The Clubhouse
August felix
Warm light escapes the clubhouse through its paned windows, stretching into the snowy January night before meeting darkness. We huddle together outside, shoulders tensed, on the verge of a shiver. Wrestling the cold provides shelter from the gravity of this night, and the months preceding it. At least for the moment.
“Ok, you can come in now.” We stream through the cabin door, boots scrap against the threshold as we pack into the small space. I look around. What am I doing here? Family, friends, parents of friends, felines and canines. The room is dimly lit save for a flood light illuminating the wedding party and shimmering off the metallic side bars of the hospital bed. Billows of condensed breath cloud our view, hanging momentarily between faces before wafting into the rafters. The aroma of rough cut pine still lingers, and a space heater groans in the corner.
I remember the first day we met in the hospital. You had long hair then. “Oh my, how nicely your hair is growing in!” the nurses would say. A wondered smile crossed your face when I awkwardly introduced myself. What’s a medical student doing here, you ask? This was remission. Once a month you were poked and prodded, fluids removed and replaced, medications examined and evaluated. Then out the door you went. Your post-cancer life was full of your pre-cancer activities: high school, sports, time with friends and family. There was, perhaps, a sense of normalcy.
What is it like to be “assigned” a friend when you get sick? Is it weird? Does it force you to reckon with your past and future? I was there to observe how you live with a life threatening illness. The doctors worked, and I sat in the corner and chatted with your mom. When the opportunity struck, I try my hand at a few jokes, tell a story, or ask some more pointed questions about you. Slowly, I learned of your diagnosis and subsequent treatment. What could I do for you? Just be a friendly face in the ominous hospital. Simple, I thought.
Tonight, you sport a hospital issue eye mask. Your left eye peers through a circular cut-out, custom and specially designed by mom to alleviate double vision. “UMASS M—“ it reads. A little over a week ago, CT confirmed that the tumor had metastasized to your optic canal. Plastic tubing garnishes your outfit—a nasal cannula meanders around your shaved head and a “pig tail” curls out through an incision in the right side of your chest. It’s the first time I’ve seen you wear a shirt in a while. Your bride wears a pink sweater with matching beanie and spreads out casually on the couch next to your hospital bed. You two clasp hands over the railing. With the wedding party in position, the ceremony begins.
One month ago, I received a text from your mom. “Hi. I wanted to let you know that we found out last night that he may have had a relapse.” A routine PET scan revealed that your tumor had returned, emerging from the depths of your anterior mediastinum and engulfing the vital organs that colonize this industrial hub. The oncology team moved fast, your hair fell out, you swayed as we dragged the IV pole down the hospital corridors, you turned inward. This is scary, you thought. But you had been here before. Did this feel different? Christmas came and they sent you home. Maybe, like the time before, you had beaten this. However, chemotherapy was ineffective. Rather, it was destructive. Within a few days of being home, it began. First in your toes and then climbing to your belly button like a vine. Guillain-Barre Syndrome, they called it. Your arms and legs became inanimate structures, no longer were they functional constituents of your musculoskeletal system. The tumor tendrils coiled around your trachea, and life squeezed its way between your 3mm airway. What were the options? Emergency surgery? Palliative radiation? Are you going to code? It was early January. Weeks ago your life was dynamic and your physique sharp. Today—trapped within the confines of your own body—the road ahead looks dire.
Just yesterday, I swiped my key card and entered through the double doors of the hospital wing. “I wanted to let you know that he isn’t doing well. He is getting worse.” Your mom had texted that morning. With a brisk stride, I rounded the corner towards your room. My stomach turned. Family and friends lined the hallway, hugging, blurry eyed. Your dad caught my wandering gaze. I glanced sideways as I walked by the room, the medical team was working quickly inside. We embraced as he updated me with the news. “He is going home tonight.” Comfort measures only.
Back in the clubhouse, your aunt orchestrates the service from the foot of the bed. Her arms and hands move gracefully, her voice bellowing in the still winter night. Upon instruction, your brother leans over, slips the ring off of your finger and onto the bride’s. She returns the favor. “I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.” The room erupts with flashing camera lights. I bite the inside of my lip, a sorry attempt to fight back the tears that coalesce at the corners of my eyes. My vision blurs. Others open the flood gates. It is a surreal moment. A celebration before a conclusion. A beginning before an end.
Three days later, my phone rings. “We were with him when he passed,” your mother answers. “He said to me, ‘Mom, I have to go now.’” Years later, and by all accounts life is normal again. Yet, for what I imagine will be a lifetime, these visceral moments hang suspended in my thoughts. Who am I but someone who joined the resistance in the remaining months of your life. Yet through your sacrifice you have taught me a priceless lesson. Each relationship is an education, and this is one I will not forget.
August Felix is a fourth-year medical student applying to Emergency Medicine. He enjoys creative writing, and this piece is a reflection from his time in the UMASS Sidekicks program. This piece was one of two winners selected for the 2020 Gold Humanism Honor Society Narratives in Medicine Contest.
