Chapter 17 - THE BAD SCAN
Claire gained weight.
Three pounds became four.
Four became five.
She learned to breathe without assistance.
Then to take a bottle.
Emily underwent treatment downstairs while our daughter grew upstairs.
Our days became elevators.
Oncology.
NICU.
Oncology.
NICU.
Then the scan came.
Most areas had improved.
One had not.
Another suspicious area had appeared.
Emily stared at Dr. Brooks.
“So it’s not gone.”
“No.”
“Can you cure it?”
“We still have options.”
I had learned that phrase.
Options meant hope.
It also meant the first plan had not been enough.
“What next?”
Emily asked.
The doctor discussed another treatment strategy.
Possibly followed by a stem-cell transplant if she responded.
Emily listened calmly.
Then asked:
“How long?”
“Months.”
She closed her eyes.
Claire was still in the NICU.
Our house had a half-finished Silver Morning nursery.
We had survived the pregnancy only to discover the war had changed shape.
That evening, Emily told me:
“You should go back.”
“To work?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Ryan.”
“I can take more leave.”
“That isn’t what I mean.”
I waited.
“You cannot make your entire life a hospital hallway because you feel guilty about the first one.”
That hit hard.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Have a life.”
“I want this life.”
“You want to fix this life.”
“No.”
I looked at her.
“I want breakfast with you.”
“I want Claire screaming at three in the morning.”
“I want arguments about whose turn it is to buy diapers.”
“I want to complain about work.”
“I want you to complain that I complain about work.”
Emily smiled through tears.
“I don’t want the crisis, Emily.”
“I want the ordinary things around it.”
Silence.
May you like
Then she whispered:
“I want those too.”
