Reel: A Forbidden Hollywood Romance

There’s a heaviness in the room even before the three doctors say one word. Two of them I know, Dr. Ansford from New York via video conference, and Dr. Baines, the doctor who talked with me a few days ago. I don’t know the third doctor, which instantly puts me a little on the defensive. I’ve been here three days and never seen her. I’ve started the prednisone, the drug I spent the last few years of my life avoiding, and I have to admit, it seems to be helping. My blood pressure is down. I have much more energy and feel somewhat better, but Dr. Baines wanted to keep me for observation until the kidney biopsy results came back.

Takira is on set helping with the extras and crowd shots. They’re shooting everything they can while I’m out, but at a certain point they’ll run out of scenes they can do without me. That’s why I’m eager to get this news, figure out what needs to be done, and get back to set.

Canon insisted on being here, which makes me feel even more guilty. He says Kenneth is the best AD in the business and can handle a few crowd shots on his own.

“You okay?” he asks, sitting on the edge of the hospital bed beside me, his voice low and concerned.

“Yeah.” I smile and nod to reassure him and hope that everything will be okay.

But this new doctor doesn’t help.

If you can have an air of competence, this woman carries it. Her eyes are steady, framed by a faint network of laugh lines stenciled into her smooth brown skin. With her long dreadlocks pulled into a stylish updo, she emits a confidence that probably puts most patients at ease right away. I feel nervous because she’s here and has never been before, indicating a new bend in the road on my journey with this disease.

“Neevah,” Dr. Baines says, “I’d like to introduce you to Dr. Okafor. She’s a very well-respected nephrologist who we’ve asked to consult on your case.”

Nephrologist?

I tighten my fingers on Canon’s and try to control my breathing.

“I personally requested Dr. Okafor, Neevah,” Dr. Ansford says from the screen. “She’s the best there is in cases like yours.”

“Cases like mine?” I ask, watching Dr. Okafor warily. “What kind of case is that exactly?”

“May I explain?” she asks Dr. Baines. At his nod, she walks closer to the hospital bed, those steady eyes never leaving mine. “Neevah, when we biopsied your kidneys, we found significant scarring.”

“What does that mean?” Canon asks.

She flicks a questioning glance from him to me, silently asking if he gets to speak. If I weren’t so anxious, it would be funny to see someone question Canon, even if silently.

“It’s fine,” I tell her. “He’s my boyfriend.”

Canon glances at me, a pleased look in his eyes even in the midst of this, and I realize that’s the first time I’ve referred to him that way. This situation seems to have ripped the training wheels off our relationship. In so many ways, we’re already at full speed.

“Yes, well,” Dr. Okafor says, “the scarring on your kidneys, coupled with what we’ve seen in your blood, urine and ANA tests, indicate that your original diagnosis of discoid lupus should be expanded to systemic lupus.”

I’m already lying down, but I think I’ve fallen. There is a thud in my ears as if I’ve hit the floor. The breath whooshes from my chest on impact. Canon slips an arm around my shoulder, and I clutch his hand for dear life. Literally for life and health I’ve always taken for granted that now seems imperiled.

“I . . . I don’t understand.” I shake my head, look to Dr. Ansford onscreen. “We said it was just discoid and not . . . no. Can you run more tests?”

“Initially,” Dr. Ansford says solemnly, “your symptoms presented very narrowly, but during this flare-up, it’s apparent we’re dealing with a broader diagnosis.”

“And we could waste time running more tests,” Dr. Okafor says, “or we can start treating this now for the best results. I know it’s a lot to process, but can I tell you what we’re dealing with?”

I square my shoulders and nod.

“The scarring on your kidneys is irreversible.” Dr. Okafor’s stare doesn’t waver. “And the damage is significant.”

“No.” I bark out a disbelieving laugh. “My kidneys? It couldn’t have happened that fast?”

“It can. It does. It did,” Dr. Okafor says. “Kidney failure can be quite insidious and hard to detect until the damage has been done. And it can be accelerated if you have an aggressive autoimmune event like what you have, most likely triggered by extreme conditions.”

“You mean stress,” Canon says, his jaw sharply-edged with restraint.

“Yes.” Dr. Okafor flicks her gaze to him. “Your immune system makes antibodies to fight foreign substances, bacteria, viruses, etcetera. When your body produces antinuclear antibodies, they attack the nucleus of your healthy cells.”

