The One Who Holds Me (Sovereign Love #4)

18. Alex

18

ALEX

THEN

W hen Dr. Adjei mentioned the diagnosis five minutes ago, it felt like an out-of-body experience, like I wasn’t sitting there when he told me I have cancer at twenty-one years old.

For the last week, Dad, Mom and I have prayed about this. Kwame joined me in praying and even Olanna—even though she didn’t know the entire truth—has been praying that these results will be favorable. How can this be?

“Alex?” Dr. Adjei’s voice, starting out distant, becomes louder and finally zaps me out of my daydream when Dad’s hand squeezes my shoulder.

Tears blur my vision as my gaze moves from my trembling hands to the desk that separates me from the doctor. He’s still looking at me, waiting for me to answer the question I don’t remember him asking.

“ Nyame boa y?n o.” Mom places her hands on her head and wails. The tears stream down her face as she fidgets in her seat and calls on God to help us.

Dad, who has been silent since the news, lets out a sigh, then lowers his head and shakes it. “I know this is a lot to take in, son, but…”

“Am I going to die?” The words don’t feel like mine, but they weigh heavily on my tongue as tears escape from my eyes. “Please, be honest with me.”

Dr. Adjei leans forward and places his arms on the desk. “Testicular cancer is the most common cancer among adolescent and young adult males, but it is also very treatable. The good news is that from your ultrasound scan and blood tests, we think the cancer is only stage 1A. This means it hasn’t spread outside the testicle. Your tumor markers were also normal, which is very reassuring. Of course, the staging process will continue after the surgeon removes the tissue, but so far, our hope is still alive,” he says with an upbeat tone, which does nothing to cheer me up.

“So, Kofi, what options do we have? Where do we go from here?” Dad asks.

“Well, I have to refer to the hospital’s oncology team so they can discuss the treatment options in more detail. Alex, you may not need radiotherapy or chemotherapy because surgery to remove the testicle is usually the first treatment.”

“What?” My eyes widen at his response. “Remove the whole testicle? Won’t that…won’t that affect my ability to have children in the future?” Mom’s wailing increases, and this time she stands up and paces the length of the room, sending prayers up to God in Twi.

I turn to Dad and send unspoken pleas his way. He takes the hint and clears his throat.

“Erm…Kofi, please, is there a less invasive way to do this? Can they just take out the cancerous cells themselves without taking out the whole testicle?”

Dr. Adjei shakes his head before responding. “I’m afraid not. Because of the size, it will be more effective to take the whole thing out, to reduce the chances of leaving any cells behind, which may cause a relapse in the future.”

“A relapse? So even after surgery, there’s a chance the cancer could come back?” My voice breaks as I swipe tears away from my face.

“That’s the risk the surgeons will try to minimize as much as possible,” the doctor responds. “Also, removing one testicle rarely affects fertility, but there’s a small risk that the remaining one might not work as well. It’s only a small risk, Alex, so everything could turn out fine.”

“And what if it doesn’t?”

Dr. Adjei sighs. “We have to keep hope alive, son.”

I can’t believe this is happening. This has to be a joke or a dream. It better be a bad dream. I can deal with a bad dream as long as I wake up from it. This wasn’t how this was supposed to turn out. It was meant to be good news. I was hoping Dr. Adjei would give us good news, so I can finally come clean to Olanna. What do I tell her now? Oh, Lord. Please help me.

I push myself up as Dr. Adjei and my parents’ voices fade into the background. The throbbing of my heartbeat intensifies as my feet carry me to the corner of the office, where I slide to the floor and let my sobs out while Dr. Adjei and Dad’s arms try their best to console me.

I’ve never felt as helpless as I do now. With my behind glued to this hospital bed, I’ve watched nurse after nurse walk in here to perform different procedures—drawing blood samples, doing an ECG, checking my blood pressure and checking my weight. The anesthetists and the surgeons have also been throwing lots of information at me—most of which I can’t remember.

