Second Chances

Kayla Grisholm inhaled the brisk ocean air that washed over her, flirting, caressing, and tickling her sun-kissed back. She stretched both arms overhead and sprawled across her plush but faded beach towel, toes digging deeper into the warm, white sand. The crashing waves made their presence known as they rushed past the shoreline, threatening to soak her towel. Two seagulls swooped inches from her shoulder, diving for a piece of leftover bread that lay partially hidden under a large pebble. Kayla gathered more sand to either side with her toes, creating crevices for the waves to fill on their next arrival. Ten more minutes on this side and then roll over, she mused. I don’t want to burn. She smiled as she felt a flood of warm water sneak up under her left breast and warm her from the outside in. I should get up and move my towel from the water’s edge. Then again, the warm liquid felt subtly inviting, and why should she move when she was so deeply entrenched in the moment?
Ten minutes is up. Time to roll over is the message she received from her internal clock. But as Kayla tried to roll, something held her back. Her entire being felt glued to the towel, like a hundred-year-old tortoise stuck on its back, trying desperately to right itself. Her attempt to scream was futile. Nothing escaped her lips. Her mind raced. She didn’t feel right. Warm ocean water under her left breast made no sense. Why could she not move? Kayla took a deep breath, forced a guttural sound from her core, and instantly woke up. She rubbed her eyes, attempting to adjust to the morning light that streamed through a tiny crack between the blackout drapes that covered the bedroom window. She turned her head to shake the cobwebs out. Blood! Blood everywhere! Under her left breast. All over her pillow. “Oh no. This can’t be!” Her words echoed across the room in a voice she barely recognized to be her own.
“Marc! Marc! Hurry!” Kayla yelled.
Marc Sanderson burst through the bedroom doors. “Babe, what is it? Another nightmare?”
“No, look.” She tilted her head down toward her pillow.
“What the…” Marc’s eyes were fraught with fear. “Where’s all this blood coming from?”
“I don’t know yet. Roll me over.”
Marc pulled the blankets back and helped her roll onto her side. Kayla’s T-shirt was stained a brilliant red. He pulled it up and held his breath. Dark red liquid mixed with a yellowish-coloured mucous leaked down the side of her left breast. “Where are your gauze pads? I’ll try to stop the bleeding first. Then I’ll call your home care nurse. Or do you want me to call 911? Or maybe your Gramma? What do you want me to do, Kay?”
“Under the vanity. Bring the whole box. Call my nurse, Valerie, before I bleed to death!”
Marc ran into the bathroom and grabbed the box of gauze, the skin tape, and his cell. He held the gauze firmly against her incision line and pressed as hard as he could with one hand and keyed the number on his cell with the other. “Valerie, it's Marc Sanderson. I’m calling for Kayla Grisholm. We’re at 10552 Sunset Drive, here in London. I think it was you who saw Kayla a couple of days ago to remove the drains from her breasts. Well, I’m not sure what happened, but there’s blood everywhere. All over her T-shirt, her sheets, and her pillowcase. I don’t know what’s gone wrong, but I’m holding a gauze over the incision. Can you make an emergency visit?”
“I’m at another patient’s home not far from you. I can be there in ten minutes. The plows have cleared all the main streets, so the roads shouldn’t keep me any longer than ten, max fifteen. Keep holding the pressure against the area. I’ll assess it as soon as I get there. Have Kayla take two of her pain meds now so that they have time to get into her system before I arrive.”
Marc hung up and ran to the kitchen to get her pain meds and a glass of water. He propped her head up and gave her two tablets. “Valerie’s going to be here in ten. I’m supposed to keep the pressure on.” He looked into sorrowful eyes. “It’s going to be okay, Kay. I’m right here. I won’t let anything happen to you. Promise.”
Kayla took in a deep breath and closed her eyes. She felt his firm touch over her breast and knew that he meant what he said. Breast cancer had raised its ugly head weeks ago. An ultrasound, an MRI, and a biopsy confirmed the reality that she had a firm diagnosis of bilateral breast cancer. The MRI had detected a 2.7-centimetre mix of hyperplasic, atypical cancer cells deep in the right breast, two smaller nodes in the left breast, and one that found its way under her armpit, invading one of her axillary lymph nodes.
Marc changed hands to keep the pressure consistent. He stroked her hair gently, lulling her back to a calm place. He brushed a tear that escaped down her cheek with the back of his hand. “No worries, Kay,” he whispered. “We’ve got this. This time, six months from now, just memories. We can get through this.” His lips brushed her cheek, her forehead, and then her mouth. Soft, lingering. He pulled away first to search her eyes.