Oscar's eyes sank closed as he released my nipple, his mouth open wide as his head lolled back in a deep, satisfied sleep. Gently, I eased myself off the sofa and carried him through to the kitchen where Lucas was sipping an espresso. The rich smell I had once loved so much still sent waves of nausea through me. Pregnancy had ended a lifelong love affair with coffee, and I still couldn't bear the slightest whiff of it. I swallowed, holding back the urge to vomit, and Lucas looked up.
“Sorry angel,” he said, jumping up from the barstool and opening the window to let the aroma dissipate. “Is he done?”
“He is. Fast asleep and full to burst.” I deposited the sleeping bundle into Lucas's arms and kissed him once more on his rosy cheek. I couldn't ever seem to kiss him enough, I always needed just one more. “There's expressed milk in the freezer if you need it, but I should think I'll be back before his next feed anyway.”
“Okay,” Lucas nodded, his big bear like hands cocooning Oscar, who nuzzled into his chest. “Are you sure you don't want us to come with you? I don't feel right about you going alone. That's why I took the day off.”
“No, no,” I shook my head, picking up my bag from the counter, throwing my phone inside it. There was a bundle of screwed up tissues curled up within the deceptively chic leather, covered in dried, milky sick. I pulled them out with my thumb and index finger, tossing them in the bin and sniffing the inside of the bag. It was still passable. I looked up at Lucas. “I don't want Oscar having his nap disturbed, and the hospital will be full of germs. It's better that he stays here. It's just a quick scan, I'm sure nothing will come of it.”
He nodded uncertainly. “If you're sure. But call me the moment you get out, okay?”
“I will.”
He leaned forward, careful not to disturb the baby, and kissed me softly. I breathed in the smell of my husband, wishing I could just spend the afternoon cuddled up with the two of them rather than trekking across town to go to a stupid hospital appointment. Finally I pulled back. “I'll see you soon,” I said, looping the strap of my bag across my chest. I stole one last kiss from Oscar and then I turned and left before I could change my mind.
This is pointless. This is such a waste of time. I wonder what it's costing the NHS? It's like being buried alive. I want to get out! The thoughts played on a loop as I endured the MRI scan, the thundering machine moving and adjusting around me. “Just try to relax Roxanne,” a voice called from somewhere nearby. “It's nearly over.” I bloody hoped so.
After I'd managed to convince Lucas not to call an ambulance after a second “collapsing incident,” he'd insisted that I, at the very least pay a visit to my GP. To keep the peace, I had agreed, explaining to my poor overworked doctor that I was so sorry for taking up her time and that I was sure it was just a case of exhaustion after a particularly rough patch of teething.
Oscar had been sleeping in twenty minute bouts and I would just be falling asleep when he began crying again. It was like some sort of inhumane torture, but a rite of passage I was undeniably proud to be going through. Yes I'd had bad headaches and dizzy spells which I had tried to keep hidden from Lucas, and I craved my bed more often than not, but that was what it meant to be a mother. I certainly didn't need a doctor.
To my surprise and annoyance, Dr. Laken had asked me in great detail about the car crash, and had fixated on the fact that I had suffered a concussion. She'd insisted on booking me in for an MRI scan and follow up appointment at the local hospital, and no amount of arguing on my part had swayed her into changing her mind. I'd been put out by her interference. Fed up with the whole situation I had lied to Lucas, telling him she'd agreed with me that it was just lack of sleep causing the dizzy spells. And he'd believed me – why wouldn't he? – that is, until he'd opened a letter from the hospital inviting me for a brain scan.
And so here I was, wasting a perfectly good afternoon being subjected to a claustrophobic nightmare. And it smells like coffee in here. A deep voice rang in my ears. “Okay Roxanne, we're all done. Just give us a moment and we'll have you out of there.” The machine whirred and then I was squinting uncomfortably as the florescent lights came into view above me.
“You okay?” the radiologist asked, holding out a hand for me to grab, helping me to stand up.
“Yes, I think so,” I nodded. “So, what's the verdict?”
“I'm going to assess the images now and pass them onto the consultant neurologist. Then we'll let you know.”
“Oh, okay,” I said, clutching the flimsy gown around my body uncomfortably, wondering why they made them so sheer. I kept my back pressed against the table to prevent it from flapping open. The radiologist kept his eyes firmly on my face and I was thankful for his discretion. “So do I go home now?”
“Oh no, it won't take long. Get dressed and then Kate will show you where you can wait,” he nodded towards his assistant and she smiled. “You can grab a coffee and someone will be through to see you shortly.”
“Mrs Bowen?” A tall woman in a pretty blue dress was standing in the doorway. Her brown hair was twisted in a neat knot at the base of her head, and reading glasses hung from a thin thread around her neck. “I'm Dr Laurence. Would you follow me?” I grabbed my bag and shoved my phone back inside it as I followed her out of the waiting room and down a long empty hallway. I'd been trying to call home, but there was no signal in this part of the hospital. It would have to wait.
We entered a sparse room with a large desk in the middle. “Please take a seat,” Dr Laurence said, closing the door behind her.
“Thank you.” I sat down suddenly nervous. I wiped my palms discreetly against my dress. “So, am I dying?” I joked, wishing immediately that I could take the words back. “Sorry, that was insensitive,” I shook my head. “I'm sure you have to break bad news all the time. It must be hard.”
I didn't miss the flash of discomfort that coloured her expression. “Yes,” she nodded cautiously. “I'm afraid I do.” She leaned forward across her desk and I suddenly had an urge to get up and run.
“Mrs Bowen... Roxanne.” I chewed my lip, leaning back in my chair. My foot began to tap involuntarily, the uneven rhythm pounding against the tiled floor. Why was she looking at me like that? I should go... I need to go. The doctor continued. “I've been looking at your scan pictures and I'm afraid we found something... of concern.”
The room became very still. I could hear the clock ticking on the desk, footsteps far away at the end of that long eerie hall. I could hear my own breath.
“What is it?” I whispered, suddenly terrified.
“A tumour,” she said simply. “We don't know if it was triggered by your head injury during the car crash, but it is a possibility. Mrs Bowen, there are many types of brain tumour. The one you have is known as a Glioblastoma.” She paused, her eyes sliding uncomfortable from my face. “I'm sorry to say it's a grade four tumour.”
“What does that mean? Can you get rid of it?”
She shook her head. “Some tumours, even some Glioblastoma can be operated on. However, yours is in a very deep location within the brain. The way these tumours work is to grow outwards like a vine, wrapping around the tissues, suffocating them...” she shook her head again. “Roxanne there's no easy way to say this, but honestly, I'm amazed you're still functioning at all. The tumour you have is one of the biggest I have seen. It is completely inoperable. It's compressing several vital areas of your brain, and most worrying of all, it's pushing up against the brain stem. If it grows much larger, which I suspect it will – and quickly – your respiratory system will be affected.”
“Affected?”
“It will shut down,” she said bluntly. “With the type and size of tumour you have we would normally give patients six to twelve months. I would suggest yours is close to a year old.”
“Six to twelve months of what?” I asked, my brain fuzzy with confusion. My ears were ringing, and I rubbed them with the heels of my hands, trying to focus on her words.
“Life. Six to twelve months of life. The crash was,” she looked at her notes, “almost a year ago.”