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“You OK?” Leslie asked when she caught him lingering outside the doorway. She gave a concerned look and if he didn’t get on the move she might ask what was wrong. Or she might ask more questions about last night’s dinner because neither Will nor Leslie had bought his story about Chelsea needing some fresh air.
Memories of Chelsea’s hurt expression caused Jared to momentarily question himself. A sense of foreboding hung over his head, like there was no escaping the emotional surge that went through him at just thinking of her. But he’d done the right thing to nip in the bud any thoughts she had about a relationship with him. If she disliked him, she wouldn’t welcome his fascination for her. The fascination that had played out in vivid color during what little sleep he’d gotten the night before.
Regardless, he didn’t want to go into the million and one things that had kept him awake most of the night.
He gave a quick nod of acknowledgement toward Leslie and knocked on the exam-room door. He’d procrastinated long enough and delaying the inevitable had never been his style.
He entered the exam room and instantly met Connie’s pale blue eyes. When he’d first met her he’d thought her eyes similar to a Siberian husky’s. Each time he saw her unusual eyes he was again struck by the image.
She sat in a chair against the wall opposite the exam table. The top of an elaborately carved dragonhead cane rested between her fingers. With all they’d been through the past few years, Connie was much more than a patient. More like a favorite aunt.
“So, what’s the verdict, Dr Jared?” she asked, never one to beat about the bush. “Is this old hip going to get better any time soon?”
Jared pulled out the wheeled stool and, sliding the metal seat next to Connie, sat down. “I’m afraid not.”
“That worn out, is it?” she asked, patting his hand. “Well, it’s not like I expected to go jogging down the beach, anyway. Just so long as I can get to Monday night bingo, I’ll get through. No worries.”
Jared took her wrinkled hand and squeezed it, wishing he knew how to soften his words but knowing he had to give her the facts. “The MRI showed a tumor on your left hip, Connie. It’s highly suspicious of cancer.”
“Highly suspicious?” Her face paled, then hopeful Siberian blue eyes lifted. “If it’s only suspicious, there’s a chance it’s not cancer?”
If only.
Jared flexed his jaw. He’d told patients in the past they had cancer without breaking down. For that matter, he’d told this woman. He could do it again. He steeled himself to do the job before him, strengthening his heart to carry on, all the while fighting the need to take Connie in his arms and just let her cry.
“I wish I could offer you hope, but I won’t when I believe it would be false hope. I talked with the radiologist who read your MRI and, although he didn’t say the actual words on your report, he’s confident the tumor is a sarcoma.”
Connie’s lips disappeared into her mouth as emotion overtook her. Her shoulders slumped, and her eyes watered. “I can’t go through this again, Dr Jared. I did once. I can’t do it. Not again.” She tugged on his hand. “Tell me this isn’t happening.”
Ignoring the tight squeezing in his chest, he held her watery gaze. “I spoke with a surgeon this morning and he reviewed your MRI films. He won’t consider operating until you’ve had chemo to shrink the tumor.”
Connie’s free hand lifted to her salt-and-pepper hair. She’d lost all her hair during her previous cancer treatments.
“I’m not doing chemotherapy again.” Shaking her head in denial, she twirled a short curl between her fingers as if she held something more precious than gold.
She did.
“I’m going to schedule an appointment with Dr Goodall—” he named her oncologist “—and let him review the MRI. He’ll discuss your options, but with the way the hip joint has deteriorated, your prognosis doesn’t look good.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
Why indeed? Certainly not because he wanted to. There was nothing good about telling a woman cancer had taken hold so deeply her chance of survival wasn’t good even with the recommended treatment. Without the chemotherapy she wouldn’t survive more than a few months at most.
“I know you’re upset, Connie,” he began, wishing medical school had provided him with the right words to give comfort in times like these. Perhaps there were no words that comforted with dark diagnoses. Certainly he felt inadequate to the task. “But you’re a strong woman and you will beat this.”
She had to.
“I’ve already beaten it.” Connie’s words came out in a high pitch. “At least, I thought I had. Really, I was just fooling myself.”
Jared’s stethoscope weighed heavily around his neck, threatening to choke him. “You did beat your lung cancer. This is a new battle, but one you’ll also win.”
“You don’t really believe that, do you, Dr Jared?” Her intelligent gaze sought his, pinned him beneath her intent stare.
What could he say? At best, the cancer would be localized to her hip and, after eradication of the tumor, she’d need total hip replacement and months and months of rehabilitation. At worst, the PET scan he’d order would reveal metastasized cancer in other areas of her body. If that was the case, modern medicine would be able to do very little to preserve Connie’s life.
Connie remaining positive, believing in her chances of survival, would be the vital key to her overcoming her cancer. If he took all hope away from her he may as well shut the lid on her coffin and nail it closed.
Hope always existed. Miracles happened every day, and Connie was due a miracle.