“Because your disease had presented so narrowly in the past,” Dr. Ansford interjects, “and you were in conditions that could have caused similar symptoms like muscle soreness and achy joints, those signals may have been disguised until they were severe enough to present as things you hadn’t experienced in the past.”

“Like the nausea and high blood pressure you came in with,” Dr. Baines adds.

“Regardless of how we got here,” Dr. Okafor says, “we are here now. The autoantibodies have affected your kidneys to the point of failure.”

“Failure?” I ask numbly.

“I know it feels sudden to you, but it has been happening quietly in your body the last few months.” Dr. Okafor slides her hands into the pockets of her white lab coat. “And now it’s getting loud.”

“How loud?” Canon asks. “What do you mean?”

“We put kidney disease into five different stages,” Dr. Okafor says. “We’ve determined you’re in stage four. Patients in this stage will most likely require dialysis for life or will need a kidney transplant. As I said, the damage, once done, is irreversible.”

I shake my head and toss my legs over the side of the bed. I need to walk, to move. I can’t bear just lying here and taking this. Accepting this, when it cannot be right. I can dance nine hours a day. I do yoga. I eat right. I barely drink alcohol. I’m healthy.

“I know this is a lot to take in, Neevah,” Dr. Okafor says.

“Take in?” I shout, my voice loud and outraged and desperate. “It’s not a lot to take in. It’s impossible. I can’t be . . .” My words splinter into the doctors’ practiced silence. That silence, that space they make for patients to accept the news. The world tilts. I’m wavering. I stagger and Canon is there, grabbing my elbow and pulling me into his chest. I stand there, sheltered in his arms, on the outside, completely still, but inside, reeling.

Vertiginous.

Spinning and falling into a deadly new reality that I’m not sure I’m ready to face. I feel Canon’s kiss in my hair, and I cling to him like he’s the only thing keeping me afloat in this storm.

“You mentioned dialysis or a transplant,” Canon says, his voice low and level. “What is your recommendation?”

I turn in Canon’s arms, resting my back against the wide, warm chest, my gaze intent on Dr. Okafor.

“Well, she’s on the prednisone,” Dr. Okafor says. “That and other drugs will help manage some of the symptoms. We can put you on dialysis. Some are on it for life, but I think our best option is a preemptive kidney transplant.”

“What’s that?” I ask.

“As I’m sure you know, with dialysis,” Dr. Okafor says, “a machine filters out the toxins, cleans your blood because your kidneys can no longer effectively do that. You could go that route, but it would be for the rest of your life.”

“No.” I shake my head, adamant. “I’m an actor. A performer. I need to be active. I don’t want that.”

“I figured you would feel that way.” Dr. Okafor gives me an assessing glance. “The preemptive transplant gets you a new kidney.”

“Aren’t there long waiting lists?” Canon asks, his deep voice a comforting rumble at my back.

“There are for deceased-donor organs,” Dr. Okafor agrees. “But we also start hunting everywhere for a living donor. Friends, family, your community.”

“A living donor?” Canon asks, sounding like he’s pouncing on it. “How do you determine if someone is a match?”

“That is a long, involved process,” Dr. Okafor says. “We start with blood type and go from there in a series of tests to determine compatibility.”

“We have a huge cast and crew,” Canon says. “I can put out the call for anyone who might want to test to see if they’re a match. Can you test me today?”

“Canon.” I look over my shoulder, staring at him. “You can’t just . . . give me a kidney. And you can’t volunteer the cast and crew.”

“I can do whatever the hell I want if my kidney is a match. And I would never pressure any of them, but when they hear you need a kidney, a lot of them will want to at least check.”

“He’s right,” Dr. Okafor says. “We check everywhere and anyone who is willing. Our best shot, though, would be a family member. Especially a sibling. A brother or a sister.”

A sister.

I used to have one of those.

But not anymore.

And all of a sudden, it may be my kidneys that are failing, but it’s my heart that hurts. Aches that with my life on the line, I can’t wrap my mind around asking Terry for anything, much less an organ. Why would she give it? Why would I take anything from her? I know I’ll have to set our differences aside to ask, but God, I don’t want to.

“This is good.” Canon starts pacing and tugs at his bottom lip the way he does when a scene isn’t going the way he thinks it should. He’s in full director mode. “Dr. Okafor, you start with the transplant list. I’ll get the word out to the cast and crew and my network, which is pretty broad. Neevah, baby, I know you don’t want to, but you’ll have to ask your mom and sister.”

