First of Many

by Ashley Suzanne

  “Okay, that’s fine. How long do you think you’ll be?” I ask, almost wondering if I should go now—that’s just how terrible this is.

  “I can postpone the meeting, Charlie. Will you let me take you sooner rather than later?”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be at some fancy meeting with your boss?”

  “It can wait. We just need to go over the last quarter report, but it’s not imperative it happens today. Nothing’s gonna change between now and then … except maybe your health.”

  “Okay, then yeah, please, let’s go.”

  Rowan breathes a sigh of relief and moves to the dresser to find me some clean clothes.

  I sit up, the room immediately spinning. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this lousy, and I can’t help but think the worst case possible, but I keep those fears hidden beneath a façade of the flu. No reason worrying until we have a reason to worry, right?

  Slipping into a pair of comfortable sweat pants and one of Rowan’s baggy tee shirts, I’m ready to get this show on the road. But I don’t think I can make the walk to the car by myself. It’s not just the stomach pains, it’s the dizziness … the massive headaches … the overwhelming feeling of dread.

  “Come here,” Rowan whispers, putting one arm around my back and the other underneath my legs, and hoists me up into a cradle. He carries me outside and carefully deposits me in the passenger seat, clipping my seatbelt into place before entering on his side. “Charlie, what’s going on?”

  “I don’t know,” I mutter, tears running down my cheeks. “Something’s wrong.”

  “But what?” he pleads, and I’m not even sure it’s me he’s asking, or himself, or anyone in particular …

  I pull down the visor and flip up the flap to expose the mirror, praying my eyes don’t tell the story my gut’s giving me. If what I think’s happening inside my body, I’m not sure I’ll be able to handle it, that I know for sure. Oh, and there’s no possible way for me to conceal my emotions from Rowan, no matter how hard I try. Instead of manufacturing a lie to cover myself, I look at him and can almost hear his heartrate pick up when he reads me like nobody else has ever been able to.

  “Don’t think like that, baby.”

  “I can’t help it. All of the amazing things that happen to us on a daily basis … we’re due for some bad news. Nobody gets everything they want without losing something in the process.”

  “We’re not losing anything. Do you hear me? Nothing.”

  “I hope you’re right,” I mumble, turning away and staring out the window as we make our way out of the neighborhood. Everything about the subdivision looks exactly the same as it did a few days ago but completely different at the same time.

  When we pull into the Emergency Room parking lot, Rowan goes straight to the valet area. He must be as concerned as me since the man won’t let anyone park his car for him and pay for it. He walks inside to grab a wheelchair after tossing the keys to the attendant standing at the podium.

  Rowan helps me stand and turn to sit so he can push me through the automatic doors. The triage nurse—or as I like to call her, the teenager with too much personality—takes my vitals, noting my higher-than-usual blood pressure, and notates my symptoms. Luckily, the waiting room isn’t packed with patients, so we shouldn’t be here too long before someone comes for us.

  “Charlotte Thorne,” a more aptly aged nurse calls from the doors leading to the exam rooms right on cue.

  “Hey,” I say, putting on a smile while Rowan pushes me toward her.

  “Not feeling too hot today, Mrs. Thorne?” she asks.

  “She’s been sick for a few days, and she’s even worse today,” Rowan answers for me. If the fluorescent lights overhead weren’t playing some rude tricks on my throbbing brain, I’d turn around and give him a signature glare.

  “Alright, Charlotte, what’s hurting?” the nurse redirects, urging me into the conversation.

  “Everything. Literally, everything hurts. From my head to my toes. I’ve never felt this shitty before.”

  “Alright, let’s see if we can’t figure this out and get you feeling better. While we wait on the doctor, we should go over some stuff. What’s causing the most pain?”

  “Her headaches. Every day, she’s been getting them so bad, I have to pull the blinds and get her a cold compress, not to mention all the aspirin she’s taking.” Rowan speaks for me again, and this time I’m happy. He nailed it.

  “On a scale of one-to-ten, how bad are we talking?”

