Six Months to Live Read online

  “The preliminary tests are back,” the elderly doctor said, his penetrating brown eyes grave with concern. “The tests point to cancer, specifically, acute lymphocytic leukemia. It’s one of the most common forms of cancer among kids. A bone marrow aspiration will confirm the preliminary diagnosis.” His voice sounded concerned, but final.

  A kid! That’s what I am, Dawn thought. She was a kid, just two months over her thirteenth birthday…

  “Are you going to be my doctor?” she asked, her voice trembling. Don’t cry! she pleaded to herself. Please don’t start crying, Dawn. Don’t be a baby!

  This book is lovingly dedicated to Rochelle Lynn Dove and her family.

  I would like to thank Joan Bompane for her helpful input and all the dedicated health personnel who are warring with childhood cancer.

  Text copyright © 1985 by Lurlene McDaniel

  Cover design and photo illustration by Michael Petty

  All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.

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  Minneapolis, MN 55401 U.S.A.

  Website address: www.lernerbooks.com

  Cataloging-in-Publication

  McDaniel, Lurlene.

  Six months to live / by Lurlene McDaniel.

  p. ; cm. (Dawn Rochelle series ; bk. 1)

  Summary: At thirteen Dawn Rochelle is diagnosed with leukemia. She thought that thirteen issupposed to be a great age—dances, cheerleading, boys—she never thought it would also include cancer. She’s facing the toughest fight of her life—a fight she has to win.

  1. Teenagers—Juvenile fiction. 2. Leukemia—Patients—Juvenile fiction. 3. Leukemia in children—Juvenile fiction. 4. Teenagers and death—Juvenile fiction. [1. Teenagers— Fiction. 2. Leukemia—Patients—Fiction. 3. Leukemia in children—Fiction. 4. Teenagers and death—Fiction.] I. Title. II. Series: McDaniel, Lurlene. Dawn Rochelle series ; bk. 1. PZ7.M4784172 Si 2 000z

  [Fic] dc22 OCLC: 52905397

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  2 — BP — 6/1/10

  eISBN: 978-0-7613-6810-6 (pdf)

  eISBN: 978-1-4677-2788-4 (ePub)

  eISBN: 978-1-4677-2787-7 (mobi)

  CHAPTER

  1

  When Dawn Rochelle was thirteen years old, they told her she had cancer. She sat in her doctor’s office, clutching her mother’s hand, who sat clutching her father’s hand and stared at the familiar face of Dr. Galland with disbelief.

  “H-How can this be?” her mother asked.

  “We thought it was just the flu,” her father gasped.

  Dawn said nothing. She couldn’t think clearly, much less talk. Yet, the look on Dr. Galland’s face told them that he was not joking. The look on his tanned, lined face told them that he was deadly serious.

  “The preliminary tests are back,” the elderly doctor said, his penetrating brown eyes grave with concern. “The tests point to cancer, specifically, acute lymphocytic leukemia. It’s one of the most common forms of cancer among kids. A bone marrow aspiration will confirm the preliminary diagnosis.” His voice sounded concerned, but final.

  A kid! That’s what I am, Dawn thought. She was a kid, just two months over her thirteenth birthday. . . a seventh grader . . . cheerleader for Adams Junior High . . . daughter of Pete and Meggie Rochelle . . . kid sister of 18-yearold Rob Rochelle . . . super fan of Michael Jackson . . . collector of teddy bears . . . a resident of Columbus, Ohio . . . and now, a victim of cancer.

  “Are you going to be my doctor?” she asked, her voice trembling. Don’t cry! she pleaded to herself. Please don’t start crying, Dawn. Don’t be a baby!

  Dr. Galland shook his head. He reached forward and took her free hand in his. Looking deep into her green eyes he said, “I’ve treated you since you were born, Dawn. I’ve seen you through the chicken pox, lots of colds and flus, some ear infections and even a broken arm.”

  She nodded, remembering their medical history together. “But,” he continued, “you need specialists for this, Dawn . . . doctors who only treat kids with cancer . . . doctors who will be able to help you fight off this disease with modern weapons.” He paused, sensing her distress. “But I will come visit you regularly at Children’s Hospital.”

