by Nina Lane
“Dean, I don’t want to look into trials before I even have a doctor or a treatment plan.”
“We still need to keep our options open,” he replies, glancing at his watch. “And we should get going.”
“I’m almost done.”
I put the watering can back in the kitchen and text Florence that everything is fine and I hope she’s enjoying her warm Florida winter.
“Florence told me in her last email that she and Mr. Jenkins just saw that new movie about Houdini,” I call to Dean. “They really liked it. We should see it this weekend.”
He doesn’t respond. I return to the living room, where he’s busy on his phone again.
“Dean.”
He glances up, his forehead creased with concentration. I sigh.
“Please don’t run yourself into the ground with research,” I say. “I’m not going to the Mayo Clinic or any other fancy institution.”
“You don’t necessarily have to travel to participate in trials and treatment,” he replies, returning his attention to his phone.
“Well, can you please wait until I choose a doctor here first? Until we get a professional medical opinion? Then we can discuss all of this with him or her rather than speculating about what I should or shouldn’t do.”
Though I try to keep my voice calm and reasonable, my insides are twisting with anxiety. This diagnosis is a massive blow to me, to our family, but it can’t encroach on every single part of our lives. It can’t take my husband away from me, blocking him behind a wall of angry frustration and single-minded research.
After locking up Florence’s house, we drive to Dr. David Anderson’s office in Rainwood. He’s young, in his mid-forties, with an open, kind face and a straightforward manner.
“There’s an overwhelming amount of information and options,” Dr. Anderson tells us. “It’s my job to help you weed through it all, but you need to be fully knowledgeable and comfortable with our plan.”
Our plan. That makes me feel a bit better, knowing he’s part of it. He’s one of the less experienced doctors we’re meeting with, but I like that he is entirely unhurried, that he looks me in the eye when he talks to me, and he doesn’t act like he knows what’s best for me. Somewhat illogically, I also like the fact that he has pictures of his family—pretty wife and three children—on the bookshelf behind his desk.
Dr. Anderson lays out all the options and suggests that I recruit my “team” now, to ensure I’m comfortable with all the doctors who will participate in the course of my treatment.
“I’m also going to refer you to a geneticist to consult about getting tested for a mutation of the BRCA gene, which leads to a higher inherited risk of breast and ovarian cancers,” Dr. Anderson says. “Because you’re young and because you have a daughter, it’s important information to have.”
A daughter. My daughter.
Icy shivers erupt over my skin. I’ve known we need to tell Nicholas and Bella, but not until now have I realized this diagnosis will affect Bella in an entirely different way when she grows up. It will change her for the rest of her life.
My heart starts to race. When doctors one day ask Bella if she has a “family history of breast cancer,” she’ll know the answer. And they might be asking her because—
The cold invades my blood. I grip the arms of the chair, trying to pull a breath into my tight lungs.
Dean reaches over and settles his hand on my knee. He’s saying something to Dr. Anderson, but his voice sounds very far away. His hand tightens on my knee, like he’s trying to secure me with his grip alone.
I force my fingers to unclench from the chair and take a breath. An image of Bella rises past the terror. I concentrate on her perfect, round face and brown eyes. I think about holding her as she sleeps, the weight of her body against mine, her head pillowed just beneath my chin.
The tension in my chest eases. I take a full breath and put my hand over Dean’s.
“Are you all right, Olivia?” Dr. Anderson asks.
He’s standing beside my chair, holding out a glass of water.
I take the glass. “I’m okay. Please, call me Liv.”
“Liv, you might not have the mutation,” he tells me, going around to sit behind his desk again. “But if you do, the knowledge will help you and your family make well-informed decisions, both right now and in the future.”
It’s not exactly reassuring, but it does make sense. I nod and take a sip of water. Dean writes in his notebook and starts asking questions about the test itself and implications.
As the meeting wraps up, Dr. Anderson walks us to the door and extends his hand to me.
“I don’t pretend to know everything, Liv,” he says. “But I can promise you, I’ll do everything in my power to ensure you live a long and healthy life.”
I thank him, and Dean and I leave the office. As we get into the car, I say, “I want him to be my doctor.”
Dean flips through the pages of his notebook. “There are still two we haven’t met with yet.”
“I don’t want to meet anyone else.” I pull on my seatbelt. “I want to get started with treatment, and I really like Dr. Anderson.”
“He’s been in practice for the least amount of time, compared to the others,” Dean says.
“I’m going with Dr. Anderson.” I throw Dean an irritated glance. “Did you not like him?”
“I liked him, sure. But Dr. Lincoln has twenty more years of experience.”
“Dr. Lincoln also spent most of our meeting talking to you rather than me.”
“Dr. Mitchell is director of the oncology board,” Dean says. “Dr. Graves does breast surgeries every week, and she’s worked on numerous clinical trials.”
“I don’t want a doctor whose last name is Graves.”
“Liv.” Dean pushes the key into the ignition and turns to face me. Lines of stress bracket his mouth. “You can’t reject a doctor based on her name.”
