I know.
He stills except for the thumb of one hand which rubs back and forth over the sensitive outer edge of my palm. In the back of my mind, an invisible clock is counting the seconds as they tick by.
One one-thousand.
Two one-thousand.
Three one-thousand.
The clock has just reached a slow count of six when Nate bends to press his lips to my knuckles and then straightens in his chair, throwing one arm over my shoulders in a show of support. Of comfort. Of solidarity.
This is what he is to me.
This is what we are to each other.
Strength.
Commitment.
Unfailing love.
I turn my gaze to Lheanne. I see the subtle expressions as they shift over her face. Exasperation, sympathy, concern, and, finally, acquiescence.
When it comes, her submission, I welcome the sigh of her resignation.
“This is going to be tricky, you know that, right?”
I laugh outright, sniffing as I wipe my cheek, and scoot back in the chair to lean slightly against Nate’s shoulder. Suddenly, I’m exhausted.
“That’s exactly what Dr. Stephens said.”
“Well, she was right. But tricky doesn’t mean impossible. Women with severe liver disease have successful pregnancies. I can’t manage the obstetrical part of your situation, but if this is what you want…I’ll do my best to get you there from a disease management standpoint. And to keep you as comfortable as I can.” Wheels start to turn behind Dr. Taffer’s eyes. I recognize the look. “We should consult an internist, see what can safely be done from a pharmaceutical approach. And I know a holistic guy who has had some success with pain relief through acupuncture. I know he treats pregnant women. He might even be able to recommend some herbs to ease some other issues. I could give him a call. And we can look at some natural remedies for nausea. Ginger suckers are really good for that.” She reels off a handful of other options and thoughts that have me sighing in relief.
Slowly, my optimism begins to return. When Dr. Taffer finishes listing the avenues we can explore, I take advantage of the pause that ensues. I have one more question to ask. It’s the query I’ve been staring out over like a child staring out over the Grand Canyon. It’s the uncrossable chasm, or at least it could be.
“So, bottom line. Do you see any reason why I wouldn’t be able to carry this baby? As long as I’m diligent about keeping myself in the best health possible? I mean, as much as a terminal cancer patient can.”
Dr. Taffer goes still and so does my heart. I feel it pause in my chest as though time and space and life are holding their breath, waiting for an answer. Teetering on the edge of implosion. Total annihilation.
“No, I don’t see any reason right now that you won’t be able to carry the baby. Provided that your disease doesn’t progress too quickly. But in the grand scheme of things, there is little I can do to actually ensure that. You have to know that there are a million and one things that could happen, unpredictable things, things that we will have no way of treating. Or even diagnosing until they present a problem. If I can’t monitor your disease progression and your health properly…” She holds up her hands in defeat.
“I know. And I’m not asking you for a miracle. Or even for a promise. I’m leaving that up to God.”
Dr. Taffer raises her brows. In all our many talks since my diagnosis, never have I mentioned prayer or miracles or a higher power, something that a large portion of patients turn toward immediately when given such life-altering news.
Lheanne’s lips twist wryly. “I hope His hands are more capable than mine.”
“I hope so, too,” I admit, clinging to the hope I found in Rome. “I hope so, too.”
********
I feel more encouraged than I ever would’ve imagined by the time we leave Dr. Taffer’s office. For the first time since I was basically given a death sentence, I feel like the rest of my life is going to mean something. I’m not just going to be giving my husband a lifetime of good memories while we wait for cancer to overcome my body; I’m going to be fighting for the survival of our child.
It isn’t until we get into the car that Nate turns to me, distress written all over his face. In my excitement and relief, I momentarily neglected the fact that he’s been delivered a nuclear bomb and has yet to say a word about it.
“You knew all of this and didn’t tell me.” His voice is mildly accusing.
“Knew all of what?” I ask, delaying the inevitable.
My heart pounds heavily. I feel the full force of his shock, of his alarm coming at me in a concussive wave.
“All of the reasons that this isn’t a good idea.”
“I don’t know of any reason that this isn’t a good idea.”