The worst part of all this is that I have to sit here and watch Olanna’s messages ping in from time to time, sending me words of encouragement for Dad. I still haven’t had the courage to tell her because…I just can’t. I should’ve listened to Kwame and never lied to her. What is she going to think of me if I mention all this now?

It’s not enough that there are already risks associated with this surgery, but now I also have all the potential post-surgical complications to add to my list of worries. Apart from praying that the surgery goes well, I can’t stop thinking about the possibility that this could affect my fertility.

Mom and Dad have been so supportive, staying by my side and keeping me distracted. But it’s moments like this, when I’m alone, that the worries flood in again and take over me. Most times, I lose the battle against these thoughts and allow them to consume me.

My phone vibrates on my bed and I turn my head slowly to look at it, silently praying it’s not Olanna because I don’t know what to say to her. When I turn the phone over, Kwame’s smiling face is on the screen, alerting me to a video call. I swipe right and put my headphones on.

“So this is really happening, huh?” Kwame asks, and I nod before leaning back. “Hope they’re treating you nice, at least.” He cracks a smile to lighten the mood, but when I don’t return his smile, I’m sure he gets the memo.

“I’m really sorry, man,” he says. “I can only imagine how difficult this is for you. But please, if anything, try to look on the bright side. It could’ve been a lot worse.”

“Yeah, of course.” I nod before pulling on the neckline of the hospital gown, and Kwame throws his head back and laughs. “What’s so funny?”

“Could you look any more uncomfortable in that gown?”

“Well, it’s a good thing fashion is no one’s priority here.” I glance around my room before watching a nurse walk past to the other end of the ward.

“Have you spoken to Olanna yet?” Kwame’s question makes me groan internally. I don’t even need to respond and Kwame gets his answer. “Come on, man. Seriously?”

“It’s not that simple.” I drop my head and try to find the words, but I can’t. “I’m the one going through this, so I know how it feels. You don’t, so please don’t judge me.”

Kwame opens his mouth to say something, but then shuts it again. “You’re right. I’m sorry, man,” he finally says after a brief pause. “Let’s focus on praying that the surgery goes well, alright?”

“Thanks, man.”

“By the way, where are your parents?”

“The doctors asked if I wanted either of my parents to donate blood to me in case I needed a transfusion during the surgery. I agreed to that, but unfortunately when they tested my parent’s blood samples, neither of them were a match for me. Both of them are AB positive and I’m O negative, so we’ll have donor blood on standby. My parents went to get something to eat, but they should be back soon. My surgery will be in two hours. The doctor says if all goes well, I should be able to go home today.”

“That’s cool. So by the end of today, everything could be over?” Kwame asks and I nod. Then, after a few seconds, he tilts his head and looks at me. “Wait a minute. If both your parents are AB positive, then shouldn’t you be an A, B, or AB? How did you end up being O negative? Dude, you’re weird.” Kwame chuckles, but when I maintain my straight face, his smile disappears.

“What is that supposed to mean?” I ask, trying to decipher his medical jargon. But Kwame waves a dismissive hand.

He scratches his head and averts his gaze. “Erm…never mind, bro. You know I’m always trippin’. You shouldn’t be talking this much. You go in for surgery soon, so you need to rest.”

“I’ve done a lot of resting for one day.” I grunt. “There’s no difference between this place and a prison.”

“A prison you will get out of soon, by the grace of God.”

“Amen,” we both say, and Kwame ends the call.

I swipe through Olanna’s recent messages where she’s asking if I’m okay and I type a quick response with all the emojis she loves to let her know I’m doing well. It’s the best I can do, so she doesn’t suspect anything—at least until I can get my thoughts together and figure out how I want to tell her.

As much as I’m trying to stay hopeful, I can’t shake away the feeling that this situation is a ticking time bomb waiting to explode. I just hope that when it eventually does, the damage will be salvageable and I’ll still have Olanna in my life.