Blood Work

By John Graham-Pole

Written by a renowned children’s cancer specialist, John Graham-Pole, Blood Work is a fictional but true-to-life account of just such a near-fatal illness. It is also a life-and-death adventure and a coming-of-age romance. The story tells of sixteen-year-old Moraig (“Raig”) Brossard’s journey through the trauma of cancer and its treatment. An ally appears: Rap, a high-school senior and hospital volunteer, who introduces her to the drum and the paintbrush. As she battles her way through her ordeal, and her feelings for Rap deepen, she helps her parents draw close once more. The story closes as Raig, now eighteen and newly finished chemotherapy, ponders the uncertainties of her future.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Harp People's Press
• Release date: May 15, 2019
• ISBN: 9781990137013

John Graham-Pole

John Graham-Pole is a retired professor of pediatrics (Professor Emeritus, University of Florida). He has been a clinician, teacher and pioneer researcher in the field of childhood cancer for forty years. Educated in the United Kingdom, he co-founded the Center for Arts in Medicine (www.arts.ufl.edu) at the University of Florida, now among the world’s leading arts-and-health organizations. He is co-publisher of HARP The People’s Press (www.harppublishing.ca), which is dedicated to producing print and online publications on art and health for a diverse readership. John’s personal website is www. Johngrahampole.com and he can be found on Facebook, Instagram and LinkedIn.

Book preview

Cover: Blood Work by John Graham-Pole. The cover page of the book, Blood Work, features a painting of a smiling girl with long, golden, curly hair. It appears she has put on some makeup.

Blood Work

A Novel

John Graham-Pole

A harp, which is the logo of HARP Publishing, The People's Press Clydesdale, Nova Scotia, Canada.

HARP Publishing

The People’s Press

Clydesdale, Nova Scotia

Canada

Copyright 2019 © John Graham-Pole

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publishers

Information about purchasing this book can be obtained from the publishers: [e-mail]

tel [phone]

A harp, which is the logo of HARP Publishing, The People's Press Clydesdale, Nova Scotia, Canada.

Catalogue-in-Publication data is on file with Library and Archives Canada

ISBN: 978-0-9938295-1-2

Cover artist: Eva Bertrand-Brunelle

Graphic design: Cathy Lin

Author portrait: Gillian McCulloch

Printed in Canada by Rapido Books

Published in Canada by HARP: The People’s Press

216 Clydesdale Road, Clydesdale,

Nova Scotia, CANADA B2G 2K9

www.harppublishing.ca

Fascinating, compassionate and compelling story about a teen’s battle with cancer, and about the healers and family around her, written by an award-winning paediatric oncologist who used humour and the arts in his own practice. A must read if you are a teenager, a parent, a doctor, or just interested in how love, laughter and empathy can cure

Anne Camozzi, artist and author, Galaxies

A beautifully written story that will capture the hearts and imagination of all readers. Wonderful narrative development, suspense, and tension between characters

Dr Sheldon Currie, author, Down the Coaltown Road

This phenomenal book perfectly depicts the life-and-death battle of a teen with cancer, including humour, a beautiful romance, and even elements of fantasy. Adults and adolescents alike should read this story with its hard-hitting medical facts about cancer and amazing characters who show everyone just how precious life can be

Ispeeta Ahmed, aged 14

Strengthening empathy in others is, essentially, building bridges and narrowing distances in human connections. The authentic narrative of this text allows readers to do just that through the development of a protagonist whose trauma is met with resilience and a learned knowledge that moving forward is always better than standing still

Yvonne Quik, high school English language arts teacher

A tough, wise, and tender novel about a feisty narrator facing something which no teen should have to. The inexplicable catastrophe of cancer brings an abrupt end to dating, friendships, and daily normality. Written by a renowned paediatric oncologist, this book is authentic in every detail, both medical and emotional. Raig’s unflinching journey through illness will inspire, inform, and even bring joy to readers

Troon Harrison, editor and author, Red River Stallion

Blood Work pays tribute to the courage, vulnerability, tenacity and resilience of teenagers. It can be read for the story or to explore issues that rarely enter our conversations. The relationship built over time between healthcare professional and patient with a life-threatening illness helps us understand on a deeper level the thoughts and actions of teens. A book that can have meaning for readers of all ages