  “Twenty-five,” I quip. “Those started three or four days ago. Before that I was just sick to my stomach, thought it might have been a bug or something. Then, today, my back and legs hurt so much my husband had to carry me out of the house.”

  “I’ll be right back,” Rowan whispers in my ear when his phone starts ringing. He shows me the screen—his boss. I nod. I don’t want him to leave, but after canceling the meeting he had scheduled, he can’t very well ignore the man who signs his paychecks. I’ve missed work all week, we’re going to struggle a bit; a whole lot more if Rowan loses his job all because I’m sick.

  “Okay, Charlotte. Is there any chance you’re pregnant?” the nurse prods even further when Rowan’s out of the room, his voice having disappeared down the hallway.

  “What?”

  “Is there any possibility you’re pregnant? We’ll need to do a quick urine test, but we can at least get the preliminary information to the doctor so he’ll know what tests to order.”

  “No, ma’am. I’ve taken a pregnancy test a week for the last few months. We’ve been trying with no luck. Pretty sure I can’t have babies.”

  “Oh, honey, don’t think like that. Lots of couples try really hard, and the second they stop all the trying, they end up pregnant. Stress plays a lot of tricks on the body.”

  “No, seriously. When I was seventeen, I went through a few rounds of chemo and radiation. I haven’t been to a fertility doctor, but I’d bet a small fortune all those life-saving measures, for which I’m extremely grateful, killed any chance I had of carrying babies. You can run the test if you want, but I think of all the things that could be causing all this pain, pregnancy is the last item on that list.”

  With a sad expression written all over her face, she notes something—probably my history of cancer—in the chart. “I hope you understand I still have to run the test, but I won’t make you walk to the bathroom and try to hold a specimen cup with as much pain as you’re in. The doctor’s going to order blood work anyway, we’ll do the pregnancy screening then.”

  “Pregnancy screening? Are you pregnant?” Rowan asks excitedly, coming out of nowhere. “That would explain the upset stomach.”

  “Babe, no. I’m not.”

  Fan-fucking-tastic. Once again, this time not on purpose, I have the distinct pleasure of shooting his dreams right out of the sky. I know she’s just doing her job, but God bless America, can’t there be a single day Rowan’s not brokenhearted over the child he won’t be able to have? At least with me as that child’s mother.

  “Oh. Alright. Is it just procedure? To run those tests?” he questions the nurse, and she nods sympathetically. I’m unsure if she feels more pity for me and my inability to conceive or Rowan for being stuck with me.

  “You guys sit tight. I’ll get the doctor in here soon and I’ll see about getting you something for the pain.” She walks out of the exam room, pulling the curtain closed behind her.

  “Can you put the back down flat?” I ask, the sitting up straight not working for me. He expertly maneuvers the bed to a more suitable position. I scoot over and he sits on the edge, letting me use his leg as a pillow while he gently strokes my hair.

  A few moments later, a different nurse—maybe a phlebotomist—comes in and draws five hundred tubes of blood and leaves just as quickly as she came. Next, a doctor—probably an intern—with cold hands, a million repetitive questions I’ve answered a dozen times already, no bedside manner, and absolutely no idea what
he’s doing. The nurse I like flits through as well, hooking me up to an I.V. and giving me something for the pain. After the baby doc most likely reports back to the grownup doctor, the head honcho sweeps open the curtain and finally puts his eyes on me.

  “Hi there, Charlotte. I’m Dr. Fleming. Are you doing any better?” he asks, face grim and oh so telling. Whatever news he has … it’s far from good.

  “Honestly, doc, I’d very much prefer you get to the pink elephant in the room instead of dancing around it with meaningless, pointless questions. If I were feeling better, I wouldn’t be here.”

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Fleming, my wife’s been through some pretty rough stuff and her mind’s racing with a million unasked questions. She’s not rude, she’s scared.”

  “Rowan,” I sigh, “please don’t make excuses for me. I’m angry and mad and scared and a lot of other things. But I don’t need my husband coming to apologize for my piss-poor attitude and lack of kindness. The man has bad news, so how about we let him tell us what’s going on?”

