Page 115 of The Storm

Because it’s not as if I didn’t notice something was off. I saw it. I felt it. And I ignored it.

I was busy. There was a lot going on. Come on, she said she was fine. What was I supposed to do?

I lean forward and press my palm against my mouth.

Mom is pacing back and forth. Dad sits still like a statue.

Nick is sitting next to me, as close as he can possibly get.

None of us says anything because none of us know what to say.

I take wild swings in my head betweenit’s going to be all rightandwhat if it’s something really bad?

With each passing minute, the former is starting to feel like less of a possibility.

What kind of nosebleed just doesn’t stop and requires hours of tests?

I rub my fingertips over my eyes.

Nick’s hand slides over my back, and he keeps it there.

Every time a nurse walks by, we all look up at once, as if it’s a choreographed dance.

And we wait.

It’searly evening when a doctor walks in.

She looks around the room, and her eyes land on the corner where we’ve set up camp. She walks toward us at a clipped pace.

Mom stops pacing. Dad gets up. Nick and I follow suit.

What follows is a wall of words that makes my head spin.

Complete blood count.

Scattered petechiae on limbs.

Ecchymoses on skin.

Pancytopenia.

Hypocellular bone marrow.

She speaks rapidly, like she’s firing the words at us.

I swallow and my ears start to ring when she says words like bone marrow cellularity and absolute neutrophil count.

By the time she reaches the words that are supposed to be a diagnosis, my head is spinning.

Rapid onset severe aplastic anemia.

The standout word is anemia, because I’ve heard that one, and for a moment I’m relieved because… anemia is something treatable, isn’t it? Anemia isn’t cancer.

I exhale.

It’s going to be okay.

Right?