God's Cruel Irony (standard:drama, 2839 words)
Author: Prurient Virgin	Added: Feb 14 2003	Views/Reads: 3469/2231	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A young boy has to grow up way too fast. It's almost TV Afterschool specialish.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

that appears to be more like a giant rather than a clinic sends shivers 
down Derek's back.  No matter how many times he came here, no matter 
how many times he looked at it, the building always sent shivers down 
Derek's back.  Derek opens the car door and waves his hand shyly to Mr. 
Watkins.  Derek's mother says a short goodbye and they head into the 
building, passing the sign that reads in big bold letters, 
“CHEMOTHERAPY CLINIC.” They walk in and the receptionist greets them. 
“Good afternoon, Derek.  How are you doing today?” “I'm fine.” “He's 
nervous,” his mother chirps in, rubbing Derek's head. “Mom, stop!” 
Derek sighs in annoyance(and shyness) as he pulls away.  His mother 
just smiles.  Ugh, I hate this place.  It is always so cold in here, 
Derek thinks to himself.  Derek and his mother continue to walk until a 
middle-aged doctor with a medium build, gray hair and large frame 
glasses meets them halfway. “Good afternoon Derek.  How are you?” The 
doctor asks while not even looking at Derek when he asks. “I'm fine Dr. 
Simson,” Derek says apathetically, returning the favor. “Let's go to my 
office so we can talk,” Dr. Simson says to Derek's mother.  “Derek, 
nurse Davis here is going to take you to get your treatments, okay?” 
“Whatever.” Derek shrugs as Dr. Simson leads Derek's mother to his 
office, while nurse Davis leads Derek to the chemotherapy room. “Hello 
Derek.  Doctor Simson will be in to check on you, but I'll be 
administering your treatments today.  How are you feeling?” God I hate 
this question, and I'm so fucking sick of it.  “Fine, as always,” Derek 
says through clenched teeth. “Good to hear.  Alright, I'm going to 
start the treatments, let me know if you need to take a break to throw 
up or anything, okay?”  Nurse Davis flips a switch. “Whatever,” Derek 
mumbles as he sits back and closes his eyes, hoping to be engulfed by 
his thoughts once again. 

“I've got a bit of bad news ma‘am,” Dr. Simson said while looking at
Derek's medical chart. Derek's mother clenches both arms of her chair 
that she is sitting in uncomfortably.  She looks at the doctor who is 
still looking at his medical chart, hoping, praying, even silently 
screaming that he will actually look into her eyes if he is going to 
give her bad news.  Her silent screams do not work. “What is it?” She 
asks nervously, barely able to spit it out.  “I mean, it can't get much 
worse than it already is?” Dr. Simson's office is decorated like most 
doctor's offices.  There are six professional plaques hanging on the 
wall, proving the doctor's eight years of higher education look good on 
the wall.  Other than the large, mahogany desk with a 5,000 dollar 
computer system on it, the room is decorated mostly with bookcases 
filled from top to bottom with books.  Dr. Simson finally puts the 
chart down and sits behind the large barrier that separates him from 
the rest of the common people.  He looks directly into Derek's mother's 
eyes and says frankly with very little emotion, “It appears to me that 
the chemotherapy isn't working.  In fact....” Doctor Simson's words 
trailed off.  Derek's mother screamed inwardly, crying, and trying to 
escape the nightmare that was her reality.  It didn't matter what Dr. 
Simson said next, only that what he just said was the worst possible 
news she could have gotten.  The tears started to weld up in her eyes, 
and run down both cheeks. “Any questions?” Dr. Simson said, with arms 
folded and elbows laying on the desk.  He didn't seem to care that this 
news had ruined her life. “How long?” She asks, in a muted, muffled 
voice. “I just told you,” he sighs.  “This isn't a certain number, but 
I give him about one month, two tops.” “Is there nothing you can do?” 
She asks. “No, we've done everything we can.  I'm sorry.” I bet you 
are, she thinks to herself.  Why did this have to happen?  He's all I 
have left.   Her eyes, which have been welding up, can contain the 
tears no longer and she begins bawling.   She takes a tissue out of her 
black purse and wipes her eyes after what has seemed like a year of 
crying. Dr. Simson sits up in his chair.  “Ma'am, I just  have a little 
concern about your payment.  I know money is tight for you, but your 
insurance failed to pick up the last couple of treatments. You just 
told me my son is dying, and all you can think about is PAYMENT?!  
Derek's mother was irate, but she held it in check, despite her desire 
to let her rage gain control.  “Look, I'm sorry, but I'll do all I can 
to pay.  It's not easy, and I don't have the most high paying job in 
the world.  But you just told me my son is dying, so I would have hoped 
you could have brought the financial issue up at a better time.” “Yes, 
you are right.”  Doctor Simson says.  “I wasn't thinking.  We can talk 
about that later.” Dr. Simson looks at her for the very first time 
through eyes of a compassionate human being, and not one of a detached, 
cold doctor.  “Would you like me to tell him, or would you pref...” 
“No, I'll tell him,” she interrupts.  “I just don't know how yet.” “I 
know it isn't easy, and if it'll help, here is the number of a 
counseling service you may call.”  The doctor hands a card over to her 
and she takes it without even looking at it, and slips it into her 
purse.  “Let's go check on Derek,” Doctor Simson says to her.  The 
doctor gets up followed by Derek's mother, who gets up slowly, 
practically paralyzed from the devastating news she was given, and they 
walk out the door. 