  “Your wife’s not wrong, Mr. Thorne.” He looks at Roman sympathetically and his eyes shift to me, his jaw stoic. “Charlotte, the blood results weren’t conclusive. We need to run more tests, but every marker is pointing toward a recurrence of your cancer. Again, this isn’t a final answer, just an educated opinion after looking at everything we have to look at.”

  “Seriously? This spiel … again? In a decade, you haven’t found a better way to fuck someone over?”

  “Charlie,” Rowan soothes, trying to run a hand through my matted-down-with-sweat-hair until I swat him away.

  “No!” I firmly state. “No. Hell no. Fuck all of this. Fuck you.” I point at the doctor. “Fuck you.” I glare at the nurse who drew my blood when she peeks in around the curtain. I push past all of them, march into the hallway, and immediately have to run into the bathroom. I may be causing a scene, but I will not vomit all over myself.

  With one hand, I pull back my hair while the other grips the back of the toilet, and I hurl the contents of my stomach into the bowl. Of course, because I haven’t eaten a full mean, or anything close to it, in days, I’m left dry-heaving, only pea-sized droplets of bile excreting from my belly. I crouch down to a squatting position, resting my elbows on my knees, and let out a cry.

  “No, no, no,” I moan, cursing my body. “This is not how your story ends, dammit.”

  “Charlie. Baby. Let me in,” Rowan softly says through a slight rap on the door.

  “I’ll be out in a minute.” It takes me a moment to respond, needing to gather myself first. We’ve been down this road. I’ve been the cancer girl. Not once. Twice. We are not going for third time’s a charm here folks. All of the no.

  Standing, I make my way to the sink to wash my hands and rinse my mouth. That’s when I catch my reflection in the mirror. Staring myself in the eyes, I stiffen my back, raise straight, and hold my head high. “And fuck you, too. You do not get to win.”

  Opening the door, Rowan’s leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed over his chest, unshed tears in his eyes. “You about done?”

  “Yep. Ready?”

  “Born ready. What’s the plan, Charlie? Where do we go from here?”

  “We fucking fight. That’s the plan. The only plan.”

  *****

  And fight I fucking did.

  I found the best damn oncologist the state had, scheduled an appointment, and met with the man who would be responsible for saving my life. Scan after scan, wait after wait, bad news after bad news.

  Goddamn my fucking body.

  Fuck my body for not giving me the signs, the signals it’s supposed to give me so I know something’s wrong.

  Fuck me for not listening if something was a sign and I brushed it off as stress … or frustration … or just pure ignorance.

  Fuck cancer for thinking I’m the one to screw with. That it’s okay to track me down the minute I find happiness and try to steal it away.

  And most of all … fuck everything. I was fighting a losing battle. You do not win stage four. I tried—more chemo, more radiation, more experimental treatment. I gave it all I had.

  I saw more doctors than I’ve ever seen in my life. I was poked and prodded like a damn lab rat. Each time a test result came back, the news was worse than the last time.

  What was I supposed to do? How was I supposed to react? Thinking back, I repeated the question Rowan asked me in the emergency room time and time again. Where do we go from here?

  I didn’t have the answers. Rowan didn’t have them. The doctors weren’t giving me anything new.

  Months.

  My life was boiled down to months. Could I even do all I ever wanted to do in months? Was it two months? Five? Ten? Not a single doctor could give me that very serious answer.

  Instead of fighting it … I decided it was time to live.

  And fucking live I did.

  Chapter 9

  The First Vacation

  “Are you serious? Charlie, think about what you’re asking here.”

  Well, it’s happened. Rowan found the bank statements I’d been desperately trying to hide from him. Not out of fear he’d be upset that I spent our savings but how I spent it.

  “Think? I’m done thinking. I want less of that and more of doing. Dammit, Rowan, let’s just … be.”

  I promise, while it was selfish, it’s needed, more than I can even express. The last few months have been nothing but doctors’ offices, needles and scans, and trying to figure out what the hell’s going on and where to go from here. We just need a few days—just us—to not.

