Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89978 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89978 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
“Thanks, Megan.”
I toss my phone on the desk. This room has no window, just floor-to-ceiling shelves stuffed with books I have never read. The wood is too dark, and the paint is a godawful shade of dark green. This is my least favorite room in our home, but I can’t bring myself to leave it because the woman I love is on the other side of that door. And the look in her eyes is the same look she had when we put her cat down a year after we married.
So I do what any mortal man in my shoes would do: I hide in here until it’s time to go to my appointment. The fact that Amelia never comes in here to check on me says a lot.
She’s just as fucking terrified as I am.
On the way to the appointment, my wife keeps a tight grip on my hand, only letting go long enough to get out of the car when we arrive at the doctor’s office in the hospital's north wing.
By the time we're seated in his office, Amelia has picked off every last speck of her red nail polish. She balls her hands into fists and gives me a sad, guilty smile when I glance at them.
I angle my body to hers, uncurling her tight fingers so I can hold both hands. “It’s going to be okay.”
Holding her breath and a painful well of emotions captive in her red-rimmed eyes, she nods.
“I mean it. No matter what news we’re given, our family will be okay. You and Astrid will be okay. I will be okay.”
Her nodding turns into head shaking. “How can you say that? What if you’re not okay?” She barely gets the words out.
“Because every single second of every single day is a gift. And I know this. I will be okay, no matter what we find out.”
A tear makes its way down her cheek, and she wipes it just as the doctor enters the room—a balding man with a halo of gray hair, a clean-shaven face, and a polite smile.
“I’m Doctor Wills. Dr. Faber will be joining us in a bit. She’s still on a call.” He offers his hand.
“Price. And this is my wife, Amelia.” We both shake his hand just before he pulls his desk chair closer to us.
Although I know he’s not here to deliver good news, I’m still unprepared.
Unprepared to wrap my head around the word “cancer” as he says it.
My brain slows, capturing only the bad stuff.
Amelia’s hand trembles as she reaches for me.
Dr. Wills’s lips move, but I no longer want to hear him.
Cancer.
Biopsy.
Metastatic.
I go completely numb when Dr. Faber, the oncologist, joins us.
Stage four.
Chemotherapy.
Control symptoms.
Palliative.
“What questions can we answer for you?” Dr. Faber asks, brushing her thin brown hair away from her eyes. She looks about our age and can surely put herself in our shoes.
Questions? I’ve got nothing.
“How long?” Amelia asks.
“Until we confirm with a biopsy—”
“HOW LONG?”
“Sweetheart,” I say, squeezing her leg gently.
Dr. Faber doesn’t flinch. With a practiced expression that shows just the right amount of compassion and professionalism, she says, “There’s a one percent five-year survival rate.”
Amelia clears her throat, teeth clenched. “That’s not what I’m asking.”
Dr. Faber folds her delicate hands in her lap. “Maybe six months to a year with treatment. Three months without.”
Amelia’s face wrinkles in disgust before a new round of tears escapes. I wrap my arm around her while she shakes with sobs, hiding her face in my chest.
“I can do the biopsy tomorrow,” Dr. Faber says, looking at me. “We’ll schedule it before you leave.”
After a few seconds, I return a slight nod.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
LEAST LIKELY TO … LIVE.
Is there a protocol for this?
I’ve never thought about receiving a cancer diagnosis.
The key to the city? Sure.
Getting hit by a bus? Absolutely.
But not cancer.
If someone had asked me what I thought my chances were of cancer in my thirties, I would have said close to zero for plenty of naive reasons.
I’m too young.
I don’t smoke.
I’m not diabetic.
None of my grandparents or parents have had cancer.
I exercise.
I eat a healthy diet.
Yet here I am with somewhere between three months to a year to live and a wife who’s fading before my eyes. Is it normal for people with cancer to spend their time consoling those around them? Sometimes, I feel like I’m not her husband. I’m not the one with the cancer diagnosis. I’m just a friend—a shoulder to cry on.
“It’s been four days. They said two to three,” Amelia says over a mouthful of suds, brushing the hell out of her teeth.
I finish towel drying my hair from my shower and pick at the thin strips of paper tape over my biopsy site. “I’ll call them in the morning.”
“We’re getting a second opinion.”
She’s mentioned this at least fifty times. I miss my even-keeled wife, who balanced my hyper-work drive with grace and patience. The woman who rocked our fussy daughter all night long for months, refusing to let me take a shift because she knew I had to work, and who swore Astrid was exactly where she needed to be—in her mother’s arms.