The Empty Jar(32)

She’ll undoubtedly hear soon enough.

“I’ve had better days,” I reply vaguely, conscious of the people surrounding us.

Sherry writes down my weight, but makes no comment of the three pounds I’ve unintentionally lost. I’m surprised by it, actually, because I thought I’d eaten well in Europe. I made a point to feed my body (and, therefore, my baby) well. Very well. Unfortunately, I can’t control the fact that I feel full quicker. That’s a result of the cancer, and yet another complication to pregnancy.

Maybe this whole thing is a pipe dream.

But just the idea that I might not be able to carry this child is a crushing blow to me. To my newfound hope.

My hand trembles when I take the urine specimen cup that Sherry holds out to me.

“Give me a specimen and leave it in the window, then I’ll meet you in room number two.”

I nod and turn into the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind me. I sit on the edge of the chair in the corner and drop my head down between my knees, letting the blood rush to my brain in hopes of fending off this sudden dizziness that I feel. Maybe I should’ve eaten more before I came this morning.

When I feel moderately better, I set about giving Sherry the specimen she’ll need to confirm the pregnancy for their records. It’s just a formality for the practice. I have no doubts about it at this point. I’ve missed two periods altogether, and my abdomen has begun to swell right above my pubic bone. That plus a whole slew of other symptoms assures me that I am, in fact, pregnant.

I cup my belly through my slacks and smile, letting the knowledge, the presence of the tiny life growing inside me warm me all the way down to my soul. I can’t let fear of the unknown or doubt or probability get me down. I’m going to fight for the miracle, for this baby, even more than I’ll fight for my own life. I just need to know how best I can go about doing that.

I slide the cup into the window built into the wall, wash my hands, and go to wait in room number two. When Dr. Stephens walks in, she’s all smiles. I can’t help but feel a bit sorry for her. As a nurse practitioner, I know how disheartening it is to find out that a patient you’ve come to know and like is suffering. Or, worse, dying. I know Dr. Stephens would be heartbroken for me when she finds out.

“Look who finally got pregnant,” she says, setting aside her tablet and walking to the chair to hug me where I sit. “I’m so happy for you.”

I bite back tears and a trembling lip. Yet when Dr. Stephens leans away, she still knows something is wrong.

“What is it, Lena?”

I gulp at the rock in my throat and make myself meet the doctor’s eyes. “I was diagnosed with stage IV stomach cancer in August.”

“Oh God,” Dr. Stephens whispers, closing her eyes and dropping her head. There’s a long, meaningful pause before she asks, “How long?”

“Ten months. Maybe a year. That’s without treatment, of course, which I declined. I guess it’s a good thing I did, or I wouldn’t be here right now.” I don’t have to try to inject positivity into my tone. Despite the rest of the tragedy in my life, in the situation, I’m happy. So very happy about the baby.

At that, Dr. Stephens raises her head and pins me with her frown. “You-you’re not going to try to carry this baby, are you?”

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.”