I let her words sink in. Did it mean what I thought it did? “How long do I have left?” I whispered.
“I don't know for certain. Weeks. Maybe a month or two. Not long I'm afraid Roxanne. You must have been in a lot of pain?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “Terrible headaches. Dizziness. Vomiting? Why didn't you come in sooner?”
I blinked silently. She was right. The headaches had been almost unbearable at times, like I'd thrown my skull into a brick wall. And though I never spoke of it, I was often dizzy. But I hadn't wanted to say anything, to ruin my time with my son. I'd waited so long for him, I wasn't going to waste it complaining.
Oscar. My baby. How could this be happening? How could she be telling me that I was going to die, and soon? My body felt as though it was crumbling in on itself, my head sinking to my knees, my hands covering my face. Fear and panic coursed through my veins. I didn't know what to do. “What should I do,” I whispered, more to myself than to her. “How do I stop this?” I raised my eyes to her, pleading for a miracle.
“I'm sorry Mrs Bowen. I know this has got to be a big shock for you. We will of course give you something for the pain. You don't have to endure the headaches any longer.”
“What about chemo? Radiation therapy or whatever it's called? There has to be something!”
“We can go down that path, if it's what you choose. But I must warn you that this type of tumour is notoriously resistant to treatment. There are a few other options we can look at, but it's important that I be realistic with you. My professional opinion is that anything we do at this stage would buy you a matter of weeks at most, at a very high cost. I will give you all the information you need to read through, and you can make an informed decision over the coming days.” She looked at me, then shook her head, turning away. “I'm truly sorry, I know that it's not what you wanted to hear.”
I sat, dumbstruck, unable to reply, unable to formulate my thoughts into anything that made sense. Was this woman, this specialist really saying sorry to me? What a pitiful word. What a pointless sentiment. Sorry. Sorry that you're going to die and leave your baby – the baby you've waited years for – without a mother to raise him? Sorry that after all you've been through, you still can't enjoy peace, happiness. Fucking sorry? What a waste of breath.
“Mrs Bowen,” she continued, “there is counselling available. To help you, you know, process all of this information. You're not alone in this. Would you like me to refer you?”
I met her concerned gaze, my eyes cold and hard. Fury unlike anything I had ever felt before flooded my body, making my hands shake. “Counselling?” I whispered. “Counselling?” I stood up, pushing back my chair, leaning forward, my hands slamming down on her desk. “Fucking counselling!” I yelled, swiping the lamp from the shiny maple surface and hearing a satisfying crunch as it shattered on the tile. “You want me to sit and talk about my feelings, is that right? Well, let me tell you how I fucking feel shall I? I didn't do anything to deserve this! None of this. For five years, I've said goodbye to my babies over and over again. I lost a part of myself with every single one that left me, every face I never got to see. Do you understand how that feels? Can you even comprehend how much that hurts, a mother of five with no babies to hold, no children to love? It tears you apart.”
“Mrs Bowen, please sit down,” Dr Laurence said softly, gesturing to the chair.
“And then,” I continued, ignoring her instruction, “I get told I'm having a son. A healthy, strong, beautiful baby boy. But do I get to enjoy it? No. Of course I don't. I get hit by a fucking truck, nearly died myself. Nearly lost him. But I didn't though, did I? I made it. And he made it. And now he's here and he's the best thing in my life, the only thing I ever wanted and I love him so much that sometimes I can't even breathe with the intensity of it. I would do anything for him. I finally have everything.” I kicked the desk, not caring that I was causing a scene.
“I'm not wishing for the world, just to be a mother, to raise my son, to see him grow. But I can't even have that, can I? What did I do!” I screamed. “Why?!” I picked up a half filled glass of water, intending to throw it against the wall, consumed with rage.
“Roxanne! Stop!” Dr Laurence commanded. “Please, just calm down, let's talk about this. Please, take a breath.”
I paused, sneering at her. I took a breath, exaggerating the movement, heaving my chest in and out. “Well, isn't that a surprise?” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “I took a breath, and yet look, here we still are. And I'm still dying. And nothing has changed. Nothing!” I bellowed, smashing the glass into the desk. Blood splattered from my clenched fist as the glass sliced through my skin. It burned and I could tell that it had cut deep, but it didn't matter. I could just bleed to death right now and it wouldn't matter.
My eyes filled with tears. “Why can't I just be happy? Why can't I keep him?” I whispered, my voice barely audible. The tears splashed heavily down my cheeks and I wiped them with my palm, smelling the sharp tang of metal and sweat. “I wanted this so much,” I whispered. “It wasn't enough.”
Dr Laurence watched me silently, her eyes cautious, one hand gripping the telephone receiver. Her knuckles were white and for a brief moment I felt guilty. She wasn't to blame. She was just the messenger. But I couldn't find a way to apologise. The words wouldn't come. And I wasn't sorry. Not really. I was too numb for anything other than the bitterness of my fury. I turned for the door, and without a backwards glance, walked through it leaving a trail of blood and broken glass in my wake. Ten steps down the corridor I heard the unmistakable sound of my doctor bursting into tears.
Chapter Eighteen
I don't know how long I'd been in the hospital, but when I emerged from its prison like confines I found that the bright sunshine had been replaced with a raging storm. I stood blood soaked and howling in the rain, before falling to my knees. The patients, visitors, even the doctors passed me by, fearful of this crazed woman, unwilling to be drawn into my pain. I saw a mother pull her child back from me, steering him through the door to safety. Lucky her. Getting to make that choice. Getting to be his mother. Lucky fucking her.
I walked home through the rain, the words “completely inoperable” ringing over and over again in my mind. How had I survived this long? How could I have ignored it for so long? Would it have made a difference if I hadn't? Perhaps my fate had been written the moment I got in my car to buy apple pie all those months back. The front door was unlocked and I pushed it open, listening for the sound of my son. My husband.
“Rox, is that you back?” Lucas called from the living room. I didn't answer. Instead I slumped against the front door, feeling it slam closed as my legs gave out from under me. I slid down the door, sitting on the welcome mat, unable to go any further into the home that would no longer be mine.
“Rox?” I heard him get up. I couldn't move. “Did you get soaked. That storm came out of nowhere!” he exclaimed, stepping into the hall. His eyes travelled down to where I crouched, sopping wet and utterly filthy. The colour drained from his cheeks. “Oh my god! Oh bloody hell, Roxy what happened?”
He rushed toward me, kneeling down in front of me. “Oh god, you're covered in blood. Were you mugged darling?” he asked, wiping my face with his sleeve, pushing my matted hair out of my eyes.
I shook my head. “Not mugged. Robbed.”
He frowned, taking my tear-stained face in his big, warm hands. “Roxy, what do you mean?” I shook my head, unable to speak. He stroked my matted hair then leaned back. “Come on.” He pulled me up and I leaned heavily against him. I didn't want to walk. “Darling come on, we need to clean you up.” He took my hand and suddenly realised where the blood was coming from. “Shit!”