Foreshadowing

"The good news, Robert, is that with your remission, we don't expect you'll need any additional chemotherapy in the coming weeks. The catheter is important, but no longer critical."

Dr. Collins is standing on formality less and less these days, actually sitting in one of the chairs against the windows. The blinds are shut tight, but sunlight shines through tiny pinholes. Everything glows.

I'm curled up on one side. Blankets and demoral again. I practically want to apologize to her for getting chills again, for having this high temp, for not being able to make everything go away on my own. She's been prescribing all this medicine. She's been scheduling all these appointments. I could at least manage to respond to some of it the way she'd expected.

She's patient with her patient, though. She understands.

"We'll keep up with the x-rays, but I don't expect to find anything new there. Your lungs look clean. Your Hickman looks clean, too, for that matter."

She's at the edge of my bed, now, blocking some of the light. My catheter dangles over the edge. It's connected to everything. She carefully peels up a corner of tape, looking at the entry site underneath the clean white gauze.

"I'm sorry, Robert," she says, putting the gauze back into place. "Unless we are able to find out what's been causing all of your fevers, this will need to come out."