  “Hospital?” Dawn gasped. Bewildered, she looked at her parents. “I’ve got to go to the hospital? I-I don’t want to!” she protested.

  Her father intervened. “Dr. Galland, this diagnosis is hard to accept,” he said. His tone sounded angry. “How can you be sure? I mean, a week ago we brought Dawn in for a checkup because she was tired all the time. And now you say, ‘Cancer.’ We want a second opinion.”

  Her mother agreed. Dawn felt sorry for her parents. They looked so scared.

  “I sent a blood sample to the lab when she was here,” Dr. Galland told them. “I suspected it then. Her symptoms were classic . . . chronic sore throat, swollen glands, weakness and constant fatigue . . . coupled with the unexplained bruises on her arms and legs, and bleeding without clotting. At the hospital, they will do the bone marrow aspiration test I mentioned. That will confirm the diagnosis.”

  Dawn looked down self-consciously at her legs. The huge, angry-looking bruises glared back at her. They had been a road sign to Dr. Galland, a road sign that had said: “Cancer.” She had thought she was getting them at cheerleading practice.

  “Those same symptoms could just be the flu,” Pete Rochelle snapped.

  “It isn’t the flu,” Dr. Galland said quietly.

  The late April afternoon sun came through the blinds in his tan and burgundy-colored office making straight, flat, horizontal lines across his shoulders and the surface of his desk. The glaring light hurt Dawn’s eyes. “How long?” she asked, trying to accept a stay in the hospital.

  “You will need to stay until you get on a medication program that sends you into remission,” Dr. Galland said.

  “Remission?” she asked.

  “The state of keeping the cancer cells from spreading . . . and making your symptoms disappear,” he defined.

  “How soon?” she wondered, blinking hard.

  “This afternoon,” he told her gently.

  Dawn sat bolt upright. “T-Today?” she asked.

  “As soon as possible,” he confirmed.

  “But . . . but I have school tomorrow. And I have cheerleading practice after school. And a term paper’s due. . . .”

  “I’ve already made arrangements with the Oncology floor at Children’s Hospital,” Dr. Galland told her tenderly. “The sooner, the better, Dawn. The sooner we begin fighting this invader, the better your chances of recovery.”

  Dawn’s knuckles were white from holding her mother’s hand so tightly. But she didn’t let go. If she did, she was afraid she might start crying. And she didn’t want to cry, not here in front of Dr. Galland.

  “What do you want us to do?” Mrs. Rochelle asked. Her voice sounded trembly to Dawn’s ears.

  “Go home, pack some things for Dawn . . . personal items, no valuables,” Dr. Galland explained. “At the hospital, after you get checked in, they’ll take you up to the floor. The nurses will help get Dawn settled. They’re expecting you.”

  They’re expecting me! Dawn thought. Just like that. They were expecting her on the Oncology floor of the hospital to begin treatment of her cancer. Dawn swallowed the fear that had risen in her mouth.

  “I
-I . . . Will I get well . . ?” she asked, timidly, unable to focus on the alternatives.

  Dr. Galland looked at her fondly. “They’ve made great strides in leukemia research,” he said. “The best, most modern and finest medical technology will be yours.”

  His words should have comforted her. But they did not. They only made her feel small and scared and anxious – medical research. Suddenly, she felt like a white rat trapped in a science experiment . . . caught in a maze of mind-boggling proportions . . . a maze with no exit . . . a rat with no future.

  * * * * *

  “It can’t be true. I want another opinion, Meggie,” Dawn’s father said as he paced restlessly around the floor of Dawn’s green and yellow bedroom. Dawn watched him pace. His white shirt sleeves were rolled up. His tie was loosened around his neck.

  “We’ll get lots of opinions at the hospital, Pete,” Dawn’s mother said as she mechanically packed her daughter’s suitcase.

  Dawn sat on the bed. Her arms clutched around her knees, pulled tightly against her chest. She barely heard her parent’s conversation. She felt numb all over.

