by M. Leighton
“Yes.” The word is firm, determined, unsinkable.
“And you’re in agreement with this?” She pins Nate with a mildly accusing stare.
He nods. “I’m with her. Whatever she wants, if it’s within my power to give it to her, I’m in.”
The oncologist rolls a foot or two backward, clearing her throat, collecting her thoughts. “You realize that this will severely limit your care.”
“I do.”
“How much thought have you given this?”
“A lot.”
“Have you considered taking treatment now and trying to get pregnant again later?”
“You and I both know what that treatment would do to my organs. I was having trouble getting pregnant before I was diagnosed with cancer. My chances will decrease dramatically after having surgery followed by what will probably be multiple rounds of chemo and radiation. And all that for a slim chance that I’d even survive two years. No, I haven’t considered that option because it’s not an option. At least not for me. This baby is a gift. A miracle. And I’m going to do everything I can to carry it.”
There is a long, pregnant, unnerving silence before my doctor speaks.
“You know we won’t be able to monitor the spread of the disease. Every effective test and drug that we would use is contraindicated during pregnancy. CT, PET Scan, MRI with contrast. And drugs… Every drug that I can think of is—”
“Yes, I know.”
“And pain. We won’t be able to treat your pain when it comes, Lena. And there will be pain.”
I feel Nate’s hand twitch. I haven’t given him all the gory details that I’ve considered, but I have considered them. I know the consequences. I just didn’t tell Nate about every single one of them. I couldn’t be sure he’d have been so gung-ho about keeping the baby once he learned what my sacrifice would entail. Yet another reason I wanted to keep it from him as long as possible. So he wouldn’t worry. So the fine points of my outlook wouldn’t plague him.
But now he’s going to hear it.
Every gory detail.
“I know there will be pain, but I’m willing to do whatever I have to, go through whatever I have to, suffer through whatever I have to in order to bring this child into the world.”
“Lena, there are other risks that you might not have considered. The very nature of your condition will pose a threat to the health of the baby. The disease is in your lymph system. More spread is inevitable at this point.”
“I realize that, but all I need is twenty-eight weeks. Total. And that’s less than eighteen from now.”
“The cancer itself will eventually cause wasting syndrome, which will impair nutrition to the baby. Have you considered that?”
“Yes, but I can get nutrition other ways.”
“Bear in mind that you can’t be put to sleep to insert a J peg.”
“No, but I can have an NG tube. I know it’s not ideal, but it’s an option. And we can always supplement with parenteral nutrition if need be.”
Dr. Taffer’s lips thin. She’s just beginning to see exactly how determined I am to carry this baby.
“If you’ve got all this figured out, why are you here? You don’t need an oncologist. I treat cancer. You don’t want treatment. There’s nothing I can do to help you.”
Her voice is harsh and sharp, and it cuts right through. My stomach twists in anxiety.
“Lheanne.” I inject as much reason as I can into my voice. Lheanne Taffer and I have become friends, and I know that her sour statement is coming from a place of concern. Nothing more. She’s too professional to speak to any other patient this way, I feel sure. “I still need your help. I need your expertise to help me head off complications before they happen. Like from my liver. We know the cancer has already spread there. How will that affect the baby? Can it be managed? I still need your help, just in a slightly different way. I don’t need you to help me live. Survive. I need you to help me carry this child. As long as I possibly can.”
Abandoning Nate’s hand, I scoot to the edge of my chair, wiping tears that have begun to fall. “I would die for this baby. To give it life, I would gladly give mine. I’m asking you to help me hang on for as long as I can so I can do that. I want this baby. More than anything else, I want this baby. Please help me give this one last gift to my husband. Please.”
At my confession, uttered on a desperate whisper, I hear Nate’s sharp intake of breath. I glance his way just in time to see the shock, the devastation on his face before he releases my hand and drops his head low, toward his spread knees. I watch him as he stares at his fingers, fingers he steeples and flattens, steeples and flattens. He concentrates on them as though they hold the key to life. Or the key to his questions.