  We’ve done our due diligence. We’ve seen everyone we can see, and then some more on top of that. We can see five more if he wants, but it’s not going to change a fucking thing.

  Except what we can change, that is. It’s time to put some pep in our step and live life … while we can.

  “I’ll do whatever you want, and you know that. Never been a question. I just want you to really understand.”

  “Babe. I’m saying … two weeks. Caribbean. Your wife in a bikini. Sex. Lots of sex. Sexy sex. I understand, I really do. But the question is, do you?”

  “Alright. Caribbean it is.”

  “Wahoo!” I holler, jumping up and down in place for a few beats. It shouldn’t be this hard to convince your husband to take a vacation with you, but his head’s on straight now. At least, he’s thinking with the right head. Thank the Lord.

  Now, the hard part. The part I’ve been dreading, and I can already see the questions burning in his eyes.

  “I’m glad you said that.” I walk into the bedroom to pull my suitcase out of the closet. “Since I already bought the tickets, as you know. We gotta pack,” I mumble under my breath.

  “You think you’re so smart, huh?” Rowan comes up behind me, wraps his arms around my middle, and kisses the top of my head. “We share the same bank accounts … with the same app on our phones. I knew the moment you placed the ticket order. Who do you think they called to verify the purchase? You can’t start unloading our life savings and expect me not to notice.”

  “Oh,” I sigh. Maybe they told him everything? “I guess there’s that.”

  I didn’t account for him being three steps ahead, but now that he is, we can get some real planning. Though, he should have told me he knew. I didn’t like lying to him for almost a week. Made me feel terrible. Is he testing me now?

  “So … Caribbean? Anywhere specific?”

  Okay, the deets are safe. Unless this is another test?

  “Honestly, babe, I’m not sure if it’s the Caribbean … I just want to see St. Thomas.”

  “Sounds good. When do we leave? Next week?” he asks, pulling out his own luggage, thinking he’s getting a jumpstart … but obviously, I’m gonna have to let the cat out of the bag.

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Haha, very funny.”

  Little does he know I’m dead serious.

  “For real. Flight takes off
at ten A.M. tomorrow. My mom’s taking care of Pig. All we gotta do is show up and board.”

  “Charlie! We have jobs. How do we leave and expect to come back home and still have those jobs?” Rowan’s upset. I figured some frustration at my lack of letting him truly plan, but anger? Raised voices? This isn’t my husband. This wasn’t part of the plan. I was hoping he’d be so consumed with us, alone, sex and beach … but he’s not. He’s worried about real life shit—exactly what I’m dreaming of escaping.

  “Baby,” I sigh, walk over to where he’s sitting on the edge of the bed with his head buried in his hands, and kneel down, urging him to look at me.

  “If what the doctors say is true, there won’t be a whole lot of time for things like this. Trust me, I know how hard we’ve worked to live on a budget to save money and have a nest-egg, but baby, that’s not very practical now. I just want to have the time of my life and have it quickly. I wanna do this—a real honeymoon—one we couldn’t afford before while I’m still healthy enough to enjoy it. At work, play the cancer wife card … or let me call and talk to your boss … or just find a new damn job when we get home. But I want this. Need this.”

  “And what about your job?”

  I stifle a laugh … he’s not getting it. “What are they gonna do, Rowan? Fire me? I’ll give them my job if they can find someone who can make prescription warning labels sound as enticing as I can. Or even better, forget that I gotta hire and train someone before ...”

  A bachelor’s in English … and I write about anal leakage. Not the next great American love story or novel of the century my novice, young-adult brain dreamed about, but I get paid to write … so there’s that.

  “I made you a promise, didn’t I?” he asks, his eyes softening and melting my heart.

  “You sure did, Mr. Thorne,” I say through a smile. Rowan’s a creature of habit, always sticking true to his word, especially the words we spoke to each other on our wedding day.

  Since the moment he’s said them, there hasn’t been a single time he’s let me down. And with this—the cancer—he can’t control anything other than my happiness.