  What will I tell my friends? she wondered. How would she tell them something like this? Hi, Kim and Kathy and Jill and Rhonda. This is Dawn. Remember me? Remember how I said I had to go for a checkup today? Well, guess what? I have cancer.

  How would she tell her teachers? Gee, Mr. Collins. Sorry about that term paper. But I have cancer, you know.

  What would she say to her grandparents? Sorry, I can’t come visit you this summer. But I’ll be in the hospital. I have cancer.

  Dawn looked all around her bedroom. A soft breeze ruffled the curtains back and the sun streamed in the window. Her desk was cluttered with piles of papers, a notebook and books that were ragged from nearly a year of school and studies.

  A menagerie of teddy bears grinned down at her from bookshelves and a glass curio case. There were big bears and tiny bears of all colors. There were bears with pot bellies, bears with flat bellies. Some bears had hearts or rainbows sewn on their fronts. Dawn had been collecting them since she was two. The last time she’d counted them she counted 103 teddy bears.

  Mr. Ruggers, her very first and very favorite bear, peered at her through his one good eye. She wanted to tell him, “I have cancer, Mr. Ruggers. What am I going to do?” Instead, she said, “If people want to come see me in the hospital, please tell them not to give me any stupid teddy bears.”

  Mrs. Rochelle stopped packing and dropped onto the bed next to her daughter. She put her arm around Dawn’s shoulders. “Oh, Baby. I wish this was happening to me instead of you,” she said.

  Dawn shrugged, trying to shake off her mother’s arm. “Well, it’s not,” she said irritably.

  “Honey,” her father said, reaching out and touching her. “We’ll get the best doctors there are.”

  She shrugged him off, too. “So what?” she asked. “What can the doctors do about it? Can they make it go away? Will they make me well again?”

  Neither one of her parents could answer her. Dawn looked at both of them. Their faces looked so grim. She knew they were terrific parents. They couldn’t help what had happened to her. She shouldn’t treat them meanly. “Sorry,” she mumbled meekly.

  “I’ll call Rob tonight,” her mom said.

  Rob . . . Dawn pictured her brother. He was so big and broad across his shoulders. He’d gotten a football scholarship to Michigan State last fall. Big, brotherly Rob was the one who used to tease and torment her. He called her “Squirt” and tickled her until tears ran down her cheeks. Rob used to hide her tennis shoes and rearrange her teddy bears and take her to the movies and skating and . . .

  “There’s nothing he can do,” Dawn said testily.

  “He’ll want to know,” her father said.

  Her mother snapped the catches on Dawn’s suitcase. “All done,” she said.

  “What if we forgot something?” Dawn asked hastily. Suddenly she dreaded leaving the safety and familiarity of her bedroom.

  “I’ll bring it by later,” her mom said.

  “But what about school?” she asked. “No one knows . . .” She felt panic rise in her. The hospital! she thought. What will they do to me? How many shots will they give me? What’s going to happen to me?

  Her dad sat down and put his arm around her small frame. “It’s all right to cry, you know,” he said.

  Dawn blinked very hard and angrily forced down the rising lump in her throat. “I’m not going to cry!” she told him through gritted teeth. “It won’t help. It won’t change anything!”

  Mr. Rochelle hugged his daughter to him. Then he took Dawn’s hand and stood up, tugging her gently to her feet. They started toward the door of her bedroom. Dawn couldn’t remember the last time her dad had taken her hand and led her. Maybe it happened when she was four, when she was crossing the street, or helping her up after she’d fallen off her bike.

  He looped her arm through his and patted her hand. “We love you, Dawn,” he said softly. “And we’ll be there for you, no matter what.”

  Dawn believed her father and offered him a small smile. She took one long last look around her bedroom, avoiding the one-eyed stare of Mr. Ruggers. Then she followed her parents out the door.

  CHAPTER

  2

  Dawn surveyed the room at the hospital with fear and wonder. It was a cheerful yellow room with a window dressed in crisp white and yellow checks. Yet the room scared her, too. The hospital bed looked like a small prison with the bedrails raised. The bone marrow aspiration test had been scary, but it was over. Now Dawn’s interest was focused on the preparations for her upcoming hospital stay.

