Page 83 of The Cannon
Dr. Spellman points to the foggy white spot I was questioning.
“Here, in your deltoid muscle, near your shoulder. It looks like a sarcoma. A small tumor. It needs to come out.”
“A sarcoma?” I’m stunned.
“It’s a cancerous growth that will have to be staged and graded. It looks small, so that’s encouraging.”
We’re stunned silent for a few beats.
“What about my pitching?”
The doctor speaks with authority. “The odds of you facing a batter again are slim.”
My shoulders sink with his words. Brick’s face looks like mine. Defeated.
“It’s definitely cancerous?” Bristol says with a catch in her throat.
“Looks like it. The edges are irregular and poorly defined.”
“I assume there will be a biopsy to confirm.”
“Yes.”
Tears start streaming down Bristol’s face. I’m too afraid to cry. Brick looks like he’s having a private conversation with himself. His head is shaking back and forth and he’s pacing.
“What’s my odds of survival?”
“If it’s stage one it means it’s small and the cancer hasn’t spread. You can be cured. It’s a less aggressive tumor and hasn’t traveled to other soft tissue like the lungs. Then we remove it surgically and that’s it.”
“What’s the other outcome?”
“If it’s an aggressive tumor it will move quickly. But let’s not go there now. I’m going to consult with my colleagues Dr. Smith a surgical oncologist and Dr. Weinstein an orthopedic oncologist. We’ll gather our team, including Dr. Dennis an eminent Pathologist.”
I’m shocked silent. Out of left field came this unexpected horror that has taken away my ability to think straight.
“You’re a very lucky man, Mr. Tom,” the doctor says, turning off the light box and pulling down the report.
“How do you figure?” I say slightly disgusted with his opinion.
The doctor walks to my bedside and points a finger at me.
“This could have hidden in your muscle for a few more months until it became so big you’d have symptoms. And along with a growth in size it would be more aggressive.”
Five minutes ago I thought a broken arm was the end of things. I was wrong.
As he makes his way out of the room, he drops a final comment.
“I’m going to schedule your surgery as soon as possible. You’ll be here for at least three more days.”
And then we’re alone. No one knows what to say first. I’m so locked inside my head right now. Bristol is still squeezing my hand and Brick’s taking his phone from his pocket.
“Who do you want me to call? Your sister?”
“No. Don’t tell anyone till the surgery is over. I don’t want anyone to worry if they don’t have to. If it’s bad, then we’ll fill them in.”
“I want my family to know,” Bristol says. “Prayers. You need their prayers. Besides, they love you. Like I do.”
The last word fades as her tears come harder. I open my arm and take her in a half embrace. She climbs onto the bed, being careful to avoid my right side.