My jaw tightens. “I can reject or choose a doctor based on whatever criteria I want. I’m the one with the goddamned tumor.”
He holds up his hands. “Okay. If you’re comfortable with Dr. Anderson, that’s fine.”
“I’m not asking for your approval.”
“I wasn’t—” Dean stops, turning his attention to backing out of the parking space.
We’re both silent the entire drive home. We stop to pick up Bella from preschool, though for the first time ever the sight of our daughter doesn’t soothe my prickliness.
I hug her tightly, rubbing my cheek against her silky hair. I can’t stop what’s happening to me, but I can pray that the effect on this beautiful girl is minimal.
“Did you have a good day?” I ask.
She nods, pointing to her purple butterfly backpack. “Matthew is having birthday.”
“Really? Lucky Matthew.”
Bella digs into her backpack and produces a crumpled invitation, which spells out the details of Matthew’s party at the children’s museum. Even something so simple makes my stomach tighten with anxiety, as I think of Nicholas and Bella’s many birthdays to come.
The three of us head home together. Nicholas is going to his friend Henry’s house after school, so Dean sits at the sunroom table to draw with Bella while I get dinner started. I try to channel my irritability into cooking, flipping through my cookbooks to concoct a menu of crispy pork and roasted vegetables.
I could die.
The thought simmers beneath everything I do, an underground river of fire. I dump the washed carrots onto the cutting board and start to slice them.
Though no day is promised to anyone, I’d expected—certainly hoped—to live a long time. And despite reassurances and statistics, the stark fact is that I am suddenly facing an illness that kills people, young and old, all the time.
All the fucking time.
A s
harp pain shoots through my hand. I gasp and drop the knife. Blood swells from a cut on my finger.
Dean is at my side in an instant, reaching out to grasp my wrist and guide me over to the sink.
“Doesn’t look too bad.” He examines the cut and grabs a paper towel to press against it. “You okay?”
I laugh, a shrill, unnatural sound.
“Sure,” I say. “I’m just fine.”
A shadow darkens Dean’s expression. He concentrates on pressing the towel to my finger until the bleeding stops.
“Liv, what…” His throat works with a swallow. He tightens his grip on my wrist. “What do you need me to do? You know I’ll do anything.”
We look at each other. His gold-flecked brown eyes. His familiar, beautiful face. His thick, dark hair.
Pain fills my chest.
I’ve depended on Dean for so much over the years. I was so happy to simply be his wife, until I realized I also wanted to be more. That I could be more. I’ve had to learn to stand on my own, and then to understand that I can be independent and still ask for his help. I’ve had to accept that being in control and fixing things is part of who Dean is, and that needing him is part of who I am.
And I know that my need for him, and his desire to take care of me, is important to both of us. It’s intrinsic to our dynamic, our relationship, our love.
Which is exactly why everything inside me aches when I realize that only in the blackest moments of our relationship has Dean been forced to ask what he should do when something goes wrong.
Otherwise he just knows. He does whatever it takes. And his certainty and assurance have kept the ground solid beneath our feet.
A cold, icy ball tightens in my throat, but I force the words out, the stark truth that slithers inside me like a worm.
“Dean, aside from just being here, I… I don’t think there’s anything you can do,” I say, hating the admission, hating the black pain that descends over him, the darkness that extinguishes the light in his eyes.
“Daddy, come back,” Bella calls from her seat at the table.
Dean slides his hand over my hair and turns to go into the sunroom. I get back to slicing carrots.
Later that night, when I climb into bed, Dean isn’t there to wrap his arms around me. A heavy loneliness falls over me as I think of him in his tower, burying himself in books and articles. If I called him right now—if I sent him a sexy, suggestive text or a provocative selfie, would he drop everything and come join me in bed like he always has before?
I look at the shadowed ceiling for a long time, acutely conscious of my naked breasts underneath the cotton of my nightgown. I think about how long it took me to become comfortable with my body, to enjoy the pleasures of being a woman, to feel strong and confident inside my own skin. So much of that happened because of Dean.
I wonder if I will ever again feel the same way about myself. And if I don’t… will that change the way I feel about Dean or the way he feels about me? About us?
The question is no longer “What are we going to do?” The question is now “What is going to happen to us?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
OLIVIA
December 7
PROFESSOR ALBUS DUMBLEDORE IS THE ONE who finally helps me realize I need to say the word aloud. When everyone else in Harry Potter is calling the evil wizard “He Who Must Not Be Named” or “You Know Who,” Dumbledore is unafraid to say his name.
“Call him Voldemort, Harry,” he says. “Always use the proper name for things. Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself.”
So to prevent it from having that kind of power over me, I whisper the word to myself one morning in the shower, working up the courage to use it in a conversation with Dean. I find him making coffee in the kitchen, dressed in track pants and a T-shirt, sweaty from a run.
“Morning, beauty.” He wraps his arm around me and presses his lips against my forehead.
