Being There Read online

  Being There

  by T.K. Rapp

  Copyright Notice

  Copyright © 2013 by T.K. Rapp

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author, T.K. Rapp.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Version 1

  Cover Design by T.K. Rapp

  Cover Image Courtesy ~ Model Photo: Colourbox.com

  E-book ISBN 978-09896432-1-4

  For my husband and my daughters...who are always there.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  A Day Like No Other

  There’s something about this room that makes me uncomfortable. It’s not that it’s ugly; in fact it’s pretty nice for a waiting room, maybe it’s the beige walls that are lined with cheesy motivational quotes or the other nameless faces that are waiting. Waiting, just like me. I feel so small and insignificant sitting here all alone and I knew my nerves would be getting the best of me, so I took precautions by grabbing my biggest hobo bag and filling it with just about anything I could think of. My iPod, a manuscript from the office, a couple of books and snacks somehow made it in the bag, but only the book is calming me at the moment. The book has been a welcome distraction since last night, and now I’m dying to find out which guy the girl in the book chooses.

  “Howard? Prudence Howard?” A voice calls from across the room.

  Every time I hear that name, I have to stop myself from looking around the room to see to whom they are referring to. I know it’s me they’re calling, but when someone refers to you by a name that you never go by, I think it’s easy to think they are talking to someone else. Today I wish it were someone else.

  I realize when she calls my name again that I still haven’t answered her and I have read the same sentence three times. It’s clear to me that I’ll be reading this again when I get home. I glance up at the tall awkward woman calling my name and timidly acknowledge her. She gives a faint smile, perhaps understanding my apprehension as I begin to gather everything back into my bag.

  I make my way toward the door that she is holding open for me, and I find my voice to answer her. “Please, it’s Cass,” I request of her as I walk toward the door.

  “I’m sorry,” she says in a kind voice. “I’ll be sure to update your chart. It’s a lovely name, if you don’t mind me asking, why don’t you like it?”

  “Oh, it’s not that,” I start to explain, “it’s just that it seems more fitting for an eighty-year-old not me.”

  The nurse just nods her understanding as she walks ahead of me, leading me to open door down the way. I really don’t want to be here. And in fact, if it hadn’t been for my mom’s insistence, I wouldn’t be. I know better than to mention certain things to her because she’s a worrier and always jumps to the worst possible scenario. I swear mom has WebMD locked and loaded anytime I say the word “ache.” When I have the chance to see the nurse’s name, it just seems to fit her well. Violet, I repeat to myself.

  “Come in and have a seat. Dr. Stone will be with you soon,” she says as she holds the door for me.

  I sit in one of the brown leather chairs across from an oversized mahogany desk and look around. He has at least three diplomas lining the left side of his desk, each one from a different renowned medical institution. Behind his chair are several glass sculptures that boast his various accomplishments during his years of practice, which oddly enough, don’t really make me anymore at ease. I try to relax and lean back in the chair, and see the wall opposite of his diplomas covered with images of people that I can only assume are his family. Wife, children, grandchildren and friends take up residence, an obvious source of pride for the great doc.

  I start to shift in discomfort in my chair, realizing the gravity of my situation. I have no one here with me, and no family to speak of, aside from my mom and dad. The few friends that I do have are off making their own way in the world, just like me, so it’s rare that we see each other anymore. I have no one. Just as I start to feel overwhelmed, Dr. Stone opens the door and gives me a kind smile as he walks to his place behind his desk.

  “Good morning, Cassi,” he says as he takes my file from Nurse Violet. “So how are things going?” I’m not really in the mood for pleasantries, and I have a feeling there is more to that question than what is asked.

  “I was fine, until I got the call that I needed to come in for my test results. It must not be good,” I offer for him. He just tightens his lips in a hard line, giving it all away in that one look.

  And there it is, the heavy sigh. He’s bracing himself to give me the news and I just wish he would spit it out already. These last two weeks have been absolute hell. I’ve tried not to think the worst, by diving in head first into my work, but when you find a lump on your breast and have to go in for tests, it’s a little hard not to.

  Dr. Stone leans forward and rests his elbows on his desk to speak and looks as though what he is about to say is causing him discomfort and I have a feeling these next few moments of silence will be the last normal ones I’ll have.

  “I’m sorry Cassi, but there’s no easy way to give you this news.” He looks through my chart in front of him and pulls out a paper before continuing. “You initially came in because you had felt a lump on your left breast. Being that you’re only twenty-five, I suspected it would be nothing, because it’s rare that it would be anything significant at your age. The pathology report came back which concluded that you have Stage II A breast cancer.”