  A nurse, Fredia, chattered gaily as she bustled about the room. She pulled back the curtain partition that revealed a second bed. Although there was no one in the other bed, it was obvious that it had been occupied.

  “Your roomie is a real doll,” Nurse Fredia bubbled to Dawn and her parents. “Her name is Sandy Chandler. She’s 13 years old and she’s from West Virginia. Like you, she’s newly diagnosed with lymphocytic leukemia. She’s only been here a couple of weeks, but everybody on the floor really likes her.”

  Dawn wasn’t crazy about the news. She didn’t want a roommate. She wanted to be alone.

  “Dr. Sinclair and his team will be in soon to talk to you and your family and explain the treatment you’ll begin. I’m on the day shift, Dawn. If you want anything, please ask me.” The older woman smiled at the young girl. Dawn responded by smiling back. Nurse Fredia was so friendly that Dawn couldn’t help but like her.

  True to Nurse Fredia’s prediction, Dr. Sinclair and two white-coated doctors entered the room. Dr. Sinclair was a tall man with thick, blond hair, blue eyes and a moustache. After a round of self-conscious introductions, Dr. Sinclair settled Dawn and her family into chairs and began to talk to them.

  “First,” he emphasized, “I want you all to know that we level with our patients and their families one hundred percent. We tell you the truth. We don’t hide any facts from you. We answer your questions as honestly as we can. Understand?”

  The Rochelles nodded in unison. “All right,” he continued. “Let me tell you what’s going to happen. Leukemia is a disease of the parts of the body that make blood. For unknown reasons, the body starts making abnormal white blood cells. This means that production of red cells decreases. That’s why you’re anemic, Dawn. That’s why you feel tired all the time.”

  Dawn nodded. She had felt very tired and weak. “The disease also effects the platelets in your blood which cause clotting and keep a person from bleeding to death every time he cuts himself. Do you have trouble stopping small wounds from bleeding?” Dr. Sinclair asked.

  “Yes,” Dawn told him. “Whenever I brush my teeth, my gums bleed for no reason. And . . . and I have to be extra careful when I shave my legs. One cut bleeds and bleeds,” she added shyly.

  He confirmed her words with a nod of his head. “Red blood is produced in your bone marrow.
Leukemia disrupts that production. These maverick white blood cells invade the bone marrow and cause havoc. The result is swollen lymph nodes, spleen, liver and kidneys.”

  “What are you going to do?” Dawn asked, awed by the idea of her own body turning against itself.

  “The first line of defense in this kind of leukemia is chemotherapy,” Dr. Sinclair said. He leaned against the window sill and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “We’re going to begin giving you some very powerful drugs to kill the abnormal cells, or at least slow their growth,” Dr. Sinclair said. He smiled and Dawn noticed his straight, white teeth. “In fifty to ninety percent of all cases we achieve remission so that you can go home, go back to school and resume a normal life.”

  Go home! Dawn thought. The idea almost caused tears to come to her eyes.

  “The other kind of chemotherapy has a long name. But it means that you’ll get a powerful combination of various drugs intravenously,” he said.

  Dawn swallowed. Needles! They were going to stick her full of needles and let stuff drip into her veins. She shuddered. “Is that why I have to stay in the hospital?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Dr. Sinclair answered.

  “How long?” she asked, wide-eyed.

  “Until we achieve remission,” he said kindly. “It can take weeks or months. We administer the drugs in rounds, trying different combinations until we find what’s right for you. You’ll be on one week and off one week,” he further explained. “We try and get you out of here as quickly as possible. Since you live in the city, you can come back as an outpatient for monitoring. Your roommate, Sandy, is from a rural area. So she’ll stay here for as long as necessary to achieve remission. It isn’t feasible for her to be an outpatient.”

  “Will I always have to take the drugs? I mean, even after I go home?” Dawn asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “That’s called maintenance therapy. It usually lasts two to three years.”