But that’s not what he’s looking for.
I know my Nate.
He’s simply taking the time he needs to compose himself. For me. For my sake. He wasn’t expecting this, and it’s hitting him like a tanker truck loaded with explosive gas. And he doesn’t want me to see the wreckage.
I reach down to place my hand over his. Because I know. Even when he tries to hide it from me, even when he tries to protect me, I know.
I know.
He stills except for the thumb of one hand which rubs back and forth over the sensitive outer edge of my palm. In the back of my mind, an invisible clock is counting the seconds as they tick by.
One one-thousand.
Two one-thousand.
Three one-thousand.
The clock has just reached a slow count of six when Nate bends to press his lips to my knuckles and then straightens in his chair, throwing one arm over my shoulders in a show of support. Of comfort. Of solidarity.
This is what he is to me.
This is what we are to each other.
Strength.
Commitment.
Unfailing love.
I turn my gaze to Lheanne. I see the subtle expressions as they shift over her face. Exasperation, sympathy, concern, and, finally, acquiescence.
When it comes, her submission, I welcome the sigh of her resignation.
“This is going to be tricky, you know that, right?”
I laugh outright, sniffing as I wipe my cheek, and scoot back in the chair to lean slightly against Nate’s shoulder. Suddenly, I’m exhausted.
“That’s exactly what Dr. Stephens said.”
“Well, she was right. But tricky doesn’t mean impossible. Women with severe liver disease have successful pregnancies. I can’t manage the obstetrical part of your situation, but if this is what you want…I’ll do my best to get you there from a disease management standpoint. And to keep you as comfortable as I can.” Wheels start to turn behind Dr. Taffer’s eyes. I recognize the look. “We should consult an internist, see what can safely be done from a pharmaceutical approach. And I know a holistic guy who has had some success with pain relief through acupuncture. I know he treats pregnant women. He might even be able to recommend some herbs to ease some other issues. I could give him a call. And we can look at some natural remedies for nausea. Ginger suckers are really good for that.” She reels off a handful of other options and thoughts that have me sighing in relief.
Slowly, my optimism begins to return. When Dr. Taffer finishes listing the avenues we can explore, I take advantage of the pause that ensues. I have one more question to ask. It’s the query I’ve been staring out over like a child staring out over the Grand Canyon. It’s the uncrossable chasm, or at least it could be.
“So, bottom line. Do you see any reason why I wouldn’t be able to carry this baby? As long as I’m diligent about keeping myself in the best health possible? I mean, as much as a terminal cancer patient can.”
Dr. Taffer goes still and so does my heart. I feel it pause in my chest as though time and space and life are holding their breath, waiting for an answer. Teetering on the edge of implosion. Total annihilation.
“No, I don’t see any reason right now that you won’t be able to carry the baby. Provid
ed that your disease doesn’t progress too quickly. But in the grand scheme of things, there is little I can do to actually ensure that. You have to know that there are a million and one things that could happen, unpredictable things, things that we will have no way of treating. Or even diagnosing until they present a problem. If I can’t monitor your disease progression and your health properly…” She holds up her hands in defeat.
“I know. And I’m not asking you for a miracle. Or even for a promise. I’m leaving that up to God.”
Dr. Taffer raises her brows. In all our many talks since my diagnosis, never have I mentioned prayer or miracles or a higher power, something that a large portion of patients turn toward immediately when given such life-altering news.
Lheanne’s lips twist wryly. “I hope His hands are more capable than mine.”
“I hope so, too,” I admit, clinging to the hope I found in Rome. “I hope so, too.”
********
I feel more encouraged than I ever would’ve imagined by the time we leave Dr. Taffer’s office. For the first time since I was basically given a death sentence, I feel like the rest of my life is going to mean something. I’m not just going to be giving my husband a lifetime of good memories while we wait for cancer to overcome my body; I’m going to be fighting for the survival of our child.