  My head is swimming trying to decipher what I have just been told. I hear muffled explanations of “we caught it early” and “your prognosis is good,” but none of those offer me any consolation because I have cancer. That’s all it boils down to. He can say whatever he wants at this point because I can’t focus on anything but cancer. That word repeats over and over in my head like a bad song and I can’t shake it. I finally lift my eyes to meet his and I know that the tears are about to spill out. He’s looking for me to acknowledge what he’s told me, to say something. But what can I say?

  “Cassi?” He asks with concern, “do you have any questions?”

  “What?” I stammer, at a loss for how to continue. “I’m sorry, I just don’t understand. I thought you said that it was probably nothing and now you’re saying cancer?”

  “I know this is a lot to wrap your head around and honestly, had you not found it when you did, chances are that
by the time you came in for your annual, this would be a much worse situation.” He pauses for a moment, “Cassi, we caught it early.”

  All of a sudden the room feels like it’s spinning and the tears that I was fighting have escaped. Nothing he’s saying to me makes sense. Sure, I felt something last month, and yes, I figured that him calling me in today was going to confirm my worst fears, but hearing him saying it is something altogether different.

  “So what comes next?” I choke out, hoping not to completely lose it.

  “I’ve asked a colleague to sit in, she should be here soon. Her name is Dr. Farray and she’s an oncologist that I’ve worked with before and I assure you she is very good at what she does.”

  As if on cue, the door opens and a petite woman with dark skin and short hair enters the room. She smiles at me as she walks over to shake hands with Dr. Stone. After he’s introduced us, he allows her to take over to discuss what she thinks is the best treatment for me going forward.

  She holds up the scans from my last visit and places it in the light, “Your tumor is three centimeters,” she points to the mass to clarify what I am looking at, “therefore what I would like to do is start with several chemotherapy treatments in order to shrink it. We’ll check again to see if it has in fact shrunk and then we can proceed with a lumpectomy if necessary. I know this is all very overwhelming, but after looking over everything, I feel this is the best option going forward. Do you have any questions for me?”

  I stare at the wall, trying to process everything I’ve heard since I walked into this office and none of it makes sense. “When do I have to start treatment?”

  “I would like to get started as soon as possible.”

  “I’m leaving in a couple of days for a trip and I won’t be back until next week,” I inform her as I bring up my calendar on my phone.

  “That’s fine. How does next Thursday look for you?”

  “I suppose as good as it’s going to,” I reply lamely.

  She gives me a sympathetic nod and leaves me with several papers to review when I have time, as well as instructions to call if I think of any other questions. Dr. Stone remains stalwart and wishes me the best before I depart his office. Walking back through the waiting room, I see the people that are still waiting to be seen and can’t help but wonder if they’ll be receiving bad news like me.

  I feel the sudden urge to bolt out of the doors as quick as I can because I’m pretty sure I’m about to have a meltdown right here in front of an audience. When I am safely outside, I am hit by the suffocating Houston heat and hurry to my car that is parked three rows back. As I reach the car, I can feel the sweat beads at my hairline and I can’t help but think that if I did cry right now, people may not even notice because the tears will just meld into the sweat. It’s days like this I wish I had left Texas when I had the chance.

  After my appointment earlier, I decided I needed to get back in to work, but now that I’m here, I’m way too flustered to get anything done, not that I care. I think I’m going to ask Mr. Marx, my boss, if I can work the rest of the day from home. I doubt he’ll mind because I always stay ahead of schedule, but I don’t want to tell him, or anyone else, what’s going on with me. It’s the perfect opportunity when I see the dumpy, balding man walking toward my office, obviously looking for me. How he ever made it to managing editor, I will never understand. He misses deadlines, dresses sloppy and let’s his employees walk all over him, everyone except me. When he comes to my door, I all but cringe when he smiles. Those crooked yellow teeth show the years of smoking he’s done, well that and the horrible smoker’s cough. Gross.

  “Do you have a moment?” He asks as he takes a seat across from me. My desk is always clear, which I suppose leaves him under the impression I have nothing to do. “I need you to help Janet out. She’s been overwhelmed with the project I assigned her to last week, and on top of the other two that are due next week, she’s falling behind.”

  “Sure, that’s fine. Just have her send me the information,” I plaster a confident smile on my face, which causes me to seethe inside. Why do I always say yes? Janet is lazy and stupid and could give two shits about a deadline. It boils down to her lack of knowledge on anything of substance; she no doubt punted this one on purpose.

  “Excellent! I told her it wouldn’t be a problem,” he says as he gets up to leave my office. I’m fighting the urge to say something snarky, when I speak up.

  “Sir? Would you mind if I work the rest of the day from home? I’m not feeling that well and I think I’ll get more done there.”

