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Cancer. Cancer. Cancer.
My thoughts race, refusing to accept the news.
“What about the baby?” Noodles shifts in his seat. He draws his hands inward, fingers clasped, and rocks back and forth.
“There are treatment options.” Dr. Johnson tries to explain. “Many women go on to have healthy pregnancies after breast cancer.”
When she outlines the treatment plan, all I hear are terrifying words—Surgery. Chemotherapy. Radiation. Each word is a separate blow, stealing my breath to leave me gasping. I clutch my rounded belly, the reality of the situation sinking in. I’m not just fighting for my life but for the life growing inside me.
Cancer is an insidious beast. It will not simply go away because it’s inconvenient. It does not rest or sleep. Even now, malignant cells are spreading through my body, invading healthy tissue, destroying everything in their path.
Harming my baby?
Noodles takes my hand and kisses my knuckles.
“What do we do?” His voice is hoarse but steady.
“We’ll schedule surgery as soon as possible and go from there.” Dr. Johnson’s grim smile is hard to take and I don’t dare try to read her expression.
We’re not the first people to face this under her care. I want to ask her how those other patients did, but also terrified of what she’ll say.
“When?” I have too much to fight for to let fear drive me. My baby, Noodles, Kai, and myself deserve a shot at the future. “When do we start?”
“It’ll take a week or more to schedule the surgery.” Dr. Johnson does her best to remain calm, but what does she have to worry about?
She doesn’t have cancer.
As we leave the hospital, I rest my head on Noodles’s shoulder, the image of our baby waving on the ultrasound screen etched in my mind. My baby is innocent and helpless. He or she needs me to stay strong.
This is what I’m fighting for. A future where I hold our newborn child in my arms, watch Kai develop into a man, and grow old with Noodles.
I’m going to fight—Fight like a girl—and I’m going to win.
Chapter Seven
Two weeks—not one—pass before my scheduled surgery date.
A few days before surgery, I stand in the nursery. A soft lullaby fills the space with joy. The faint smell of paint still lingers. The room is filled with love poured into every brushstroke.
I pick up a small box and trace my fingers over the intricate design etched onto the lid. It’s a memory box, something I thought long and hard about.
Over the past two weeks, I filled it with letters, each one written with a love so profound it aches. I wrote about the day I found out I was pregnant, about my dreams for the tiny life growing inside me. I wrote several other notes and birthday cards to be opened if I’m not there. There are small mementos as well—the first ultrasound and a pressed flower from the day we announced the pregnancy to our unique family at Insanity.
Each item tells a story I hope my child will cherish.
Tears blur my vision as I write another letter. The words are pieces of my heart inked onto the paper. I don’t know what the future holds, but my love will always be with my child, even if I’m not here.
No need to guess where Noodles is. He’s in the study, and the laptop’s glow illuminates his face. He scans information on the screen and occasionally jots down notes. Always a man of action, he believes in knowledge and preparation. In the past week, he’s become an expert on mastectomies, breast cancer, and how to be a supportive spouse.
But it’s taking a toll on him—fear of losing me, feeling helpless despite all his research, and the worst one of all, feeling powerless to protect me.
It breaks my heart to see him preparing to fight.
This isn’t my battle.
It’s ours.
The next day, we sit opposite Dr. Samuel for the pre-op appointment to sign consent and learn about what she’s going to do during the surgery. Her office is designed to be welcoming. Soft music floats through the air. The chairs are comfortable. There’s plenty to read.
