Free I'm Not Her by Janet Gurtler Page B

mean the chemo. Is it a pill or, um, a liquid or what?”
    My dad opens his mouth to begin speaking but the doctor lifts her hand to cut him off. It’s her specialty after all. His is university stuff. Not cancer treatment.
    “Chemo has different forms and different ways of being ingested. It depends on many factors—the type of cancer, and the stage, and so on. We have developed drug protocols for higher response rates.” The doctor pauses and wipes a strand of hair from her eyes. Her eyes look tired. “Your type of cancer requires chemo to be given intravenously via a drip. It’s a fluid. We’ll put it in through a vein up your arm, or in your neck. Before you start chemo you’ll have an intravenous catheter, or a line, inserted into your chest. It threads through to your heart. Scar tissue holds it in place.”
    I cringe and force myself to go numb, trying not to register what Kristina will have to go through. The thought of anyone inserting something inside me makes my limbs feel like jelly. I can’t imagine what Kristina must be thinking.
    “The insertion will be done under local anesthetic. It isn’t terribly pleasant, to be honest, but once it’s in we’ll leave it there for the duration of chemo, which means you don’t have to keep having needles and lines put in all the time.”
    “Great,” Kristina says and drops her head down again. None of us other Smiths manage to say a word. We’re not a chatty bunch today. The doctor glances at each of us as if she expects one of us to speak but when we don’t she reaches a hand out and pats Kristina’s hand. “I expect at least two rounds of chemo. We want to try to shrink your tumor. Save your limb if we can.” Her voice is calm but detached.
    If.
    My head snaps up. I am so not ready to deal with this. Kristina has squeezed her eyes shut and her face is tighter than the fists I’m making.
    “We hope to be able to cut out the diseased bone and replace it with an internal metal prosthesis. You have full access to all available treatments. Financially. You’re lucky for that.”
    Thanks, Grandpa Smith. Boo for mean drinking habits but yay for financial wizardry.
    Mom nods and draws in a sharp breath, and Dad shifts his weight back and forth, his eyes on the floor.
    “Money is not an issue. We want the best for Kristina,” Mom says.
    Kristina doesn’t move.
    “Is that the expected outcome?” my mom asks. “Metal in her leg? What about her athletic career?”
    My mouth drops open. No, she did not just say that. Dad continues his fascination with the tiles on the floor.
    Dr. Turner lets out a quick breath. “In our opinion, an internal prosthesis probably wouldn’t give Kristina back full mobility. I can’t tell you for sure which will be feasible until we begin the process. We can hope for endo-prosthetic surgery, the internal prosthesis; however, often with limb salvage there are a bunch of activities that a patient will not be able to do, especially aggressive sports. We often recommend amputation if the patient wants to pursue aggressive sports. An external prosthesis is better for that.” The doctor makes a note on her laptop and looks up.
    “No,” my mom shouts. “We save her leg. It’s more important than volleyball.”
    The room starts to spin a little. Amputation. Prosthesis. In my head I see a chain saw revving up and being held over my sister’s leg.
    “No!” I echo out loud before my imagination carves off Kristina’s bone. All eyes turn to me. “She can’t lose her volleyball or her leg,” I say, and my voice is louder than I want it to be. Angry. “She’s the volleyball captain at school. The best player in the whole city. She’s going to play in college next year.”
    “Tess,” my dad says, and I hear the warning in his tone.
    “No.” I can’t stop myself. It’s unfair and I don’t want to hear it. Kristina can’t lose a leg or have a metal bone put inside her leg. She has plans. Plans that involve two