“Um, thank you for the marching orders,” Dr. Okafor says dryly. “But I’ll take it from here, general.”

Unbelievably, in the midst of the worst news I’ve ever received, I snort. Chuckle. Snuckle.

Canon looks at me, his eyes softening with the tiniest glint of humor, and I know he’s thinking the same thing—of our first conversation, a chilly autumn night on a New York sidewalk. In the relatively brief time we’ve been together, we’ve made our own history. I don’t have the aerial view to see where and how it ends, but right now we are in the thick of it, and it feels good. Somehow, even in the muck of my life right now, having him still feels good.

“Sorry for his bossiness,” I say, walking over to sit on the bed because that bone-deep exhaustion is no joke. “He’s a director.”

“He’s right. We’ll have to take swift action,” Dr. Okafor says. “We already started the prednisone, which should help some, but you’ve got a long road ahead. We have other drugs that can help do the work your kidneys aren’t right now. If that doesn’t work, we may have to do dialysis until we find a donor.”

“Wait. I can’t get on dialysis.” I arrow a look between the three doctors. “I have another month left on my movie.”

“The hell you do,” Canon says harshly. “You’re not coming back on my set until she says so.”

“Canon.” I gulp back tears. “You know the whole production shuts down if I’m not there.”

“You think I give a damn about that?” His scowl deepens. “This is your life we’re talking about, Neev. Nothing . . . there’s nothing more important than that.”

“I don’t think Galaxy Studios will agree.”

“You let me handle Galaxy and anyone else who tries to give us shit. Here’s what you’re missing,” he says, grabbing my hand. “I’m the boss. Galaxy may have funded this movie, but it’s mine, and I hold all the cards, and they’ll do whatever the fuck I want.”

He glances at Dr. Okafor. “You were telling us about the dialysis.”

“It may not come to that,” she says. “We may be able to manage this with good eating habits, exercise, and pharmaceuticals until we find a kidney.”

I glance at Dr. Ansford onscreen, who winks, knowing I balk at any kind of drugs, but at this point, don’t have much choice.

“You said exercise.” I lean back into the pillows. “I can still work and be active?”

“We encourage patients to remain active. It only helps, but I’ll be frank.” Dr. Okafor sits on the bed, meeting my eyes. “You have lupus for life, Neevah. Even giving you a new kidney won’t change that. And stress will always be a possible trigger for a flare. You may need to reassess how you do what you do. Not that you can’t be a performer, but this disease will exploit every weakness and go after your organs the first chance it gets. Sometimes that is unavoidable, but there are lifestyle adjustments you can make to give your body the best shot.”

I nod, processing everything and looking for any silver lining I can find.

“We’ll work on getting you stabilized so you can resume some of your normal routines while we search for a viable kidney,” Dr. Okafor says. “But let me be clear. When I say you can go back to work, that’s when you go. Not a minute before.”

“Agreed,” Canon says. “I may be the director, but Neevah’s health is my priority, too.”

“You know, he is bossy,” she tells me, offering her first wide smile since she came bearing this awful news, “but I like him.”

I take in the contrasting hollows beneath his cheekbones. The fiery eyes that dare me to challenge him on this. The full lips pulled into a tight, level line. He is formidable, and right now, the doctor may like him, but I do not.

But I think I love him.

And how two such opposite moments—realizing I have a life-threatening illness and realizing I’m in love—can exist in the same hour, in the same room, is beyond me, but stranger things have happened. Or maybe it was always supposed to be this way. Maybe my love and this threat have been on a collision course since the beginning. Since the day a woman in a wheelchair on a rotting pier in the last rays of a dying sun stared the camera down, asking if we would live, or just wait to die. That day I only saw the words she was gifting me as inspiration to make the most out of life. Something to scribble on a sticky note and pin to my wall. Now, as Canon watches Dr. Okafor intently, noting everything that must be done over the next few months, things I’m too numb to even absorb right now, I realize there was a greater gift she was leaving me.

Her son.

But is it a gift I should refuse?

This isn’t what Canon expected. Hell, it’s not what I expected, but I have no choice. He does have a choice, or at least he should. After what he went through and witnessed with his mother, he should have a choice about going down this road again. What if he doesn’t feel he can step away from me now, even if this is too much? I couldn’t handle it if he stayed with me out of some misplaced sense of nobility or loyalty. That would be an insult to what we’ve been. An insult, in the future I can’t even see right now, to what we could be.