My Best Friend Called My Chemotherapy A “Ten-Minute Procedure” — So I Exposed Her To Our Entire Group Chat

Part 1

I sat in my car outside the bakery when the hospital called.

My phone vibrated against the center console.

The caller ID showed Saint Jude’s Oncology.

I turned the engine off.

The air conditioning died, leaving me in the sweltering heat of the parking lot.

My hands were already sweating against the steering wheel.

“Megan,” the scheduling nurse said.

I could hear the click of her keyboard in the background.

“We need to move your infusion to this Saturday at ten in the morning.”

My grip on the leather wheel tightened.

Saturday was Heather’s twenty-fifth birthday.

We had been best friends since our sophomore year of high school.

She had planned a massive dinner at an upscale downtown restaurant for weeks.

I had just ordered a custom tiered cake from the bakery behind me.

It had pink fondant and silver edible glitter, exactly what she wanted.

I tried to swallow the lump in my throat.

“Is there any way we can keep it on Monday?”

The nurse paused.

The silence on the line felt heavier than the August heat.

“Your white blood cell counts dipped again.”

“Dr. Evans wants this round done immediately.”

“Lupus isn’t something we can negotiate with right now.”

She was right.

My joints ached just sitting there.

The fatigue felt like a heavy wet blanket draped over my shoulders.

I had spent the last two years fighting my own body.

Lupus had drained my energy, my career, and my social life.

Heather was the only connection I had left to the person I used to be.

I clung to our friendship like a life raft.

I confirmed the appointment and hung up the phone.

I stared at the bakery window for a long time.

Heather loved big celebrations.

She treated her birthday like a national holiday every single year.

I knew this would disappoint her.

We had bought matching dresses for the occasion.

I had spent my limited energy over the last week making sure her reservations were perfect.

I picked up my phone and typed a message.

Hey, the hospital just called.

They rescheduled my chemo for Saturday morning.

I don’t think I’m going to be able to make it to dinner.

Brenda said she’s fine picking up the cake for you though.

I hit send and waited.

Three dots pulsed on the screen.

I expected a sad face emoji, or maybe a quick phone call to check on me.

All right, okay, no worries.

What time is your appointment exactly?

The reservation isn’t until eight, so I think you’ll be fine.

I blinked at the screen.

I wiped a bead of sweat from my forehead.

She knew how these treatments worked.

My appointment is at ten.

I don’t know exactly how long I’ll be there.

Even if I’m home in time, I’m always super wiped afterwards.

I’ll probably just spend the rest of the day in bed.

I set the phone down and rubbed my aching wrists.

The three dots appeared again.

They vanished.

They appeared once more.

Well, isn’t that a little selfish?

My breath hitched in my chest.

I read the words twice to make sure my tired eyes weren’t playing tricks on me.

Selfish.

She was calling me selfish for getting medical treatment for an autoimmune disease.

I’m not trying to trivialize your situation, but it’s like a ten-minute procedure.

I’m sure the time between ten and eight will be enough to recover.

Plus, being out and eating food should be sure to get your energy back up anyways.

I feel like you’re just using something you know you can hold over me to get out of doing something that is important to me.

I only turn twenty-five once.

My hands started to shake.

I dropped the phone into my lap.

The heat inside the car became suffocating.

I rolled the window down to let the breeze in.

Ten minutes?

My last session took over three hours.

Heather came with me to that one.

She spent the entire time in the visitor chair texting her boyfriend.

She didn’t even look up when the nurse had trouble finding a vein.

I picked the phone back up.

My fingers hit the keys a little too hard.

It’s not ten minutes.

I’m usually in there for like three hours.

I’m not trying to hold anything over you.

I’ll be super sick and not up for coming out.

I probably wouldn’t even be able to eat dinner anyway.

Her response came immediately.

Well, for starters, it was a little over two hours.

Why are you splitting hairs over the time?

Plus, what do you think the vibe is going to be like when people ask where you’re at?

I have to say you’re recovering from chemo.

I genuinely think you are holding it over me.

I’m not going to let the taboo of the situation stop me from calling you out.

I stared at the bakery door.

I had spent two hundred dollars on her cake.

I had spent weeks planning this night for her.

Now she was worried about the vibe of the dinner party.

She thought mentioning my illness would ruin her aesthetic.

I closed my eyes and let the anger finally wash over me.

I had spent years making excuses for her narcissism.

I had always told myself she didn’t mean to be insensitive.

I had always been the one to apologize first just to keep the peace.

Not this time.

I’ll send Brenda the details for the bakery.

I’m definitely staying home now.

I started the car and put it in drive.

My phone buzzed one last time.

As if you were ever going to come.

I hit the brakes.

The tires chirped against the asphalt.

I put the car back in park.

My pulse hammered in my ears.

I didn’t reply to her message.

I opened our massive group chat with all our mutual friends, attached the screenshots, and typed a single sentence.