  “I don’t see that as a problem, just make sure to see Janet before you leave,” he orders.

  When he disappears from my sight, I grab my coffee cup and move to throw it at the door, but flip him off instead. I would not waste my favorite mug on my ass of a boss anyway; it always brings a smile to my face. I just love Elvis.

  I turn the mug in my hands and eye the famous “TCB” logo and decide to do exactly that.

  “I’m gonna take care of business,” I say to myself as I grab everything I need to go home.

  I let Mr. Marx and everyone else walk all over me and it just pisses me off. I don’t want to help Janet, yet here I am, agreeing to take on more of her work. Martyr-Cassi to the rescue like always. I keep thinking it’ll pay off down the road, but I seriously doubt it because people like me are perpetual doormats.

  In the few hours I have been at work, I didn’t think much about my appointment or what’s coming up for me, but that only works for so long, because the longer I’m here, the closer it seems I am to a meltdown of epic proportions. I hurry through the main doors leading to the parking garage where my old black Accord waits for me. Just as I reach for the handle, my phone rings in my hand and I know, without looking that it’s my best friend Nevaeh.

  “Hello?” I answer, trying desperately not to drop my phone and everything else in my arms while simultaneously opening the door. “Hold on! Crap! Nev, lemme call you back!” I continue shouting before throwing my phone into the passenger seat when I get it open. The contents of my purse and everything else go flying throughout my car and I exhale an annoyed breath as I attempt to steady myself and regain my composure.

  Shitty-ass day, I think to myself. I punch a quick text to Nev before she tries calling me again. We might not get to see each other as much as we’d like since we got out of school, but she still knows me better than anyone. Just hearing my voice and she would know in an instant that something was up.

  Me: Call u when I get home.

  Nev: Everything okay?

  Me: Long day. Fill u in later.

  Reality Bites…Big Time

  I shove my phone into my purse and silence it because I would rather not talk to anyone at the moment. I turn on the ignition and rest my head on the steering wheel hoping for clarity or peace or something to take over, but I think the universe is in short supply. I just want quiet, but in the quiet all I can hear is Dr. Stone’s voice repeating everything from today so I turn on the radio and blare music from my iPod at a deafening level, hoping the noise of something upbeat and fun will distract me. I need fun. Flipping through numerous song titles, I settle on The Wombats, Let’s Dance to Joy Division because the lyrics seem depressing to me, but I love how upbeat it is. How can you not be happy listening to that song? I set it on repeat and listen to it while I make the twenty-minute drive home.

  I arrive home to my two-bedroom condo, only to be reminded of the chicken I cooked for dinner last night because I forgot to take out the trash. Fail number two today. I throw my stuff on the hardwood floor with a thud as I make my way to remedy the smell. I should have cleaned the kitchen last night but I was so worried about the appointment that I took an anti-anxiety medicine and went right to bed. Nice job there Cassi. I make it a point to do a half-ass clean up of the area and pull out the bottle of wine that I opened last night. I know it’s only a matter of time before my parents call to find out how my appointment went. I’m not up fo
r that conversation yet because quite frankly, I’d prefer keep my condition to myself, not because they don’t care, but because they do, and I know the concern and questions they’ll have and I have nothing to offer.

  I grab a clean wine glass from the cabinet and pour myself a larger glass than I would have on a normal day, but hell, there is nothing normal about today, so why not? I’m just going to sit on my couch and mope anyway, so I might as well enjoy it as best as I can. I take the glass to the living room and have a seat on my overstuffed couch and try to make myself comfortable. But something is missing.

  “Music. I need music,” I say aloud because, I admit, I like talking to myself; I think I’m good company.

  With the radio on, I close my eyes for a moment and let the day’s events seep into me. It’s here that I will allow myself to feel something – while I’m alone, in the comfort of my own space. The solitude is calming and vexing at the same time so I pull out the papers that Dr. Stone sent me home with. Flipping through the pages I briefly look to see what I’m up against and decide to start at the beginning, hoping that maybe it will somehow calm me. It lists the procedures, treatment options, support groups and too many other things to look at. I absent-mindedly riffle through the remaining pages at random seeing various words leap off the pages and I panic. Surgery. Chemo. Radiation.

  I throw the papers across the room, as if they are causing me pain, and let the despair consume every part of me. The tears are streaming down my face as I sob and I allow myself to be angry as hell because this is a crap hand I’ve been dealt. I hug my knees to my chest and bury my head trying to rationalize how this could happen, but there are no answers, which pisses me off more. I feel completely bereft searching inside for some semblance of justification for the situation I seem to find myself in. I look around my condo and spot the cross that normally centers me, but right now, it betrays me.