Dr Dorothy R Barnard, pediatric oncologist

John uses his rare knowledge to create a heartfelt story from the perspective of a feisty teen cancer patient. It is told with interesting, welldrawn characters, compelling drama, and a realistic resolution

Anne Louise MacDonald, children’s author and cancer survivor

Reading an early draft of Blood Work, I knew its unflinching portrayal of a teen’s high-stakes, life-and-death experience with cancer would resonate with many. Even those who have no direct experience with that horrible disease will be swept up in Moraig’s adventure, as it’s also a fully fleshed coming-of-age love story that calls to mind John Green’s The Fault in Our Stars

Marianne Ward, Editor

Also by John Graham-Pole

Illness and the Art of Self-Expression

On Wings of Spirit

Quick: A Pediatrician’s Illustrated Poetry

The Arts & Health (Co-Authored)

Journeys with a Thousand Heroes

The People’s Photo Album (Co-Authored)

Table of Contents

One – Fever: high temperature; excitement; craze

Two – Learning: gaining knowledge; fixing in the mind; becoming aware

Three – Blood: fluid carrying oxygen & nourishment; family lineage

Four – Cancer: uncontrolled growth of cells; evil scourge

Five – Pain: distressing physical feeling; major irritation

Six – Doctor: medical healer; professor; fixer of things

Seven – Protocol: research plan; conventional rules; appropriate behavior

Eight – Appearance: how someone looks; coming into sight; assuming a brave front

Nine – Relations: people with blood or marriage ties; friendships; love affairs

Ten – Home: dwelling; refuge; place of loving care

Eleven – Near-Death Experience: out-of-body awareness; supernatural experience

Twelve – Play: fun activity; sports action; drama or musical performance

Thirteen – Art: making beautiful things through creative effort; skill arising from imagination

Fourteen – Healing: Restoring to health; recovering body, mind, and spirit

Fifteen – Resilience: capacity to spring back from pressure; recovery from setbacks

Acknowledgments

One

Fever: high temperature; excitement; craze

Blanketing fog. Hard surface beneath me. Hot breath on my eyelids. Brief silhouette, then tattooed forearms block my sight. Hands thrust up my sleeve, twist something tight about my arm. I struggle, am held rigid. Agonizing stab in my hand.

Drugs?

Ease up, hon.

Siren shriek. My body’s jerked into space. Darkness. Wake to excruciating cramps. Try to roll over. Pain stabs hips, chest, neck, belly—some killer bug? I blink, see only fuzz. Reach to rub my eyelids. Arms pinned down.

A woman’s voice: Moraig. Can you hear me? I’m Rebecca. Your nurse.

Turn my head cautious inches. ID badge—can’t make out the words. Try to answer, summon a racking croak.

Nurss?

You hurting?

Nod, scared of more stabs. Cool hand on my forehead. Water squirts in my mouth—heaven’s raindrops.

Thass goo. Can’t get my voice in gear.

You’re going to be fine, dear. Outline still blurred, but her hand’s comforting.

Hard to focus, right? It’s the meds, Moraig. Had to give you something strong. You put up a good fight.

Whass in mou?

A tube. To help your breathing. Didn’t want you choking while you were out of it. Horrid, right?

A man’s voice—foreign-sounding.

Moraig, I am Doctor Bannerjee. You were at a party, and became ill. You have a high fever, from a nasty infection. It started in your stomach, but now it is in your blood too.

Asian? Middle-Eastern? Where am I?

The nurse again: I’ll fetch your mom, Moraig—she’s just outside. And I’m going to untie your arms. Go easy, though, okay?

I struggle to get my mind around the doctor’s words. Infection? Stomach? Blood? Crazy images. Brief vision of Hilton—far off and looking scared.

Oh God, sweetheart, I was worried sick. I’d no idea where you were till they called me.

Mom! Is she crying? When did that ever happen? And what’s with the ‘sweetheart’? Is this really my mother? Fear circles my gut. I need to pee, but something’s rubbing inside my bladder. I fall back asleep.

---

Blink open my eyes. The pains and parched mouth are back times a thousand, but things come right into focus. Mom’s dozing in an armchair by the bed. Maybe things will start making sense.

