need to keep our options open,” he replies, glancing at his watch. “And we should get going.”
“I’m almost done.”
I put the watering can back in the kitchen and text Florence that everything is fine and I hope she’s enjoying her warm Florida winter.
“Florence told me in her last email that she and Mr. Jenkins just saw that new movie about Houdini,” I call to Dean. “They really liked it. We should see it this weekend.”
He doesn’t respond. I return to the living room, where he’s busy on his phone again.
“Dean.”
He glances up, his forehead creased with concentration. I sigh.
“Please don’t run yourself into the ground with research,” I say. “I’m not going to the Mayo Clinic or any other fancy institution.”
“You don’t necessarily have to travel to participate in trials and treatment,” he replies, returning his attention to his phone.
“Well, can you please wait until I choose a doctor here first? Until we get a professional medical opinion? Then we can discuss all of this with him or her rather than speculating about what I should or shouldn’t do.”
Though I try to keep my voice calm and reasonable, my insides are twisting with anxiety. This diagnosis is a massive blow to me, to our family, but it can’t encroach on every single part of our lives. It can’t take my husband away from me, blocking him behind a wall of angry frustration and single-minded research.
After locking up Florence’s house, we drive to Dr. Christopher Anderson’s office in Rainwood. He’s young, in his mid-forties, with an open, kind face and a straightforward manner.
“There’s an overwhelming amount of information and options,” Dr. Anderson tells us. “It’s my job to help you weed through it all, but you need to be fully knowledgeable and comfortable with our plan.”
Our plan. That makes me feel a bit better, knowing he’s part of it. He’s one of the less experienced doctors we’re meeting with, but I like that he is entirely unhurried, that he looks me in the eye when he talks to me, and he doesn’t act like he knows what’s best for me.
Somewhat illogically, I also like the fact that he has pictures of his family—pretty wife and three children—on the bookshelf behind his desk.
Dr. Anderson lays out all the options and suggests that I recruit my “team” now, to ensure I’m comfortable with all the doctors who will participate in the course of my treatment.
“I’m also going to refer you to a geneticist to consult about getting tested for a mutation of the BRCA gene, which leads to a higher inherited risk of breast and ovarian cancers,” Dr. Anderson says. “Because you’re young and because you have a daughter, it’s important information to have.”
A daughter. My daughter.
Icy shivers erupt over my skin. I’ve known we need to tell Nicholas and Bella, but not until now have I realized this diagnosis will affect Bella in an entirely different way when she grows up. It will change her for the rest of her life.
My heart starts to race. When doctors one day ask Bella if she has a “family history of breast cancer,” she’ll know the answer. And they might be asking her because—
The cold invades my blood. I clutch the arms of the chair, trying to pull a breath into my tight lungs.
Dean reaches over and settles his hand on my knee. He’s saying something to Dr. Anderson, but his voice sounds very far away. His hand tightens on my knee, like he’s trying to secure me with his grip alone.
I force my fingers to unclench from the chair. An image of Bella rises past the terror. I concentrate on her perfect, round face and brown eyes. I think about holding her as she sleeps, the weight of her body against mine, her head pillowed just beneath my chin.
The tension in my chest eases. I take a full breath and put my hand over Dean’s.
“Are you all right, Olivia?” Dr. Anderson asks.
He’s standing beside my chair, holding out a glass of water.
I take the glass. “I’m okay. Please, call me Liv.”
“Liv, you might not have the mutation.” Rather than going back behind his desk, he sits in a chair closer to us. “But if you do, the knowledge will help you and your family make well-informed decisions, both right now and in the future.”
It’s not exactly reassuring, but it does make sense. I nod and take a sip of water. Dean writes in his notebook and starts asking questions about the test itself and