The Empty Jar(23)

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.

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?”