No Attachments - By Tiffany King Page 0,73
and Nathan's conversation. My heart had stuttered before racing out of control when Nathan professed his love for me. At that moment, I knew I would try and fight the cancer, but I couldn't ask him to stand by me if in the end I lost.
Wilma was actually the thing that wound up distracting me from my grief. She made it known right off the bat that she didn't like the carrier we had picked up for her to ride in. We'd barely been on the highway for ten miles when I eventually caved and let her out. Placing her on my lap, I was relieved when she immediately calmed down and curled up in my lap and promptly fell asleep. She was the comfort I needed as I stroked a hand over her furry back.
The trip home was longer than I remembered. I chalked it up to the frequent kitty bathroom breaks. By the time we'd on the road for a few days, I was just ready to be home. I felt completely exhausted, even though I did none of the driving, but even watching the changing landscapes as we drove had become taxing. My dad insisted on driving the entire time. I tried to argue, but the truth is I was grateful. Wilma continued to sleep on my lap, so I let her stay out of her carrier the entire trip. Each mile that separated Nathan and me weighed heavily on me. It seemed impossible to miss someone as much as I missed him. It went beyond the sexual connection we shared. I missed the conversations we shared and how we seemed completely in sync with each other. Maybe all of that had just been an illusion since he was trying to get close to me, but something inside me told me otherwise. By the time we arrived back home, my brain was a muddled mess and I no longer knew what I should believe.
We arrived back in Florida on a balmy eighty-degree day and I acutely missed the cooler temperatures of Woodfalls. Wilma and I settled into my father's house since I had given my apartment up when I had left four months ago. I left my boxes in storage, seeing no point in dragging them out until we knew what we were facing.
Two days after arriving home, I was back at the one place I'd wished I would never have to visit again.
"Ashton, I hear we may have a problem?" Dr. Davis said, entering the room where I was perched atop a paper-covered exam table wearing nothing but a smock.
"I think so," I said as he washed his hands in the small sink.
"Symptoms?" he asked with his back to me.
"Fatigue, loss of appetite, aches and pains and sleepiness," I parroted, fidgeting on the table.
"And you've had these symptoms how long?" he asked, putting his stethoscope to my chest.
"Four and half months," I admitted, waiting for his ridicule.
"I see," he clucked. "Are they the same now or worse?"
"Worse," I answered as he checked my lymph nodes with his fingers.
"Fever?"
"Once, but I think it was just a cold," I answered, fighting to keep my thoughts away from thinking about how Nathan had taken care of me during the fever.
"Possibly, but it could be a sign of something more serious, as I'm sure you're aware of," he said, finishing his exam.
"It's back," I stated.
"I don't like to fry the egg before it's hatched, but your symptoms are troublesome. I also don't like the lump I felt under your right arm. The first step is to do some blood work and biopsy the lump," he said, patting my leg. "You get dressed while I fill out the paperwork. We've fought it before, we'll fight it again."
I nodded, accepting his words. In one swoop, he'd crushed the little bit of hope I had been harboring that I was wrong. I knew the blood work and biopsy were just a formality.
"Are you going to call Nathan?" my father asked when I told him.
I shook my head no before heading to my room before my tears could fall. I found it ironic that for years I had no problem keeping the tears at bay, and now with the mention of one name, I was a mess.
My predictions proved to be true as the results from the blood work and biopsy came in. The lump under my arm was taken out, and I was scheduled to start chemotherapy immediately. Dr. Davis was confident that