Pride, Prejudice, and Other Flavors (The Rajes #1)(33)

A stool sat in front of the wall-mounted computer. Trisha grabbed it, pushed it closer to the bed, and sat down.

“I understand how you’re feeling, Emma.”

Emma scowled. “Will everyone just bloody stop saying that! You have no bloody idea how this feels.”

“You’re right. I didn’t phrase that right. I meant, I understand that this is impossibly hard.”

Her patient’s scowl grew furious. “Seriously, is there a bible of ‘knobhead bollocks to say to the terminally ill’? Is that where you people get your lines from?”

“Actually, you’re no longer classified as terminally ill. Given that your life isn’t going to terminate.”

Emma shook her head and looked up at the ceiling. She was praying for patience. Evidently those prayers were not being answered. She looked so livid, Trisha could practically see her fingers flying on her next piece, Strangulation by Fallopian Tubes. “I’m not a lab rat, Dr. Raje. And I’m not a video game that you’re going to get to your next level on.”

“I’m aware. I’ve sliced through enough lab rats to know that you look nothing like one.” She attempted a smile. “And I never did get into video games. All the female avatars look too much like Barbie. Relatability was an issue.”

“How can you think this is funny? Are you so jaded that someone’s life ending means nothing to you?”

“Your life will not be ending if I have anything to do with it.” That was the damn point of all this, wasn’t it?

Emma threw another tormented glance at the ceiling. “See, this is just a notch in your belt.”

Trisha thought about telling her that she didn’t own belts, that if she ever needed one for notches she’d have to borrow one from Nisha’s extensive collection.

“Why did you come to me, Emma?”

Instead of answering, Emma gave her a look that stood in nicely for a raised middle finger.

“If you do believe that earning notches in my belt is what I’m trying to do here, then aren’t those very notches why you came to me?”

This girl wasn’t stupid, just angry. Her mouth pressed into a thin line; she hated that Trisha was right, but she also understood that Trisha was indeed right.

“I came to you because my brother’s friend believed that you could cure me, not play chess with my body parts.” Trisha could see another painting, a chessboard with scrotums and vaginas, and in place of the king: eyeballs. Well, this was checkmate.

“All I can do is assure you that that’s not true. What we’re dealing with here is the exact opposite of chess, in fact. Tumors, clots, hematomas, they don’t follow rules—there’s no two squares forward, one square sideways move. But, yes, if it helps you understand this, we have to sacrifice your optic nerves for your life, because when that’s gone, the game’s over.”

“See. I don’t want to be treated by a doctor who treats my life like it’s a game.”

Trisha stood. Anger was all good and dandy, but she drew the line when someone started calling her professional integrity into question.

“I think you’re being unfair,” she said evenly, because she wasn’t self-centered enough to be upset with a patient who was struggling with a diagnosis like this. But this wasn’t the time for lies, either. “More importantly, you’re misguided. The alternate treatments, the ones that you think will give you more time to live the way you’re used to living, are unpredictable at best. You already know this. There was a reason why your diagnosis was considered terminal without this surgery. We can’t predict the speed with which things will progress. Sure, an oncologist might be able to slow the tumor growth and give you more time, but you’d be counting on a miracle to get more than the six months they gave you before.”

Every one of those words seemed to hollow Emma out, like a scalpel was eviscerating little pieces of her. “That is just your opinion. Dr. Entoff said I had options.” Emma struck back like a boxer who was on her back but wasn’t ready for a knockout to be called.

She looked immovable.

Trisha took a breath. Entoff might be wrong about the options, but he was right about the other part after all. There was only so much Trisha could do. At least right now when Emma was in the throes of a panic attack. She had to work through that herself. Pushing her would only make her feel even more cornered.

My sister is not live tissue. She’s an artist.

But before she was an artist, Emma was human. And when it came down to it, humans were animals. Being cornered made them wild, it made them throw caution to the wind, sent them into a crouch of instinctual attack that often went with forgetting to protect themselves.

“None of the options will save your life,” Trisha said softly, unable to give up.

“But it is my life, Dr. Raje.”

That was it! Emma felt powerless right now. That’s where her decision was coming from: this was her trying to regain some control.

All Trisha had to do was find something to make Emma stop feeling so out of control. Something to give her patient a little more time to consider her life, to maybe even find her power somewhere other than in her art.

“What if I discharge you today? There is one more scan result we’re waiting for. That won’t come in for a week. You’ll need that for a second opinion, anyway. Let’s wait for that before we rush into decisions. How does that sound?”