“Are you doing okay, Derek?” Nurse Davis asks concernedly.  Four times
she had to stop so Derek could throw up.  She knew the truth, because 
Doctor Simson confided in her earlier when he asked if she would treat 
him today.  She saw that he was getting weaker, but was surprised how 
well he did take the treatments.  She figured she would have had to 
stop many more times than she actually did.  “You are a strong boy, 
Derek.”  She smiles at him and he looks back at her with cold, sad 
eyes.  “You take this better than anyone I've ever seen before.” Derek 
sighs and tries to manage a fake smile.  “Are you almost done?”  Nurse 
Davis just nods and flips the switch again. “All done,” she says and 
pats Derek on the head. I hate when people do that.  They patronize me, 
act as if I want to be treated like a sick dog who needs pet and loved 
every single second of their miserable lives. Why do they have to do 
that?  I HATE IT!  “Finally,” Derek says, thankful to be done with his 
daily treatments.  He tries to stand up at first, but is too weak. 
Derek's mother and Dr. Simson walk into the room, and Derek's mother 
immediately rushes to him and hugs him.  He tries to pull away, 
embarrassed and ashamed. “Mom, let go!” Derek yells.  Finally she 
loosens her grip and he pulls away.  They walk out of the clinic to Mr. 
Watkins' van, who is waiting to give them a ride home. “So how'd it go 
today?” Mr. Watkins asked in a cheerful voice. “Fine,” Derek says, as 
if that is his answer to everything. “I'd rather not talk about it 
right now Mr. Watkins, if that is okay,” Derek's mother says, trying to 
hide her tears. “Not a problem, ma'am,” Mr. Watkins says.  And like the 
car ride to the clinic, the ride home was also rode in silence.  When 
they arrived to their small palace, Derek's mother tried to give Mr. 
Watkins some money, but he gently refused.  When she insisted, he took 
it assuring her that it was going to be returned to her twofold.  Derek 
ran into the house and into his room, eager to get back to writing into 
his journal. “Don't get too lost in thought,” Derek's mother screamed 
after him, “dinner will be ready in about an hour.  And I have 
something important I need to talk to you about.” Derek, as he always 
did before writing in his diary, stood in front of the mirror, staring 
at himself, particularly his eyes.  He just stood there and watched 
himself, thinking how great it would be if the guy in the mirror was 
the complete opposite of him in every way, but looked exactly the same. 
 He thought how great the boy in the mirror's life was compared to his. 
 Then finally, he returned to his journal which he had left lying on 
his bed.” ‘Where did I leave off?”  He thinks to himself.  He opens his 
journal to the spot he last stopped.   He looks at it and continues 
writing. Jesus, there is another thing I am not certain about in life.  
 I mean how can I be sure of Jesus?  I've never seen him, or met him, 
and am supposed to believe he exists based on the words of other people 
I've never met.  People say Jesus did miracles.  I've never seen any 
miracles.  But I hope he does exist, and I hope I do meet him, because 
if there is anyone that ever existed that is certainly worth meeting, 
then it would be this Jesus guy. I had another appointment today.  
Mom's worried, I can tell.  I think the doctor finally told her what 
I've known all along.  I feel sad for her because she puts her heart 
and soul into me, and I'm going to be leaving her soon.  As much as I 
love her and dont' want to leave her, at the same time, though, I'm 
relieved.  There will be no more questions, no more fake empathy, no 
more pats on the head...I'll finally be free.  People have asked me if 
I'm scared, every time I get treatments or every time I get sick.  And 
before I can answer, they always tell me how “THEY” would be scared and 
how it affects them.  Well, to be honest, I'm not scared.   People can 
never realize how scared they will be until something actually happens. 
 Well, I have cancer, and I'm dying, and I'm not scared.  I want to 
die, because until I do, I won't be at peace.  It is just so sad, 
because when I die...my mother will lose her peace.  I guess this is 
God's cruel irony.” Derek's mother's voice interrupts his writing.  
“Dinner's ready,” she yells from another room, trying to come to grips 
with the fact that she has to tell her son that he is dying.  Derek 
closes his journal and determines that the last thing he writes in it 
will be a letter to his mother. He throws his journal on the bed, looks 
in the mirror and scratches his head.  “I guess I'll go tell her I'm 
dying,” he says as he heads downstairs to his waiting mother.  There, 
in the small kitchen of that small house, Derek and his mother have the 
conversation of their lives. 


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