“These are pretty good odds,” I said.
“They are,” Kari said, but her face didn’t show that she felt optimistic. “I thought there would only be a few months of treatment, but the book says treatment takes more than two years.”
We sat for a moment and let that sink in.
“Why is this happening to Emily?” Kari cried.
‘‘There’s no sense in asking that question or saying, ‘Poor us.’ I don’t want Emily to feel like a poor little sick girl. We have to be strong for her,’’ I said. “I was thinking, ‘What do I want Emily to feel like?’ I want her to feel we’re going to beat this. We’re going to be strong and we’re going to beat it.”
Kari’s phone rang and she just looked at it. The whole time we’d been talking, I had felt mine vibrating in my back pocket. News of Emily’s illness had lit up Philipsburg’s grapevine. I grabbed my phone and saw messages and missed calls from my brothers, my cousins, and friends I’d known since elementary school. I showed the screen to Kari, and she showed me the person calling her: Mom.
Neither of us had the energy to talk to anyone else.
“Tom, I failed Emily,” Kari said. “I slept next to her so I’d know if she needed me. She did, and I didn’t feel it. She could have died right next to me.”
“Kari you will never fail her,” I said. “You’re doing everything you can.”
My phone rang again, and I saw it was my brother Jim. I’d talked to him the night before. By the time the grapevine reached him, he was getting inaccurate information. He said people thought Emily had lymphoma, not leukemia. And Kari had a cousin who thought we were in the hospital because I was the one with cancer. How were we going to keep our family and friends informed without spending all day on the phone?
“I’m going to start a blog,” said Kari.
“What?”
“The social worker told me about a website called CaringBridge where you can blog about a loved one who is sick,” Kari said. “We can describe what is happening. Just the facts. For instance, today I will write about how we found out Emily was sick and how we ended up at Hershey. I can write exactly what is happening and then it’s coming from me, coming from us, so they know what is accurate.”
“Good idea,” I said. “Just put the facts. Then everyone can read it instead of passing information from phone call to phone call. And they can leave notes or ask questions in the comments section.”
“I’m going to start now,” she said, opening her laptop.
“Are you hungry?” I asked. “I’m going to see what I can find for breakfast.”
“Not now,” Kari said, already typing.
I walked out into the hallway past the nurses’ station toward the family lounge. Each of the doors I passed in the hallway had six small panes of glass. I could see the kids inside the rooms. I saw one child with her mom bent over the hospital tray as they colored together. This child had a lot of artwork taped outside her door, which made the hallway more cheerful, but I knew it also meant that that family had been in the hospital for a long time.
The lounge had a sitting area, a refrigerator where families could store food, a sink, and a microwave. I grabbed a piece of my mom’s banana bread from the refrigerator. She’d stashed one of her famous loaves in the bag of snacks she’d put together for us to bring to the hospital. I took my breakfast and a cup of coffee to a table. Soon I was joined by an older woman, short and thin with neatly trimmed gray hair and fierce eyes, wearing sweats and a boxy T-shirt. Her eyes lingered on me as she gathered up juice and protein bars.
“You’re new here,” she said.
“We just arrived yesterday,” I said. “How long have you been here?”
“Six weeks.” She sighed, taking the seat opposite mine.
“You know, the parents on the cancer unit can get vouchers for cafeteria meals. Ask the nurses,” she encouraged me, indicating the protein bars she held in her hand. “Eating this stuff is not good for you.”
“Thanks,” I said. “That’s good to know.”
She reached over and gave my hand a little squeeze before she stood.
“Welcome to hell,” she said. “We’re your companions on this unit and we support each other. Try to be kind to everyone you meet.”
When I got back to the room Emily was awake. Kari was in the bed next to her, helping her page through a book. Emily was subdued and wary, not herself.
We thought that taking her outside to enjoy the beautiful day would boost her spirits. We pushed her outside in her wheelchair, but she wanted to run; she wanted me to chase her. But she couldn’t do any of that and started to cry. We took her back in right away. I think she was trying to wrap her mind around her illness and her new surroundings. Normally she’s a girl with dozens of questions, but so far she hadn’t asked many. Kari offered to take her to the playroom, where they had games and lots of art supplies, and T-shirts you could draw on, but she was embarrassed. “I can’t go like this!” she cried tearfully, holding up her arm with the IV in, even though we assured her that
