Three minutes changed everything.
I’m no longer making decisions for my own health. I’m making decisions for our baby’s health, too. I have something bigger than myself to consider.
Now if I can just make it the rest of the way…
Although my heart stampedes behind my breastbone, and my hands shake like I’m detoxing, I find that I’m smiling brightly at everyone I pass. Life is no longer about the end, but about the beginning. Not for me, but for my child. I’m not just Lena Grant, wife, nurse practitioner, daughter, friend, and terminal patient anymore. I’m Lena Grant, mother. I’m a different woman than the one who left the presidential suite a couple of hours ago.
I manage to keep my composure all the way up to our room. It’s when I unlock the door and walk in to find Nate standing in front of the television in nothing but a towel that I can’t hold onto it anymore. As soon as he turns toward me, his jewel-like eyes passing softly over my face, the corners of his mouth turning up in a smile, I lift my hands, bury my face in them, and burst into tears.
I want to blurt that I’m carrying his baby. I want to see his mouth drop open in shock and pleasure. I want to feel his strong arms wrap around me in soul-deep happiness. I want to hear his voice become thick with emotion.
But I can’t have any of that.
Not yet.
Not being privy to the secret I carry, Nate rushes to my side. Being my hero and protector, he’s ready to disembowel the person who caused his sick wife to cry. “What’s wrong, baby?” he asks, his fingers curling tenderly around my upper arms. “What happened? Did someone hurt you?”
All I can do is shake my head. And sob.
Nate winds his arms around me, holding me tight against his bare chest. His lips brush my hair as he speaks. “Then what’s wrong? You’re scaring me.”
“I-I-I just love you s-so much,” I stammer brokenly. And that is one hundred percent true.
At my words, I feel the muscles in his chest relax. He’s no longer ready to go to battle; he’s ready to comfort.
“I know. Because I love you that much. Maybe even more. I hope you know that.” His voice cracks on the last as he struggles to control his own emotion.
“I do. I do,” I assure him. “I wanted so much for our life. If I could have done it any other way, I would have. I would’ve given you everything.”
“You already have. All I ever wanted was you.”
I weep onto my husband’s skin as he holds me. I weep for what will never be. I weep for what I hope can be. I weep for the secret I carry. I weep for the tiny life I might not be able to sustain. But most of all, I weep for the future, the future I will never see and the family I will never get to share with my husband. He will have to do it all alone.
Without me.
Forever.
But still, he will have our baby. Hopefully. He’ll finally have the best pieces of both of us, all wrapped up in a little person he can watch grow and thrive, play and laugh.
If I can just make it that far…
When I collect myself enough to pull away from Nate, I drag my stinging eyes to his face. I reach up to cup his cheek, now smooth from a recent shaving, and I wonder what his expression will be like when I give him the news. If I could carry the baby until we get back to the States, I will tell him right after I see the obstetrician and my oncologist. I’ll tell him when I know there is a chance that this could work. Then I will watch his mouth drop open, his eyes mist over, and I will see a pleasure erupt from his face, like the warm spray of a deeply hidden geyser.
But until then, I have to keep it together. For Nate. I will protect him as long as I can.
“What are you thinking?” he asks when I say nothing, just holding his cheek in the palm of my hand.
“That I can’t wait to see Vatican City with you,” I answer with a watery smile.
“You sure you feel up to driving over there? We can go another day if—”
“No. I want to go today.” I’m firm on this. I’m prepared to pull out every stop, exhaust every resource to make our baby a reality.
That includes trying to believe in a God that my father briefly introduced me to so many years ago.
********
Vatican City.
If the outside of St. Peter’s Basilica could be called breathtaking, the inside would be called magnificent.
Spectacular.
Glorious.