I hug him around the waist and move away to pick up the cup of tea he put on the counter for me.
“You want eggs or cereal?” he asks, rummaging in the fridge.
“I’ll get something a little later.”
My chest tightens. I have to say it. Now that I’ve chosen a surgeon and an oncologist, we need to make a decision about the type of surgery—either a lumpectomy to remove the tumor or a mastectomy to remove my breast.
I take a breath. “So last night I was reviewing all the information about c—”
The syllable sticks in my throat, like something choking me. There are a thousand other words I could say that start with that same sound.
kisses
cookie
kites
crafts
cake
kumquats
cold
crack
kill
“About… c-cancer.” The word shatters in my mouth, spilling something rancid over my tongue. “Breast cancer. The pros and cons of the two surgeries, so I have all the information.”
Dean’s jaw tightens. He turns away to put a pan on the stove.
“And what are you thinking?” he asks.
“I have to make a choice,” I say. “Both the surgeon and Dr. Anderson said the survival rate is the same with either surgery.”
“Dr. Anderson also said the lumpectomy would mean you need radiation and possible chemotherapy.”
I look at my tea. I sense that Dean wants to firebomb this sickness with every weapon in the arsenal. His take-no-prisoners attitude doesn’t surprise me. I also know nothing in the world will ever eliminate any chance of reoccurrence.
“Less chance of further treatment with a mastectomy,” Dean says.
“Less chance doesn’t mean no chance,” I reply. “And God, Dean, you heard what they said about the mastectomy. Not just the surgery itself, but the recovery time, the drains, permanent numbness, plus more surgeries for reconstruction. I’ll never look or feel the same again. I mean, not that I will anyway, but…”
Dean doesn’t respond. He takes a carton of milk out of the refrigerator. The surreal quality of this moment washes over me—my husband getting breakfast ready while we discuss the most viable way to cut into my body and rid me of cancer.
“Dean, I want to keep my breast. As much of it as I can, anyway.”
I smother a rush of embarrassment, the sense that I’m being silly and vain.
I have cancer, for God’s sake.
Why am I not firebombing it with the most invasive treatment possible? Why am I worried about keeping my breast, the way I’d look, how I’d feel about myself? Why am I worried about what Dean would think if both my breasts are gone? Why am I worried about how the different treatments will affect our sex life?
Shouldn’t I remove my breasts in the hopes of obliterating the cancer? And it’s not as if a lumpectomy won’t change the way I look either. There will be scarring and misshapenness, not to mention the effects of possible chemo and radiation…
I sense Dean’s gaze on me, and I look up at him. He’s watching me with sorrow and helplessness, which makes my chest ache.
“I want you here, Liv,” he says, his voice hoarse. “I want you with me, with our children, for many more years. I love your breasts. But nothing—nothing—compares to how much I love you. It makes me insane to think of you having to go through a mastectomy. And that doctor who recommended it was a jerk. But if it lessens the chance of reoccurrence, no matter how slight, and the need for chemo and radiation, that’s something to consider.”
“I have considered it,” I say. “Does this mean you wouldn’t be in favor of a lumpectomy?”
“I’m in favor of whatever destroys the damned thing,” he says. “I’m giving you my opinion.”
I bite back the retort that I didn’t ask for his opinion.
“Dr. Turner said a lumpectom
y is meant to conserve as much of the breast as possible,” I continue.
“I know.”
“He also said many younger women opt for a lumpectomy, if it’s an option for them.”
A faint tightness pulls at Dean’s mouth. “You’re not many younger women. You’re you.”
“I know who I am.” I cross my arms almost unconsciously, as if I’m trying to protect myself. “And I want to keep my breast.”
Silence falls. It’s not just about sex, though that’s part of it. My breasts have always given both Dean and me immense sexual pleasure. They’re also… mine. Part of me.
How many times did I nurse my children with them? How many hours did I hold my babies to my breasts while they slept? They both still lean against my breasts when we’re cuddling on the sofa or reading picture books. Bella nestles her head on my breasts when she comes to sleep in our bed.
And of course Dean…
No, my breasts don’t define me, and yes, I’d be the same person without them, but severing part of my body…
“Dean, I need…” I swallow hard. “I need you to support me on this.”
Dean’s expression clears. He puts down the carton of milk and crosses the kitchen to fold me into his arms.
“Of course I support you,” he says. “I will always support you. You know that.”
“I mean, I don’t want you to think I’m making the wrong choice. That I shouldn’t be so concerned about keeping my breasts when I have a life-threatening illness.”
Dean’s arms tighten around me. His heart hammers against my cheek.
“Liv. It’s your body. What you should be concerned with is fighting this the way you want to. And if that means a lumpectomy with treatment, then that’s what we’ll do. The only thing I’m going to think is that you’re a goddamned warrior. ”
I close my eyes and breathe. I wish I felt like a warrior.
“I’m scared,” I confess.
“I know.”
“What are you scared of, Mom?” Nicholas’s voice comes from the hallway.
