But that dream will come at a price. An astronomical one. And it could end as a nightmare.
Gingerly, I sit on the edge of the chair, paying no attention to the way the cushion gives beneath my weight or to the way the room smells of lavender. I simply sit so that I don’t fall.
Now that the moment is at hand, I freeze. I cradle the package, much like I might cradle the baby I suspect might be growing inside me, and I wait.
I wait, and I ponder.
I ponder, and I question.
“Why now? We’ve tried for so long and…nothing,” I explain to the empty room, unaware of how my voice bounces softly off the walls and falls lifelessly to the floor. “Why now?”
There was a time when Nate and I would lie in bed at night, nursing our hopes of conceiving a child like a woman might nurse a baby at her breast. We’ve been disappointed more times than I can count, the ghosts of dozens of negative pregnancy tests haunting every bathroom in our home. This was the year, magical number forty, that would’ve been our final year of trying. We’d agreed that if I wasn’t pregnant by forty, we’d look into adoption. I knew we’d try until forty-one, though. I’d already given myself those few extra months.
But that was before.
B.D.
Before Diagnosis.
I’m startled from my musings by the muted tap of something falling faintly onto the white package held in my trembling fingers. The delicate patter draws me back to the moment at hand. Only then am I aware of the tears streaming down my cheeks, creeks of grief for the life that my husband and I will never have. The life, the family, the happiness. No matter what the test says, no matter how my body is able to perform, there is no future for me.
Not for me.
But there could be for Nate. And for our child. I could give him that. I could give him something to ease the pain, someone to share his life with. I could give him a part of me to hold close when he thinks of me, when he’s reminded of all the years we’ve been robbed of.
That’s something, isn’t it?
Maybe that’s more than something.
Maybe that’s everything.
Slowly, I rise and walk stiffly to the tiny adjoining bathroom. Maybe there are miracles after all. Maybe there is one for me. For Nate.
I close the door behind me and turn the lock. No one will bother me, I know; I just need that extra measure of privacy, of solitude for this. The moment feels sacred, and I have to protect it from the world, my burgeoning hope as fragile as a butterfly’s wing.
I slide my finger under the tape that holds the plain white paper over the box, and I fold back each flap with reverence, almost expecting it to shine when I reveal the treasure within. Although the writing is in Italian, I’ve taken enough of these types of tests to know exactly what it says. Or at least what the intent is.
The glue makes a hollow popping sound when it releases cardboard from cardboard on one end of the carton. I reach inside with numb fingers and remove the sealed stick that will tell me my fortune. Mechanically, I go through the motions, as I’ve done dozens of times before, only this time I feel a sense of providence.
Fate.
Kismet.
I can no longer want this for myself. My destiny has already been decided, sealed more tightly than the box I just opened. But I can want it for Nate.
And I do.
Oh, how I do!
Suddenly, I want it more desperately than I want anything else in the last months of my life. I want…no need to give my husband the gift of our love, personified.
A baby.
A child.
A piece of the two of us.
A piece of our love.
Living. Breathing. Carrying on.
I find that I’m talking quietly into the small room, my voice foreign even to my own ears. Words tumble from my lips and, for the first time in my life, I understand why my father prayed over me every night. Why he prayed only for me and never for himself. I was more important to him than his own body, his own life. And now I’m praying over the ones more important than my life—Nate and, perhaps, our unborn child.
Nine
Keep the Faith
Lena
Two pink lines.
If the diagnosis of cancer had thrown my life into a tailspin, which it had, these two pink lines have centered it. I can feel it.
They bring my every plan, my every purpose, my remaining energy into laser-sharp focus. In three minutes, my priority shifts from enjoying my last days and bowing out gracefully to survival. Or at least until I’m twenty-eight weeks along. And I need to do it without any drugs.
By that point in the pregnancy, the baby will be able to live outside the womb and, hopefully, without mechanical life support. The longer I can make it, the better our child’s health will be, but the minimum is twenty-eight weeks.
That gives my baby a fighting chance.
A steely resolve fortifies my constitution as I wrap the pregnancy test stick in tissue and stuff it into my purse. When I open the door to exit the dressing room, I step out as an entirely new person. Or at least that’s how it feels.