Free I'm Not Her by Janet Gurtler Page A

the doctor says.
    “Not really,” Kristina whispers without looking up.
    I have an image in my head of Kristina with a stump at the end of her leg and want to throw up.
    The doctor’s lips tighten. I wonder if she wants to give my parents a lecture. They certainly didn’t have a discussion with me about Kristina losing a leg, but not even with her? I want to scream at them. Blame them for what is happening.
    “Osteosarcoma can spread quickly to other bones or even to the lungs if we don’t get it fast.”
    My mom gasps. “The lungs?”
    It’s obvious we’ve all been living in a state of denial. I’ve been busy trying to sketch and trying to study. I’ve even avoided googling osteosarcoma. God knows how my parents have managed to hide from it too, but here’s reality poking its ugly head out and forcing us to deal. Kristina’s cancer is serious. Very serious.
    The doctor blinks slowly and stares at Mom. “Worst-case scenario is spreading. We have no way of knowing what will happen at this point, but spreading is, of course, a possibility. We’ll start treatment immediately.” The doctor smiles briefly, but it’s not a happy smile. “Fortunately, we have a team of specialists in our hospital, and we’ll be able to treat you here instead of shipping you off to another part of the country.”
    I feel like someone punched me in the stomach and pulled the breath out of my lungs, clamping long fingers around my windpipe. This is the fortunate scenario?
    “We’ll start the first round of chemotherapy right away,” the doctor says in a soft but businesslike voice. “The initial MRI doesn’t show any spread beyond the knee yet, but we took more X-rays today and we’ll repeat tests throughout Kristina’s treatment. I expect a few rounds of chemo.”
    Although it doesn’t seem possible, my dad stiffens even more. I stare at him. He’s so rigid I imagine if I pushed him with one finger he’d go down like a statue.
    “How soon will she start?” my mom asks.
    The doctor leans forward. “Like I said, osteosarcoma is aggressive. We’d like to get to it right away and since you’ve indicated that waiting for insurance is not an issue for your family, I had my secretary book her into the hospital…” She clicks the mouse and waits a moment while she reads the monitor. “In four days. September 30. First thing in the morning. Pamela, my nurse, will give you instructions on where to go and what to do before the treatment begins.”
    It feels like someone reaches inside with a long vacuum hose to suck out my insides.
    “Four days?” my sister asks.
    “It’s fast, I know, but we want to go after it right away. It happens like this a lot with bone cancer. I’m sorry there’s not more time to adjust,” Dr. Turner tells her.
    “Will her hair fall out?” Mom asks, her voice soft but machinelike.
    “Most likely,” the doctor answers and she turns to Kristina and studies her. “Not right away but usually after the first round.”
    Kristina makes a tiny sound, like a kitten’s mew. Her face is as pale as the fresh snow that will soon be falling. Kristina stares at her hands, winding them around and around each other. “You should also know that chemo can be very damaging to fertility,” the doctor says.
    “I don’t care about that,” Kristina answers and shrinks into herself even more.
    Mom makes a sound like a bird in distress.
    “Well, it’s a fact that has to be mentioned, but we want to get the chemo started right away.” She pauses, but no one says a thing. “Do you have questions, Kristina?” the doctor asks in a softer, more sympathetic tone. “I want you to feel prepared for what lies ahead.”
    I wonder if the doctor has a sister. I wonder if her sister has ever been sick. Really sick. My heart thumps faster. It’s not fair, I think. It’s not fair. How can Kristina look so normal and be so seriously ill?
    “How do I take it?” Kristina’s voice cracks. She clears her throat. “I