I inhale, straightening my spine. I expected one of two reactions. I was hoping for the other, but I understand this one more, from a medical standpoint.
“I am.” When the doctor says nothing, my shoulders slump. “This is all I’ve wanted for as long as I can remember. This is a blessing in so many ways. And now I won’t worry so much about Nate when I’m gone. He won’t be alone. He won’t give up. And that’s a good thing, right? Please tell me this is a good thing.”
I’m not asking for support. I’m asking for the odds to be in my favor, even in such a bad situation, because I need them to be. Badly. And I know Dr. Stephens knows that.
The obstetrician stares at me for long, tense seconds before the edges of her lips bend upward into a small smile. “It can be, I suppose, but Lena, you know the risks. I mean, having a child at forty comes with its own set of challenges, but you’re sick. Very sick. And you’re only going to get sicker.”
“I know, but I just have to make it to twenty-eight weeks, right? Based on my last period, that’s probably only nineteen or twenty more weeks from now. I just need to stay healthy enough to carry this baby until then and then he or she will have a real chance of survival, right? Right?” I ask again when my physician says nothing.
Finally, she relents with a resigned sigh. “Yes, that would be the minimum, of course. Provided that the rest of the pregnancy goes smoothly. But Lena, God!” she exclaims, rubbing the space between her eyebrows with two fingers. “This is going to be so tricky, and you are making a choice now that you can’t make again later. If you decide right this minute that you want to have surgery and take treatment, you could still have a chance to live. But you have to do it now. You can’t put it off, not for this long. So if you choose to carry this baby, you’re sentencing yourself to a certain death.”
I hold Dr. Stephens’s concerned gray eyes. I hold them, and I let her see where my priorities lie. “I know. But this is what I want. More than anything. This baby…it makes my life worth something. He or she will do beautiful things in the world. A child will be my contribution to humanity. And to Nate. He needs this. He will need it more when I’m gone.”
“So, you’re firm? You’ve already made up your mind, it seems.”
I nod. “Yes. I have. Unless I physically can’t carry the baby, unless I lose it naturally,” I croak, stumbling over words that feel like doom on my tongue, “then I will deliver this child, healthy and whole, before I die. I’m determined.”
Dr. Stephens nods once and stands. “Then let’s go get you on the ultrasound, see how far along you are.”
********
Two hours later, I leave the obstetrician’s office with a page full of lab orders I’m to confer with my oncologist about and an ultrasound. An ultrasound that confirms what I already knew, and confirms a gestational age I was already pretty confident of.
I slide the glossy square picture into my coat pocket after taking one last look. My hand rests over it protectively, my fingers stroking the cool, slick paper as though I’m actually touching some part of the baby growing inside me.
I finally have proof, proof of the existence of a dream.
I have a picture of my nine-week-old baby.
He or she looks to the world like a tiny baby-shaped kidney bean, but to me it’s the shape of a miracle. Everything in my life is different now, has been since I took that pregnancy test in Rome, and will be for as long as my life will last. And in another thirty or forty minutes, my husband’s life will be changed as well. Forever changed, for as long as he lives, which I hope will be a good, long time.
I walked into that office as a woman with a little newly-recovered hope. I walked out of that office as a woman with a lifetime of hope and a reason. A reason to live and fight and be strong and push through.
And I will do exactly that.
I will take one more chance on a God who has let me down before, and if He comes through for me this time, I’ll gladly trust that my husband and our child will be okay in His divine hands.
Unlocking the door and sliding behind the wheel of my car, I sit for a moment, thinking about Dr. Stephens’s last words.
“Talk to Dr. Taffer before you make up your mind, Lena. Promise me you’ll at least pretend to listen to what she has to say.”
I smiled and nodded, but Dr. Stephens knew there’s nothing Dr. Taffer, my oncologist, will be able to say to change my mind. It’s made up.
Once more, I take out the shiny black and white picture, the image of a future I thought had been stripped away from me, and I run my fingertips over the beginnings of a teeny profile. “I won’t give up on you,” I whisper, pressing my lips to the photo before stowing it away in my pocket again and heading home.
The garage door rising triggers an onslaught of emotion. Knowing what’s coming, my chest tightens and my throat constricts. The conversation of a lifetime only moments away.
It will be as good as the conversation about my diagnosis was bad.
I’m excited.
I’m nervous.