Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 118733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 594(@200wpm)___ 475(@250wpm)___ 396(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 594(@200wpm)___ 475(@250wpm)___ 396(@300wpm)
Then she remembered the envelope that haunted her. It was still lying unopened on her desk. She’d picked it up countless times and tried to open it, but the letter opener never seemed to move from the edge. Palmer was afraid of what the contents would tell her. For her, there wasn’t a suitable answer. If she had family, she’d never get to know them, and if she didn’t, she’d die alone. She was going to die alone, no matter what. The test seemed pointless now.
When Palmer had told Dr. Molina and Dr. Debra Drue, the oncologist, about her life, Palmer could see the pity in their eyes. The vibe in the room changed. It went from mildly hopeful to sad. Palmer had an uphill battle, a steep climb, and she had to do it with no support and a dull pickaxe.
“I don’t want to do it,” she’d told them with her chin held high in the air.
“Not doing chemo or radiation will allow the tumor to grow,” Dr. Drue stated. “This could give you a chance.”
“Could,” Palmer repeated. “Could isn’t enough for me to spend my last days being sick or housebound. If I have months to live, I want to live them on my terms.”
It was the doctors’ jobs to argue, to push for treatment and a risky surgery. They were healers and believed in modern medicine, but they couldn’t force Palmer to do what she didn’t want to do. She wanted to live out her days, as best as possible, and they respected her for her decision.
Now, as she lay in bed with machines beeping around her, she wondered if she’d made the right decision. Palmer had read the reports, the blog posts, and the pamphlets the doctors had given her. She knew the side effects, both with the medicine and how the tumor was going to inhibit her mental abilities if they didn’t operate. Seizures would start soon, even though Dr. Hughes believed they already had. The headaches would get worse. Vomiting would happen. She could lose her sight and her ability to speak. The tumor was going to attack her nervous system if Palmer didn’t start radiation or chemotherapy. Regardless, she was going to die.
The surgery was extremely risky, and if she went through with it and survived, it would leave her with a half-shaved head and a gnarly scar from where they’d cut her open. If Palmer went ahead with chemo, she’d lose the rest of her hair. Maybe she was vain, but she loved her long hair. She loved curling it, wearing it in a ponytail, and braiding it. And while she loved the story of Frankenstein, she didn’t want to look like his monster, at least not now, and not when her death loomed. Palmer wanted as much dignity as she could muster.
She slept off and on through the night. The hallway was busy, and despite her door being barely open, she could see people walking by in a rush. They never ran, she noticed, from her more-than-frequent trips over the last week. They walked fast. Palmer thought the staff here could compete in some speed-walking marathon, and they’d all be victorious. At one point during the night, she thought about getting up to open her door wider, but she didn’t want to alarm the nurses or have one of them question her nosiness. She was curious, though, about what happened in the other rooms.
While growing up, Palmer had the same hopes and dreams most children did. Of course, at the top of her list was a family. She wanted to be loved and looked after. She had visions of coming down the stairs on the first day of school, with a mother waiting for her at the bottom, holding her lunch and backpack. As the years went on, that dream became nothing. Not even a wisp as she aged. Every day, she dressed in donated clothes and used a donated backpack. The only normal school thing for her was riding the school bus. But her classmates knew she didn’t have a home. Her classmates mocked her for her clothing, saying, “I think my mom donated that to the homeless shelter.”
By the time she reached high school, she had thick skin. She had stopped caring long before about what people thought of her unless it was the first Saturday of every other month, when the home would open its doors to prospective parents. It was then that she smiled, greeted everyone, and answered every question sent her way.
Most of the time, the questions centered around hopes and dreams. “What do you want to be when you grow up, Faith?” Faith was the name she’d received when she first arrived at the orphanage. It didn’t fit who she was. She didn’t trust anyone, and she lacked confidence in herself. When she was of age, she changed it to Palmer. It was a name she hadn’t heard before, and she felt like it made her stand out. It was a name no one would forget.