither Métis, nor pure blood aboriginal. Though born here, and third generation, she was blond, and obviously Caucasian. Still, it didn't matter.
With Bella sitting in a chair by her side, Gemma lay on a cot, for hours, waiting to be seen.
The blood work finally ordered; samples taken; she was scrutinized by three nurses, each examining her eyes, judging their focus, before the physician even put in an appearance. Then, giving the test results a mere cursory glance, he simply declared, there was nothing wrong with her.
If it hadn't been for the head nurse with him, he would have simply walked away, dismissing her.
"Look at her eyes," argued the woman. "They don't even track. That's not normal. There is something else wrong! She needs a CT scan."
"Fine!" he declared, just to get her off his back. "Do the scan, then."
****
The voice on the other end of the telephone held barely disguised excitement.
"I have discovered a tagged," he proclaimed to the listener. "But, they must have lost track of her, for she has been severely neglected. The site is infected...what should I do?"
"The process, as with any other, is the same. Give her the diagnoses, and refer her to the centre."
"Okay. Is there any reward for having found her?"
"Such as what?"
"Well...like...being pushed further up the list..." stuttered the other.
"Do your duty well, and it may be considered. But, this is no different than anyone else. Your call has been noted; that will be all."
The line on the other end went dead; there was no chance to argue the point.
****
Gemma and Bella were moved to a private room, the curtains drawn, so no one could see in. Both women wondered why.
Gemma immediately had a premonition of foreboding.
After a time, the ER Attending slunk in with his charts, as if suddenly ashamed of his previous behavior. He closed the door; slowly took a seat; shuffled his papers, and at last, looked up. But, he seemed to be appealing to Bella; not looking directly at Gemma, as though he were asking forgiveness for an act about to be perpetrated.
"I'm afraid I have some bad news," he apologized. "We found a tumor growing behind the eye..."
Gemma felt annoyed.
The real bad news, is it took you so long to listen!
To her, tumor meant a growth. It could be removed; treated, whatever it took.
Nothing serious. I can go through this, as long as it's gone when we are done.
But, Bella was a homecare worker; she knew a little more about the medical implications. It was she, alone, who realized the full impact of his words.
"You have some decisions to make, so I'll leave you alone for a moment to discuss your options," the doctor decided. "I'll come back later with a referral...if that should be the route you wish to take."
His clipboard in his hands, he hurriedly left the room.
Gemma didn't know what to think. When she turned to look at Bella, her sister was in tears.
"Oh, Gemma...I'm so sorry...but...I just can't do this!"
Whatever is she talking about?
It wasn't until after further tests, and treatment had begun, that Gemma realized the death sentence inflicted upon her.
And, that was the last time she ever saw her sister.
Chapter 3
"This is a tagged one?"
Two physicians were viewing the CT scan of a woman in her thirties.
"We've told her it's a tumor..."
"It has developed considerable growth around the nano-tag. It must have been placed at least ten years ago. How did we lose track of her?"
"Not important. We have her back, now."
"So...what is the procedure?"
"We give it to the guys in oncology. There are enough of us posing as specialists to direct her treatment, and change. She'll have the same basic therapy as any other cancer patient; should go unnoticed among them."
"How does it work?"
"We simply kill all her normal cells, then introduce the donor DNA."
"She's a bit older than we usually use..."
"No matter...sure, on one this age, it is still experimental, but...if it takes..."
"Aw...yes. Here's hoping."
****
"Ump...umm...umm," sounded constantly, on a three tonal descending scale, throughout the vast room. Not just one pump, but four, and never a one in sync. It was like a death knell all night long, and not just while you tried to sleep, but all day, as well.
"Ump...umm...umm," from the machines that pumped the poisons into their systems. One visitor had said it sounded like the sound of a chickadee, but then she was a farmer's wife, and could be excused. Truth was, if only it was the sound of a song bird, and not an instrument meant to save, or take, their lives. All four in the ward were hooked up to one, continually.
At night, exhausted, the patients tried to sleep. Combined with the constant clicking of binders closing, at the nearby nurses station, was the constant snoring of a neighbor in the next bed, who would start awake, then return to opened-mouth breathing, and soon, once again to the rhythm. But the one most sonorous was the mother of the sixteen year old native boy, in the bed next to Gemma. The poor woman was trying to rest in a wide sleep-chair made of leather, and every time she moved, it groaned as if a living thing. Most uncomfortable, too.
The boy had testicular cancer. It had been caught early, and he was the only one in the room with a definite chance of survival. He usually had a day pass; would walk the malls with his relatives all day, then come back for his deadly venom, four hours of treatment, at night.
It was three o'clock in the morning, and though it was already April, outside the windows, snow
