The Empty Jar(31)

Another six weeks later and I’m pushing open the door that leads from the garage into the kitchen and stepping back so that Lena can go in first. We are home.

I notice the way she pauses on the threshold and inhales deeply, her shoulders lifting and then dropping slowly as she savors the scent. Europe was wonderful, but I know she’s glad to be back at our house, our sanctuary.

There’s no place like home. Our home.

She turns and gives me a grin. “Home sweet home, baby.” She stretches up on her tiptoes and kisses me, a quick peck of the lips. I’ll miss that, more than she will ever know. The casual kisses, the second-nature touches, the intimate glances—I’ll miss them all.

I’ll miss her. Like I’d miss air if it was taken from me.

I swallow and muster a crooked smile for her. Always for her.

“Home is wherever you are, but I have to admit that I missed this place. The coffee isn’t as good here, but…”

Lena laughs and elbows me in the ribs before she moves on through the door. “Take that back or I won’t be making you any coffee, good or bad.”

“I take it back,” I supply amicably.

I stand, still technically in the garage, and watch my wife. Her gait is a little less energetic today.

Grief clutches my heart as I wait for her to move slowly into the living room. She flops down onto the couch and exhales loudly, letting her arms fall to the side and her head drop back.

She’d been so full of life on almost every one of our days in Europe, it’s hard to see this. For me, the trip will always be bittersweet in more ways than I’d originally suspected. Having my old Lena back—the carefree, fun-loving, energetic one I met nineteen years ago—will make losing her, losing the woman I’ve always known her to be, that much harder. It’s like watching her die twice. Once slowly, day by day, and the other…

I turn from the sight, my chest tight with barely controlled emotion. “I’ll get the luggage,” I mutter, hurrying back to the car. I don’t know how I’m going to make it through this next part. I just know that I will.

For Lena, I will.

Always for Lena.

I would do anything for her.

********

Lena



Since I’m so tired, Nate offers to go to the grocery store to pick up some food and necessities. I’m more than happy to let him. Not only am I truly exhausted, but I also have an important phone call to make, and he can’t be around when I do.

The instant Nate’s car turns out of the driveway, I race to my phone and pull up the contact information for my gynecologist, who is also an obstetrician. I pray Dr. Stephens will be able to work me in at some point over the next couple of days. I already have an appointment with my oncologist next week, and I thought it would be a good idea to get input from both specialists as soon as possible. They’ll have to work together, I’m sure. This will be a delicate dance if it can be pulled off. I need to have them both on board.

But I’m skeptical. Scheduling this close to Christmas will be tight, and seeing me on short notice might be an issue. It is already December twenty-first after all.

Although I hate to do it (and very rarely do), I pull the “I’m a nurse practitioner, and I need to speak with the doctor as soon as possible” card, and it works. I’m put on hold for three minutes, and the next person to come on the line is Dr. Stephens.

Using vague terms like “condition” and “illness” in explaining my situation to Dr. Stephens, who is familiar with our struggles to get pregnant, she’s more than willing to work me in on December twenty-third. She might regret having done that when I tell her the details of what I’m looking at.

When I hang up the phone, I expel a breath it feels like I’ve been holding for weeks. Soon my questions will be answered, my mind will be eased, and I will have a certain path forward. Then I can get on with living the last days of my life. And hopefully giving life to another in the process.

Giving my life for another.

Giving my death meaning.

********

Two days later, I’m sitting in the waiting room at the obstetrician’s office, fiddling with the strap of my purse. I can hardly sit still. I had to tell something far too close to a fib to Nate in order to get this time to myself. He isn’t going to sit idly by and let me visit doctors without him anymore, so I had to work around him.

Not that I can blame him. I’m mature enough to admit that I should never have excluded him from the appointment where I got my official diagnosis. Nate needed to be a part of that, and I’d denied him, even though unintentionally. In retrospect, I can see the symptoms of denial written all over my decisions back then. I didn’t really think I’d get bad news.

Certainly not the worst news.

My head snaps up when I hear my name being called. I stand, a bit unsteadily at first, take a deep breath, and plaster on a smile for the person who’s taking me back.

“How have you been, Lena?”

Sherry is Dr. Stephens’s primary nurse, and she’s had trouble getting pregnant herself. We have a lot in common and have gotten along well from our very first meeting.

Sherry holds out a hand and indicates for me to step up onto the scale. I do so obediently. I haven’t been back to see them since my diagnosis, so Sherry has no idea what’s going on in my life.