Chapter 6: The Phone Call I Almost Didn't Make
Mia slept hard that night, the deep sleep of a child who had actually used her body for something good.
I lay awake until past midnight.
The paper was on the nightstand.
I'd taken it out of my bag without deciding to, the way you reach for something without meaning to.
I read it again in the dark, the glow of my phone lighting the edges.
The trial was called the SENTINEL study.
Post-treatment monitoring and early-detection protocol for pediatric acute lymphoblastic leukemia.
The hospital was in Cincinnati.
The lead researcher's name was Dr.
Patricia Okafor.
Mia's oncologist had never mentioned it.
That didn't mean anything, necessarily.
Trials opened and closed.
Not every doctor tracked every study.
It didn't mean anything.
I put the paper back on the nightstand and stared at the ceiling.
At 6:14 in the morning, before Mia woke up, I went into the bathroom, sat on the edge of the tub, and called the number.
It rang four times.
I was composing a voicemail in my head when someone picked up.
"SENTINEL study, this is Carla."
I hadn't expected a real person.
I fumbled for a second.
"Hi.
I'm — my daughter finished treatment eleven days ago.
Acute lymphoblastic leukemia.
I was given this number by someone who thought the study might be relevant to her case."
"Of course." Carla's voice was calm and practiced.
"How old is your daughter?"
"Eight."
"And her treatment center?"
I gave her the name of our hospital.
She typed something.
"We do have an open enrollment window right now," she said.
"Your daughter may meet the eligibility criteria.
I can send you the full protocol document today if you'd like to share it with her oncologist."
"Yes," I said.
"Please."
"Can I get your email?"
I gave it.
My voice was steady.
I was proud of that.
"You'll receive it within the hour," Carla said.
"And — whoever gave you this number, they did the right thing."
I didn't say anything for a moment.
"Thank you," I said.
I hung up and sat on the edge of the tub for a while longer.
Then I heard Mia's voice from the other room — "Mom?
Where are you?" — and I stood up, splashed water on my face, and went to start her morning.
I didn't tell her about the call.
Not yet.
There was nothing to tell yet, not really.
Just an email coming, and a document to send, and a conversation with her doctor that hadn't happened.
But something had shifted in the night.
Something small and stubborn.
I ordered us room service for breakfast.
Mia got pancakes.
She ate every bite.
Halfway through the meal, there was a soft knock at the door.
May you like
I opened it.
Renee was standing in the hallway.
