Chapter 43 Hope
Dr. O'Grady’s voice fills the room, steady as always. But there's something different today. The words seem to sink into the room, and I feel them pressing into my chest.
"We've discussed with the oncologist, and we believe the best course of action is to begin Disease-directed therapy."
I blink, my eyes feeling heavy. The words are familiar, but they don’t feel real yet. I force my throat to work, push past the lump. "What does that mean, exactly?" I ask, trying to hold on to some semblance of control.
He gives a short, almost apologetic smile. "Chemotherapy," he says simply, but there's a quiet pause. "It's not the aggressive kind most people imagine, but it's designed to slow the marrow down, suppress the abnormal cells, and hopefully give your body some space to recover....even if temporarily."
Temporarily. The word sticks in my chest like a needle, each syllable digging deeper. I can barely breathe past it.
"How long will that last?"
"They'll likely start within the next week," he continues. "It’s going to make you more tired, Ryan. You’ll feel worse before you feel better. Your counts will drop further. But that’s expected. It doesn’t mean it’s failing."
I feel Michael’s hand on my shoulder, his fingers pressing gently into my skin, a grounding reminder. He's standing next to the bed, and he doesn't speak, but his presence is a fortress.
Dr. O’Grady’s voice cuts through the silence again. "We'll closely monitor your progress, adjust the treatment as we go. But this is about control for now." He pauses, his eyes fixed on me, serious.
Michael’s hand shifts from my shoulder to the back of my neck, his thumb brushing softly over my skin, grounding me. I lean into the touch, even if it feels like I’m being crushed under the weight of the world.
“Is it curable?” he asks, his voice sharper now, demanding more than the doctor’s words can offer. "What odds are we working with here?"
The doctor doesn’t soften it. He doesn’t sugarcoat the truth. "As I mentioned to Ryan before, his MDS is high-risk. It's the kind of complex karyotype that complicates everything, and the mutation just makes it worse." He holds my gaze, steady and unwavering. "So at this stage, our main goal is control, not cure."
The words settle in the room as he continues, but I can barely hear him over the pounding in my head. "Some people respond to the therapy, some don’t. But you shouldn't let that get you down, don't lose hope yet."
I’ve heard this before. I heard it when I was alone, the white walls closing in on me. It hit hard then, sure. But it doesn’t feel the same this time. It feels a thousand times worse. Not because the reality’s changed, but because it’s different now with Michael in the room. Shouldn’t it be the opposite? Shouldn’t having someone here make it lighter? But instead, it’s like I’m carrying this all over again, only now someone else can see it, and that makes everything heavier.
Michael’s jaw clenches. “So, we’re just, what?.... hoping?”
I glance at him, but his gaze is fixed on the doctor now, unwavering. The doctor shifts uncomfortably, clears his throat, and his eyes flicker to the floor before he meets Michael’s gaze again. "Dr. Parsons," he says quietly, as though the name should carry weight. "Is an excellent oncologist. The best in this hospital."
Michael raises an eyebrow. “Just this hospital? If we’re going to feel confident about this, we'd need someone better than that.”
Dr. O'Grady looks at him again, “I meant, he comes highly recommended. One of the best in his field, I assure you." he corrects, his words slower now.
Michael gives a quick nod. "We’re free to consult someone else, if we choose, right?"
"Of course. Absolutely. You’re free to seek additional opinions." His voice is steady, though his face betrays a slight tension. I stare at Michael again. His face is unreadable, but I can see the storm beneath it. He’s processing, weighing everything, while I just want to close my eyes and forget all of it. I’m tired of being stuck in this place, tired of not knowing what comes next, tired of being so far from the life I thought I was supposed to have.
The doctor leaves, and I feel a heavy silence settle into the room, thick and suffocating. I slide into the bed, pulling the covers up, hoping sleep will take me somewhere far away from this reality. Maybe I’ll wake up, and it’ll be over, and I’ll be better.
I close my eyes, but then the covers are pulled off. I blink, confused, and turn my head to find Michael standing beside me, looking at me with that stubborn, expectant expression on his face.
“What are you doing?” I feel too tired to argue, but the exhaustion pulling at me doesn’t stop him.
“There’s a lovely garden outback,” he casually says, “And the sun’s out. I’m feeling like getting a tan. Come on.”
I shake my head, feeling the pull of my body toward the softness of the bed. But he doesn’t let go, doesn’t even flinch.
"I'm tired, Michael" His name is half a protest, half a plea. I don't have the energy for whatever this is.
He pauses for a second, his gaze softening before he counters gently.... insistently, “You’re not tired, Ryan. You’re sad. Rest isn’t going to fix that. It’s just going to pause it. And you’ll wake up just as miserable, if not more.”
He squeezes my shoulder, and his words hang in the air between us, like he’s offering something, but I don’t know what. I want to stay in this numb bubble I’ve built around myself, but something in the way he says it makes me hesitate.
Then he smiles, that playful glint in his eyes. “Don’t pretend,” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I know you’re secretly getting excited just thinking about the garden. All those plants, just waiting for you to admire them.”
I scoff, but there’s a hint of a smile fighting to break through the exhaustion. “You make me sound like I’m some kind of plant fanatic. I’m not.”
“Your apartment would beg to differ.”
He steps back, letting go of me for the first time in what feels like forever. He gestures to the door, an invitation to escape this room and whatever it’s come to mean. “You’ll feel better.”
I hesitate for a long moment, but then something in me gives. With a deep, shaky breath, I push myself up from the bed. Michael smiles, a simple, quiet thing, but it makes my heart stutter in my chest.