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I don’t think about Rudy. Mostly.
It’s the middle of August, and I’m once again in my obstetrician’s office listening to a prognosis that doesn’t sound too good.
My oncologist is here too.
“We’d like to schedule your surgery as soon as possible, Iliana.” My oncologist, Dr. Gilmore, is a distinguished-looking man in his early fifties. He’s done many mastectomies and is confident he can treat me while I’m pregnant. “Normally, with your type of cancer, I’d recommend a breast-conserving surgery. The tumor is still small, and there are no signs it has metastasized. However, BCS would require us to give you radiation as an adjuvant treatment post-surgery, which isn’t safe for the baby.”
I nod. They’ve told me this before, but by the patient tone in Dr. Gilmore’s voice, I know he doesn’t mind re-explaining it.
“There are some chemotherapy drugs that are safe for the fetus,” he continues. “So what I would recommend is that we perform the mastectomy and follow up with chemotherapy. Although it’s safe for the baby in terms of development, there is a very small risk of early delivery.”
Dr. Alder, my obstetrician, says something to agree with Dr. Gilmore. They both rattle off more information than I can absorb about safety of procedures and outcomes and prognoses. I can feel my anxiety ratcheting higher.
“Can we wait until after the baby is born?” I ask, my voice smaller than I’d intended. “I know you said chemo is safe for the fetus, but it just… It makes me uncomfortable.”
Dr. Gilmore purses his lips. “Iliana, if we wait, there’s a risk the cancer could metastasize—it could spread. The absolute best way to treat this is to remove it as soon as possible. Survival rates for your type of cancer drop dramatically when intervention is delayed. Taking into account the progress of your tumor since you’ve been under our care, leaving adjuvant therapy until after you give birth is a risk I strongly, strongly advise you not to take.”
I know he’s right. Despite my grumbling, I’ve read all the pamphlets. I’ve been going to see Dr. Gardner every week, and the terror choking me has receded with every passing day. I know the doctors have my best interests at heart, and my hesitations come from a place of irrational fear.
I can’t put this off any longer; I need to just face my demons and move on with my life. Plus, after the surgery, after the chemotherapy, I’ll finally get to meet my baby—if that’s not a reward for staring down cancer and surgery, I don’t know what is.
But when the doctors book my surgery for two weeks from now, it takes all my self-control to keep my face steady. Inside, I’m panicking. I still haven’t told anyone. I’ve been holed up in my apartment working, eating, and sleeping, only leaving to go exercise or do groceries. My sister Trina has stopped by a few times, but my mother and Candice seem busy with her new house. Nora’s called me regularly, but she’s been shuffling over and back to Reno all the time and we haven’t had time to catch up.
That’s probably mostly my fault, though.
Now, my reprieve is ending. No matter how much I want to carry this burden on my own, I know my family would never forgive me if I went into surgery without telling them. I’ve had a few weeks to prepare with my therapist, I’ve done the breathing exercises and the journaling and all the homework she’s given me. I broke up with Rudy and I’m determined to face these things from a place of strength.
The final thing I need to do is tell my family.
I’ll do it today.
Decision made, appointment over, I thank the doctors, stop at reception for payment and my next booking, then leave the office. Once I’m in my car, I sit for a few moments before grabbing my phone.
“Hello, stranger,” Trina says when she answers my call. I can hear the hiss of an espresso machine and the chatter of a few people, and I know she’s at the Four Cups Café.
“Hey, Trina,” I say. “What’s up?”
There’s shuffling, and the background noises die down. “Lily! Where are you? We’re all at Four Cups. Mom was just saying we should go break down your door for a welfare check, because she hasn’t seen you in nearly two weeks.” Her voice drops. “You okay?”
“I…” I pause. I don’t want to lie. “Do you think you could get everyone up to the library? I need to tell you all what’s going on, and I don’t want to do it more than once.”
There’s a slight pause, then Trina lets out a breath. “Yep. Of course. We’ll all be up there in ten minutes. Is that good?”
My heartbeat picks up, but I force myself to nod. Then I remember Trina can’t see me. “Yeah,” I say. “That’s good. I’ll see you there.”
“I’m proud of you, Lily,” my sister tells me, her voice oddly muted as if she’s tamping down a wave of emotion. “It’ll feel good to tell everyone about the baby.”
I almost laugh. She doesn’t even know the half of it. Instead of blurting it out over the phone, I tell her goodbye and hang up, then lean against the headrest and close my eyes.
I want to call Rudy. How crazy is that? We haven’t talked to each other since the housewarming party, when I told him I wasn’t interested in pursuing anything with him. He respected my decision and hasn’t tried to rekindle anything between us, which makes me feel good and awful at the same time.
So why do I have this urge to call him to stand next to me when I tell my family what’s been going on? Why do I want to feel his palm against mine and draw on his strength when I face my uncertain future?
Shaking my head, I brush the thought away. This right here—this need to lean on Rudy—is the whole reason I broke it off with him. How can I trust my feelings when they could just as easily be neediness? I don’t care about Rudy, I’m just using him for his strength and support.
That’s not fair to him. It’s not fair to me.
I need to face this on my own.
