Page 99 of What Should Have Been Ours

But it’s not.

It’s been two weeks since I finished my last round of chemo, and my immune system is finally in a safe enough zone that my doctors are comfortable with sending me home. This is supposed to feel like progress. And in some ways, it is. I’m leaving the hospital. I won’t be hooked up to machines 24/7. I won’t have to stare at the same four walls, hearing the constant beeping of IV pumps and heart monitors. I’ll get to sleep in my own bed. Shower in my own bathroom. Be in my own space again. But my body didn’t respond to this last round of chemo the way they were hoping. The cancer isn’t gone. My body is still viciously working against me.

So I’m going home to wait.

Wait for the next steps. Wait for a donor to be found. Wait for the bone marrow transplant that’s supposed to be my best shot at surviving this.

And if they don’t find a match?

I push that thought away before it can take over.

For now, I just want to focus on the good. I feel better. I actually have energy again. I can walk to the bathroom without feeling like I’ve run a marathon. I don’t feel like my body is trying to shut down on me every second of the day. It’s the best I’ve felt in months, and I just want to hold onto this feeling for as long as I can.

Gabrielle, Wes, and my parents are all here helping me get everything together. Wes is cracking jokes, telling everyone that I’m getting discharged because the nurses are getting sick of me, and my mom keeps fussing at everyone, making sure I have extra supplies for back home. My dad keeps trying to be the calm one, but I see the relief in his eyes—relief that, even if just for a while, I’m out of the hospital, not being drained of life by all of the treatments.

Gabrielle is pacing around manically, figuring out what needs to be done. It’s a quiet kind of manic, but I see the helplessness behind every movement she makes. She wants to fix. It’s who she is at her core. She doesn’t know how to cope with not being able to fix this. So she tries to focus that energy on making everything go as smoothly as possible, in whatever ways she can.

After we finish packing up, Wes heads back to work on the other side of the hospital; my parents are heading home to finally get some real rest, and tell me they plan to visit tomorrow once I’m settled, and Gabrielle is driving me home and staying at my place with me.

The car ride is quiet at first. She keeps one hand on the wheel, the other reaching over to hold mine, rubbing soft circles over my knuckles, trying to comfort me, but it feels more like she’s trying to find some comfort for herself.

I let it sit for a while, let her have the silence, but there’s something I need to say—something we haven’t said out loud yet since the diagnosis. And as much as I hate it, as much as I want to pretend we don’t need to talk about it…we do. I’m not sure if there’s ever really a good time to have this conversation, but I finally have enough energy back and clear headspace to do it.

I squeeze her hand gently. “Gabrielle.”

She hums in acknowledgment, eyes still on the road.

“Thank you.”

Her brows furrow. “For what?”

“For…everything. For being here. For never leaving. For going through all of it again with me.” I let out a dry laugh. “You know, you could’ve walked away. You didn’t have to stay. I wouldn’t have blamed you or been mad. I would have understood.”

Her grip tightens. “Cam.”

I shake my head. “I mean it. Thank you, I’m so grateful for you, and I’m beyond lucky. But…we need to talk about something.”

She stiffens. “Cam…”

“I don’t want to have to say this out loud; I don’t want to have to think it, but we both know the reality here…we know there’s a chance I don’t make it through this time.”

The car swerves slightly as she pulls over to the side of the road, slamming on the brakes. Her hand leaves mine and grips the steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles turn white.

“Don’t,” she whispers.

I turn toward her. “Gab.”

Her shoulders shake as she lets out a shuddering breath, still staring straight ahead. “Don’t talk like that.”

I reach out, tucking a piece of her hair behind her ear, staring at her beautiful and tired face. “I don’t want to, but we have to. We still have options—the transplant could work. I could get better.” I pause, taking a breath. “But if it doesn’t…I need you to be realistic and find a way to cope with that possibility. You have to be prepared.”

Her head snaps toward me, tears shining in her eyes. “I’m not preparing for anything.”

“Gabrielle.”

“No.” She shakes her head. “You’re not leaving me. I just got you back.” I watch as she finally lets the tears fall. “You’re going to beat it…you did before.”

I hope she’s right. God, I do. But I also know the odds. I’ve seen this disease take too many people. I don’t want her to be in denial about the possibility. The very real possibility.