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I didn’t dwell on that. “Just don’t stress yourself out, okay? Your counts have been amazing lately. You just keep going up. Let’s not reverse the trend because you’re worrying yourself into an early grave.”
“I just want this to be over. I want to have the transplant and move on with my life.” He sighed. “I realize I have to be well enough to have the transplant, but I feel as though I never will be. How am I supposed to get well when I’m being poisoned?”
“You’re not being poisoned. Remember what that blog said? Chemo damages your healthy cells, but it doesn’t kill them all off. You just need to get close to something that vaguely resembles remission. We’re almost there. Even if you have to do a fourth round of chemo.”
“I suppose we’ll see what Dr. Grant has to say next week,” he said with a sigh. “I don’t want to spend my birthday puking into a bucket.”
“If you do, I’ll attach some balloons to it. Make it festive.”
He smiled, but he didn’t laugh. Therapy was doing wonders for Neil, but he was never going to be one of those people who could make jokes about their cancer.
He grabbed the throw from the back of the sofa. “I’ll let you get back to work. Will it bother you if I sleep here?”
“Not at all.” Another lie. His snoring lately could wake the dead. I would put on headphones and deal. “Besides, I like having you close by.”
That one wasn’t a lie.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Neil’s last round of chemotherapy in the cycle had been like the last leg of a trail ride. He was barn sour, a horse who just wanted to get back to his stall and his straw.
He did not appreciate my folksy euphemism when I shared it with him. Possibly because he’d just had a bone marrow aspiration at the time.
During the last week of every cycle, Neil had a blood draw to make sure he was physically capable of handling the next round. This week, though, we’d gotten a call from Dr. Grant, saying he wanted to do further tests.
Of course, Neil had been furious.
“I feel fine. I don’t know why he thinks it’s so damned pleasant to have holes drilled in your bones,” he’d grumbled.
So, we’d gone and he’d had a hole drilled in his bones and Dr. Grant had said things that had sounded vaguely positive. Things like, “I don’t want to get your hopes up unnecessarily,” and “No, no, it’s nothing indicating you’ve taken a turn.” But he’d been unwilling to say, “I think the chemotherapy is working.”
We made an appointment to come back the day before Neil was due for his next dose.
That morning, I woke up in bed to find him beside me. I hadn’t noticed him get in, hadn’t woken when he’d taken me into his arms. I knew he had been feeling better, not just because it was his “good” week. I didn’t know if he’d begun to recover, or if his body was just getting used to the rhythm of chemo, but I was so relieved and happy to wake with his arms around me, his body spooned up behind me.
“Good morning,” He murmured against my ear. He pressed his morning erection against my backside, and I giggled, instantly giddy. Today was going to be a good day.
I remembered the date, and I gasped. “It’s your birthday!”
“That it is,” he said, nibbling along my shoulder. “Do you know what I want for my present?”
I let him roll me beneath him and spread my legs to cradle his hips. He kissed me, and I didn’t even care that I hadn’t brushed my teeth. I didn’t want to do anything that might break the moment.
“Is it this?” I asked, lifting my pelvis and rubbing shamelessly against him.
“No, it’s a stem cell transplant, actually,” he laughed. “We don’t have time for sex right now. We’re meeting Dr. Grant at ten-thirty.”
“Balls.” I pushed him off me and sat up. “Do you want the first shower, or do I get it?”
“We could make it a tandem shower,” he suggested, running a finger down my arm.
“Not if we’re going to make a ten-thirty appointment, we can’t.” I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood, shimmying my nightgown down to cover my bottom. “Listen...”
“Don’t get excited, I know. I’m aware that this could all turn out to be just an indicator that we’re moving in the right direction.” He almost made it sound like he would be happy with that outcome. Almost.
I hated myself for saying more. “It’s just... he said it might take more than one cycle to get you into remission. And you’ve only been doing the chemotherapy for three months. You’re feeling better, but it’s not like you’re your old self, you know?”