Mom. My voice’s still a painful scratch, but I press on. Stomach’s hurting.

She jerks upright, grabs my hand.

I’ll get the nurse right away, Moraig. She said you’d need pain meds as soon as you woke up.

She stretches down beside the bed, pulls up a plastic tube, presses a rubber ball on the end.

Am I in hospital?

Yes. You got sick while you were out with… your friends.

Things slot into place. I was at that dance club. Getting shivery, but burning hot. Hilton was coming on strong. Did I hold him off? I’m totally fogged how far things went. Did he put something in my drink—the way guys do with date rapes? Another memory—an ogre in mac-and-cheese outfit, tattooed arms, the naked shock of a needle stick. Then I’d gone tripping.

What’s happening to me?

Moraig, you’re at the university hospital in Halifax—where I work, remember? You got very sick—it came out of the blue. That footballer friend of yours took you to some club. They told me the name but I’d never heard of it. Gave you something strong to drink, and you passed out. Thank God the barman caught on you weren’t just tipsy but seriously ill and called nine-one-one. You’re at the university hospital in Halifax—where I work, remember?

I tune into her breathing. Fast, jerky, struggling for control.

They ambulanced you straight here, then called me at home. Your father’s off on a construction job in Corner Brook, but he’s catching the next plane back.

Sounds a lot more worried than mad.

You remember the doctor talking to you, Moraig?

Guy with an accent. Talking’s like the worst laryngitis. Said I’d got an infection.

It started in your navel. In that… piercing. Moraig, I don’t know how long that’s been there, but thank heavens it’s out now. Anyway, we can discuss that later.

It’s been easier keeping my eyes shut while she’s talking, but now I jerk them open.

They’ve ripped out my stud? I can’t believe it. You know how much that cost me?

Moraig, you could have… She doesn’t finish her sentence. Your navel was horribly infected—you’ll be on antibiotics for weeks. Something’s wrong with your blood. The doctors are working on it.

She’s close to tears. What is it with my blood? Something major. I close my eyes against spiraling dread. Further talk’s cut short by a woman’s voice on the intercom.

What d’you need, hon?

"My daughter’s just woken up. She’s hurting. Can they please bring more pain medication?"

I’ll get her nurse right away.

Mom, what happened to Hilton? Did he come in the ambulance?

Certainly not, Moraig. Well, he did turn up later. They were furious—he parked his truck smack in one of the ambulance spots, then took off before anyone could speak to him. Just as well after all he’d put you through.

Tears prick my eyelids, stuff up my nose. I swallow, turn my head to the window so Mom can’t see.

Seems he wasn’t up to taking responsibility for anything.

I keep my head averted, grab a tissue from the bed table, blow my nose, then pull my eyes back toward her. Her hands are rubbing circles around her forehead.

The doctor will explain everything, Moraig, once she has all your test results.

Her voice trails off. She moves her hands to her lap, stares down at them.

"What are all these tests? I can’t keep the snap out of my voice. Can’t I get a simple answer to what’s going on?"

Whatever she’s holding back is setting off alarm bells. She’s always such a straight shooter, my mom. Always tells it straight—even if you’re the boss of the hospital, or the head enchilada of the whole nation. Most especially she gives it straight to me—Raig Broussard. I hate this distance that’s opened up between us lately. Maybe I’m as much to blame as her—I’m not the easiest daughter on the planet.

Mom, if this is where you work, can’t you get the nurse in here right now? I’m really hurting.

Moraig, I’m sorry, I don’t have any special clout. I don’t venture down from the tenth floor too much.

She tries for a smile but her eyes glisten—and not from laughter. Then she’s on her feet and heading for the door. From the way her back’s shaking, she’s not holding in the tears.

I pull myself up to look around, triggering a stomach spasm and break-out of sweat. I go to lift my right arm to wipe my face, only to find it strapped to the bed and bandaged elbow to finger tip. I lift my sheet with my other hand to take a look at myself. A wrinkled off-white gown barely covers my top half. I peer between my almost naked breasts at a second bandage stretching from ribs to thighs. Two ears and a pair of paws are peeking out from under the sheet: Archie, my moth-eaten old teddy bear.

