The Empty Jar(37)

“No. I’m pregnant.”

The only indication that Dr. Taffer even heard me is the two-second widening of her eyes before she brings her expression carefully under control. “Are you certain? Have you seen your obstetrician?”

“I have. She’ll be sending you copies of everything. Probably giving you a call.” My fingers tremble within Nate’s. I feel the slight squeeze of his hand around mine, an offer of comfort, a quiet way of assuring me that it will all be okay.

“And?”

“I’m over nine weeks now. Nearly ten.”

“So, it was confirmed via ultrasound?”

“Yes.” I can’t help my smile. The baby…it’s all that matters. “Although she’s obviously concerned, she’s going to do her best to get me through this.”

Dr. Taffer nods. “Is that what you want?”

“Yes.” The word is firm, determined, unsinkable.

“And you’re in agreement with this?” She pins Nate with a mildly accusing stare.

He nods. “I’m with her. Whatever she wants, if it’s within my power to give it to her, I’m in.”

The oncologist rolls a foot or two backward, clearing her throat, collecting her thoughts. “You realize that this will severely limit your care.”

“I do.”

“How much thought have you given this?”

“A lot.”

“Have you considered taking treatment now and trying to get pregnant again later?”

“You and I both know what that treatment would do to my organs. I was having trouble getting pregnant before I was diagnosed with cancer. My chances will decrease dramatically after having surgery followed by what will probably be multiple rounds of chemo and radiation. And all that for a slim chance that I’d even survive two years. No, I haven’t considered that option because it’s not an option. At least not for me. This baby is a gift. A miracle. And I’m going to do everything I can to carry it.”

There is a long, pregnant, unnerving silence before my doctor speaks.

“You know we won’t be able to monitor the spread of the disease. Every effective test and drug that we would use is contraindicated during pregnancy. CT, PET Scan, MRI with contrast. And drugs… Every drug that I can think of is—”

“Yes, I know.”

“And pain. We won’t be able to treat your pain when it comes, Lena. And there will be pain.”

I feel Nate’s hand twitch. I haven’t given him all the gory details that I’ve considered, but I have considered them. I know the consequences. I just didn’t tell Nate about every single one of them. I couldn’t be sure he’d have been so gung-ho about keeping the baby once he learned what my sacrifice would entail. Yet another reason I wanted to keep it from him as long as possible. So he wouldn’t worry. So the fine points of my outlook wouldn’t plague him.

But now he’s going to hear it.

Every gory detail.

“I know there will be pain, but I’m willing to do whatever I have to, go through whatever I have to, suffer through whatever I have to in order to bring this child into the world.”

“Lena, there are other risks that you might not have considered. The very nature of your condition will pose a threat to the health of the baby. The disease is in your lymph system. More spread is inevitable at this point.”

“I realize that, but all I need is twenty-eight weeks. Total. And that’s less than eighteen from now.”

“The cancer itself will eventually cause wasting syndrome, which will impair nutrition to the baby. Have you considered that?”

“Yes, but I can get nutrition other ways.”

“Bear in mind that you can’t be put to sleep to insert a J peg.”

“No, but I can have an NG tube. I know it’s not ideal, but it’s an option. And we can always supplement with parenteral nutrition if need be.”

Dr. Taffer’s lips thin. She’s just beginning to see exactly how determined I am to carry this baby.

“If you’ve got all this figured out, why are you here? You don’t need an oncologist. I treat cancer. You don’t want treatment. There’s nothing I can do to help you.”

Her voice is harsh and sharp, and it cuts right through. My stomach twists in anxiety.

“Lheanne.” I inject as much reason as I can into my voice. Lheanne Taffer and I have become friends, and I know that her sour statement is coming from a place of concern. Nothing more. She’s too professional to speak to any other patient this way, I feel sure. “I still need your help. I need your expertise to help me head off complications before they happen. Like from my liver. We know the cancer has already spread there. How will that affect the baby? Can it be managed? I still need your help, just in a slightly different way. I don’t need you to help me live. Survive. I need you to help me carry this child. As long as I possibly can.”

Abandoning Nate’s hand, I scoot to the edge of my chair, wiping tears that have begun to fall. “I would die for this baby. To give it life, I would gladly give mine. I’m asking you to help me hang on for as long as I can so I can do that. I want this baby. More than anything else, I want this baby. Please help me give this one last gift to my husband. Please.”

At my confession, uttered on a desperate whisper, I hear Nate’s sharp intake of breath. I glance his way just in time to see the shock, the devastation on his face before he releases my hand and drops his head low, toward his spread knees. I watch him as he stares at his fingers, fingers he steeples and flattens, steeples and flattens. He concentrates on them as though they hold the key to life. Or the key to his questions.