It isn’t until we get into the car that Nate turns to me, distress written all over his face. In my excitement and relief, I momentarily neglected the fact that he’s been delivered a nuclear bomb and has yet to say a word about it.
“You knew all of this and didn’t tell me.” His voice is mildly accusing.
“Knew all of what?” I ask, delaying the inevitable.
My heart pounds heavily. I feel the full force of his shock, of his alarm coming at me in a concussive wave.
“All of the reasons that this isn’t a good idea.”
“I don’t know of any reason that this isn’t a good idea.”
“Lena, you’re going to suffer. Horribly!” His words explode into the quiet interior of the car, reverberating off the windows and booming through me. His distress, his disbelief, his devastation is palpable, a low hum in the air that makes the hair on my arms stand at attention.
“I was going to suffer anyway, Nate,” I remind him softly. I have to fight his fire with a calm, cool, rational breeze.
“You wouldn’t take treatment because you didn’t want me to have to go through that and you die anyway. But you’re okay with this? With me watching you go through pure hell for me? To give this baby to me?”
“Yes, Nate. I’d do anything for you. Anything for this baby. Anything for this family. I love you. You’re all I have. You’re all I’ll ever have, because my ‘ever’ is almost up. But when it is, and my time has come, you won’t be alone. You’ll have a child, a piece of us, to love and to hold. To me, that’s worth whatever sacrifices I have to make. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you. Nothing.”
“Lena, Jesus! How am I… How can I live with that? How can I live with myself, knowing that you did this for me?”
“You live happy. You live whole. You live for our child. And you live like someone who is loved. Beyond all doubt or reason or limit. Because that’s how I love you.”
He moans miserably, leaning his head back against the headrest and closing his eyes. “And until then? What am I supposed to do until then? Every day. Every godda—” He stops abruptly, clenching his teeth in impotent anger.
“You’re supposed to love me. Like I love you. You’re supposed to love me until I’m gone, and then you’re supposed to love our baby until you’re gone.”
I see the deep rise and fall of his chest as he inhales and then lets out his breath. Seconds drip into minutes. The minutes slip into five. Then ten. Then fifteen.
I know my husband. I know this is hard for him. So very hard for him. And he won’t come to a decision lightly. Or quickly. So when he finally lowers his head, so slowly that it seems he’s having difficulty moving, I know he’s made up his mind. But the grief in the green eyes that he brings to meet mine show me that he isn’t quite there yet. And that he might not ever be.
Not completely.
So I reiterate, my hand reaching for his, like my heart is reaching for his across the space between us.
“Love me, Nate. All I need is for you to love me. That’s all I’ve ever needed. That hasn’t changed. That’s the only thing you’re supposed to do.”
The seconds, they tick by endlessly. I begin to wonder if I’m asking too much, if I’ve finally reached the place where Nate can go no farther.
But I haven’t. I know it the instant I see Nate’s jaw firm with determination. I know it the instant I see the fighter fight back, fight through.
His Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, my husband nods.
“If that’s what you need of me, then you have it.” His voice is solid. Resolute. “I’ll love you. Every minute of every day of forever, I’ll love you. I’ll love you like I’m not afraid of losing you. And then I’ll love our baby just as much. But know this, Lena Grant: There will never be another you. I’ll die missing you, missing a piece of me. Nothing you can and nothing you could give me will change that.”
A single tear slips from the corner of his eye and snakes its way down his clean-shaven cheek. It’s the only actual tear I’ve ever seen him shed. It’s the only outward indication of how much pain he’s in. He can’t stop it, can’t control his anguish enough to prevent me from seeing this telltale sign of it.
And it breaks me.
“I wish things could be different,” I murmur brokenly, reaching out to trap the droplet on the tip of my finger and bringing it to my lips. I kiss my fingertip, tasting the salt of his misery, taking it into my body, cherishing even these agonizing moments with the man I love more than my own flesh.