Mom must have brought you in. Maybe she realized I needed some TLC.

As I pull him up with my free hand, I brush against the rubber buzzer pinned to my bedside.

Just found out that’s a call button, Archie. So what if it dropped on the floor, and I fell out of bed trying to reach it, and bled to death before they could get here? Could you handle that scenario, old buddy?

I grin through sniffles at talking to my stuffy like I’m four years old again. But anything to break the silence—my stomach’s twisting in figures of eight. I take another look under my coverings. My eyes light on a tube sticking out from my groin, running straight between my legs and over the bed end.

Got to be what’s rubbing inside, Arch. Say goodbye to privacy, or heading to the bathroom whenever. How about when I need to poop? I’m like a little kid back in diapers.

I get an overwhelming impulse to scream to the rooftops, only kept in check by my raw throat. I offer up a few more salty tears, swipe at them with my tongue, turn my attention to the bandage around my right arm. A tube’s running up to a bag suspended on a pole. Both bag and tube are filled with blood.

How come I didn’t see that before? Whose blood is it? They better have checked it for AIDs. How come I need a transfusion, anyway? They’ve lifted this whole scene straight out of Grey’s Anatomy.

I check out the rest of the room. It’s a good sight larger than mine at home, but the only furniture is a bedside table, armchair, and a couch against the far wall. Could double as a sleeper for Mom or Dad, though not for both, even if they do still get the odd urge to fool around. The walls are ugly lime-green, bare apart from a few kiddy prints plastered over the couch. Windows fill much of the wall opposite the door, with white curtains drawn part way, and an apartment skyscraper filling the remaining view. A cooing interrupts my inspection. Two pigeons strut on the window ledge, bobbing their heads in unison.

What about that—living, breathing creatures! Sorry, Arch, no offence.

The door swings open and the nurse from earlier sweeps in with a loaded tray. Among other goodies, I spot a three-inch-long syringe full of milky fluid.

Hi, Moraig, I’m Rebecca—your nurse. I talked to you before but you weren’t too with it. She lays her tray on the bed, perches on the chair edge. Real sorry I couldn’t make it in quicker. Couple of emergencies just as I was starting my shift. But your mom said you were awake and hurting. I’ve brought you something strong for that.

Sending Mom the VP seems to have stirred things up, but I keep the thought to myself, too busy bracing for the needle about to be rammed into some part of my anatomy. I watch Rebecca wipe off the plastic tube where it disappears under the bandage, then slot the needle on the syringe into a connection in the tubing. She must have sensed my anxiety.

Hey, you won’t feel a thing, sweetie. I’ll shoot this little cocktail straight into your IV. Saves us sticking you every time we need a blood sample, or have to dose you up with antibiotics and stuff.

I’m hanging on her every word. Some straight poop at last, even if I’m still totally in the dark about how I came to be tucked up here in hospital, minus my underwear on the wrong end of someone else’s blood.

You’ve been out of it since you got here—almost four days now, Rebecca goes on. You’ll be pretty sore now you’re back in the land of the living. I’ll make sure Doctor Sullivan orders regular pain meds.

She chatters on as she eases her ‘little cocktail’ into the tube. All I feel is a slight tickle up my arm.

Whose blood is that? Was I in an accident?

No, no accident. You just got anemic, and we’re putting it right.

Weirder by the moment—not that it matters too much. I’m getting a swift buzz from this painkiller zooming into my grey matter. Even better than those Margie-thingies I was downing in that bar. Omigod, when was that? How long did this nurse say I’d been here? Did Hilton really take off without so much as a see ya later?

Did anyone call? Friends? A guy? My voice is slurring already.

Not on my shift, maybe earlier. I’ll check it out.

I’m heading back into la-la land, bellyache and other agonies one big smudge. My last thought is this Rebecca has a cool hand with a syringe—and they needn’t bother with breakfast, I’m not too hungry.

---

I wake up to a return of sore throat and belly cramps, but I’m gasping with relief at getting way out of that dream. A gang of men had been pinning me to the ground and messing with my clothes. Am I still a virgin? I already had one close call with Hilton in that park.

The movie of my dream unwinds behind my eyelids, spinning at super speed—like the