Ipoked at the pile of lettuce and croutons, masquerading themselves as somethingedible and healthy. I didn’t know what to say. I’d barely had time to wrap myhead around the idea of Chad being hospitalized, let alone what I’d be doingduring the time he was recuperating. I’d immediately assumed I’d be there withhim, but I had a job to do, didn’t I? I had signed a contract and made apromise, and it wasn’t me with the medical emergency. To back out for a fewweeks would’ve been unprofessional—wouldn’t it?
Theindecisiveness of my thoughts must’ve been readable on my face becauseSebastian reached across the table and nudged my hand with his knuckles. “Hey,you don’t need to give us an answer right now. Take the day, think about it.Talk to Chaddington.”
Inodded gratefully. “Okay. Thanks.”
Devinsmiled. “And remember: whatever you decide to do is cool with us, okay? Nopressure.”
20
AlwaysBe Brave
CHAD
“ULCERATIVECOLITIS?”Mama’s voice was shrill. Worried and warbled. “What doesthatmean?”
DoctorWahlberg, an old guy with a mole on his cheek the size of Venus, smileddiplomatically at my mother. “As I’ve already explained, Mrs. Wilcox; it’s aform of IBD—inflammatory bowel disease. This particular disease causes ulcersto form along the digestive tract ...” He kept on yammering and explaining thelong-lasting effects of the condition. That it was essentially incurablewithout removing the effected part of the colon.
I’dbeen a Google fiend for years and I knew it all already.
Theyalready had me started on the intravenous corticosteroids that I’d expected,the moment they declared the diagnosis. Like an idiot, the first thing Iworried about was that I would come down with a major case of ‘roidrage and gain an obscene amount of weight, but Mamashushed me immediately. She told me I needed to do whatever was necessary toget better, and all I could say was, “I’mnevergonnaget better.”
Thedoctors all insisted that this wasn’t a terrible flare, that it could’ve been alot worse. That it could’veleadto sepsis, bloodpoisoning, and hospital stays lasting several months, among otherlife-threatening complications. And even though I heard what they were saying,the hemorrhaging sure as hell had me fooled. They even thought I could be outof the hospital in a few days and back with the band in just a couple of weeks.Their optimismshould’vebeen a goodsign. Itshould’vemade me feellucky. But fuck me for not celebrating when one of my biggest fears had come tolife.
“It’snot a death sentence,” Dr. Wahlberg ensured my mother. “Sometimes surgery isnecessary, if medicinal therapies don’t help, but there’s no reason to jump tothose conclusions at this point. He’s very lucky.”
Therewas that word again.Lucky. I didn’t feel lucky. Not when I knew whatcould’ve happened. Not when I knew what could still happen to me sometime inthe future.
“Well,that’s good,” Mama breathed out with relief, reaching out to pat my leg.“That’s good, baby.”
“Yeah,”I muttered and turned toward the window.
Nicely played, Thirty.
“Wecan take him home in a few days?” Mama asked Dr. Wahlberg.
“We’llsee how he responds to the corticosteroids, but right now, there’s no reason tonot be optimistic.”
“That’sgood.” She rubbed my leg now. “Chad, that’s good.”
“Everything’sgood, Mama,” I muttered, keeping my gaze on the window and struggling againstthe urge to claw out of my own skin.
“Chad,are you feeling up to eating something?” Dr. Wahlberg asked, and I looked backto him.
Shruggingand trying desperately not to focus on that damn mole, I nodded. “Yeah, I guessI could.”
“So,what we need to do is allow your colon to rest,” he explained, keeping hishands folded over his gut. “Today, and probably tomorrow, we’re going to keepyou on a low-residue diet. Then, you’ll start to reintroduce foods into yourdiet.”
“Whatdoes that mean, low-residue?” Mama questioned.
“Itmeans everything I eat isgonnabe sent through ablender,” I muttered less than enthusiastically, and Dr. Wahlberg smiled in away that made me feel like a little kid.
“Well,I don’t think a liquid diet is necessary this time,” he said, addressing mebefore saying to my mother, “Low-residue means we’re just removing fiber fromhis diet. So, plain chicken breast, white rice, toasted white bread …” Helisted them off with his fingers. “Foods like that, that are lacking in fiber,are fine.”
“Isee,” Mama responded, and I nodded, knowing that if I opened my mouth, whatevercame out would sound condescending and obnoxious.
Thedoctor smiled and said cheerfully, “I’ll send the nurse up with a menu,” andwith that, he left the room, partially closing the door on his way out.
Themoment we were alone, Mama gave her hands a clap. “Well! I think, all thingsconsidered, it could’ve been a lot worse,” she declared with an irritatingamount of positivity. “Don’ty’allthink so? This isgood, right?”
