Life, on the Line by Grant Achatz (leveled readers .TXT) 📗

I thought that having her there would mean more stress, not less. It wasn’t that she was bad at caring for me; in fact it was the opposite, to a fault. My apartment had never been cleaner since she started mopping the floors, cleaning the bathrooms, and washing my bedding every day. I just didn’t want to accept her help. It made me feel as though I was reverting to my childhood, and it made my deteriorating physical situation all the more real. There she was, sitting on my couch thinking of things to clean, so nervous, scared, and upset that she was unable to sit naturally. I felt guilty. Nobody wants to be the cause of their mother’s suffering.

It was late October and the radiation sessions had been bumped up to twice a day. I was burned badly then, singed bright red from my upper lip down to my lower neck. My skin was leathery and stretched taut, and if I turned my head too quickly or too far it would simply crack and bleed.

My mom came with me one day as I went through a five-hour chemo session followed by the second radiation treatment of the day. I explained to her that it was a waste of time, but she sat quietly with me, looking glum.

I knew I was in trouble when we headed in to the routine follow-up appointment at the end of the day. I had triple-layered my shirts, tucked my cell phone in my back pocket, and left my shoes on hoping to pick up a few ounces as I stepped on the scale. The nurse tapped the counter balance to the left until the needle started to float. I looked up. One twenty-nine. Shit. The nurse shot me a look of disapproval and shook her head.

Dr. Vokes entered the room with my chart and introduced himself to my mom in his characteristically warm, confident way. Throughout the treatment he had an incredibly calming effect on me. He always had an aura of assurance no matter what the circumstances were.

“Well, Grant, you seem to have forgotten our little deal,” he said. “Have you been eating?”

I had a ploy all worked out, but before I could say anything my mom cut me off. “Tell him the truth, Grant.” Her tone was angry and sympathetic at the same time. The tone only a mother can pull off. I told Dr. Vokes that it had been tough, but I was feeling better and would start to eat.

The doctors had warned me of dramatic weight loss and its consequences. Most head and neck cancer patients end up with a feeding tube at some point in their treatment, since normal ingestion becomes impossible. I began the treatments at 172 pounds and was told that when I reached 140 I had to do whatever possible to maintain that weight. I fought against the thought of the tube not because I was afraid of it, but because it was a point of pride. But there was no denying the scale no matter how hard I tried to convince them that it was a different, miscalibrated scale and I was wearing fewer clothes. The pain of eating was not the only thing preventing me from getting enough food. I could taste nothing. Eating had gone from embodying every possible emotion for me to only one: loss. I was reminded at every meal that I could not taste, could not cook, could not be a chef. It was mental agony.

“Give me three days and I promise I’ll bring it up over one thirty.”

My mother then reminded me that I couldn’t even drink water without throwing up. She began suggesting to Dr. Vokes to give me a feeding tube. I was getting more and more annoyed with her and simply stood up, grabbed my coat, and told Dr. Vokes that I would be over 130 in three days. He agreed to give me the chance as long as I went to a nutritionist.

I was fairly well versed in removing texture from pretty much any food. That was not the problem. I couldn’t eat anything without vomiting five minutes later. I thought it was absurd to see a nutritionist. But I went.

Her intentions were good and most people would have found her suggestions helpful, but I was a special case and she knew it. She began by apologizing. “I can’t believe I’m telling you how to manipulate food.” The irony of the situation was obviously not lost on her, which made the meeting more bearable.

She asked me about my eating habits and my estimation of my daily caloric intake. I explained that eating was impossible and even liquids would not stay down. She kept pushing for a caloric value.

The truth was that I was getting less than 200 calories per day. I was diluting apple juice fifty-fifty with water because the straight juice was too acidic for my scorched mouth. It felt like I was drinking habanero juice. I managed to get down eight ounces a day a few sips at a time. Once she heard that she realized that solid foods were out, so she began describing how to liquefy and supplement ordinary foods. I was polite as she recited some of her go-to’s until she got to the third one. “You can puree canned chicken soup in a blender with some water, but just warm—anything hot would be like getting into a hot bath with a sunburn.”

That was it for the nutritionist. I stood up, thanked her for her help, and went to find my mom in the waiting room. Canned chicken soup wasn’t on my repertoire even if I was indeed dying, and the thought of it pureed and lukewarm made my stomach twist. No thanks.

As we headed to the parking garage I joked to my mom that it was a good thing I was there to drive her home. She