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.
But that’s not what he’s looking for.
I know my Nate.
He’s simply taking the time he needs to compose himself. For me. For my sake. He wasn’t expecting this, and it’s hitting him like a tanker truck loaded with explosive gas. And he doesn’t want me to see the wreckage.
I reach down to place my hand over his. Because I know. Even when he tries to hide it from me, even when he tries to protect me, I know.
I know.
He stills except for the thumb of one hand which rubs back and forth over the sensitive outer edge of my palm. In the back of my mind, an invisible clock is counting the seconds as they tick by.
One one-thousand.
Two one-thousand.
Three one-thousand.
The clock has just reached a slow count of six when Nate bends to press his lips to my knuckles and then straightens in his chair, throwing one arm over my shoulders in a show of support. Of comfort. Of solidarity.
This is what he is to me.
This is what we are to each other.
Strength.
Commitment.
Unfailing love.
I turn my gaze to Lheanne. I see the subtle expressions as they shift over her face. Exasperation, sympathy, concern, and, finally, acquiescence.
When it comes, her submission, I welcome the sigh of her resignation.
“This is going to be tricky, you know that, right?”
I laugh outright, sniffing as I wipe my cheek, and scoot back in the chair to lean slightly against Nate’s shoulder. Suddenly, I’m exhausted.
“That’s exactly what Dr. Stephens said.”
“Well, she was right. But tricky doesn’t mean impossible. Women with severe liver disease have successful pregnancies. I can’t manage the obstetrical part of your situation, but if this is what you