“I do, too, baby. I do, too.”
We sit in the car, in the parking lot and stare into each other’s eyes for what seems like hours before Nate turns away to start the engine.
I can’t describe what passed between us in those poignant minutes; I can only say that we shared something profound, something that transcends words.
Something that will, hopefully, transcend death.
Fourteen
Letter to a Friend
Lena
I knew I’d have to tell Nissa about my illness when we got back from Europe. I knew I wouldn’t be able to put it off any longer. She’s my best friend as well as my neighbor. Even if I’d wanted to hide my condition from her, which I didn’t really intend to do, I couldn’t. She would eventually begin to notice the changes. That didn’t keep me from dreading the conversation for the last three months, though.
But now…now I’m more excited than apprehensive to talk to Nissa. Yes, I’ll have to give her the bad news, but I’ll have good news to share with her, too. News about the baby. And that makes me more eager to go and see her¸ to finally tell her what’s really going on in my life.
Thankfully, the opportunity to tell my friend didn’t arise unexpectedly. Nissa hasn’t been over to visit since we got back and I told her before we left Europe that we’d need a day or two to recuperate once we got back to the States. She seemed fine with that, as though the request wasn’t out of the ordinary. It probably helped that we’d emailed back and forth several times each week while Nate and I were in Europe. I sent her tons of pictures and told her of our adventures, so she wasn’t champing at the bit to talk to me the instant we landed. But the time to tell her is finally at hand. Today is the day, and I’m cautiously, nervously excited.
As soon as I wake from my surprisingly deep sleep (between the disease and my pregnancy, I’m so exhausted all the time that I sleep like the dead), I go straight into the bathroom to brush my teeth. When I step into the kitchen, I see that Nate is already up and making himself some coffee.
“Goin’ to Nissa’s,” I tell him as I push my arms into a light jacket and my feet into fuzzy slippers. “Wish me l
uck.”
“Good luck,” he says sleepily, yawning into his fist.
On my way by him to the door, I pause to give him a quick peck on the lips and a firm slap on the butt. It’s too tempting not to touch that perfectly formed posterior of his.
“That’s right,” he says as I open the door. “Get you some of that fine ass.”
I’m still grinning as I dart across the yard to Nissa’s back door.
I raise my hand to rap my knuckles on the glass, but the door is yanked open before my skin can make contact. Nissa squeals once and jerks me into her arms.
“You’re back! I’m gonna beat you for making me wait this long! What the hell?” she asks, leaning back to give me a mock-angry look.
I smile and remind her, “I told you we’d need a couple of days to recuperate, O Ye of the Short Memory.” She shrugs, unconcerned, and I laugh. “Can I come in?”
Nissa rolls her eyes. “Can you come in? Whatever! What are you, a stranger? Of course, you can come in! Mi casa es su casa.” She turns and walks off, heading to the coffee maker and taking a clean mug from one of the hooks above it.
I stop her before she can pour. “None for me.” From the corner of my eye, I see the open-mouthed, shocked expression on my friend’s face. I never refuse coffee.
Never.
“Okay, so I’m the last to know,” Nissa finally says on a sigh.
My head flips up in surprise. “Pardon?”
“I’m obviously the last to know that we’ve been invaded by aliens. Or there’s been a national disaster. Or you’ve converted to some weird religion that doesn’t allow nature’s finest beverage. Something is going on, and I’m obviously the last to know.”
Again, I smile. “None of those things, but I do have something to talk to you about.”
Nissa’s face falls into a rarely-seen serious countenance. I can almost feel the unease radiating from her, like a soft touch that stretches across the span of the kitchen to lightly tickle my perceptive antennae.
I watch as my friend and neighbor methodically tops off her own coffee, adds another splash of cream and a sprinkle of sugar, and then turns toward the breakfast table. She resumes the chair she’d no doubt been seated in before I interrupted her.
