Page 10 of The Perfect Gift
That night, nestled against Noodles, my hand rests on the mound of my belly, feeling the rhythmic pulse of life within. The small thumps of our child’s vigorous kicks bring joy and trepidation.
I’m out on an operation with the Guardians the morning after the OB appointment. Sam told me to take time off, but I’m tired of sitting at home. It’s great to spend time with Kai, he deserves more mommy time, but it’s challenging to recuperate with all the kids wanting my attention.
Work provides a much-needed distraction. The day is long, grueling, and I’m worn to the bone when I return home. I find Noodles sitting in the kitchen with a mug in his hands. His back is hunched, his gaze fixed on the mug, a faraway look in his eyes. A heavy silence in the room, something that’s never there when he’s around.
“Noodles? What’s wrong?”
He looks up, meets my gaze and forces a tight smile. He takes a deep breath, clutching the coffee mug tightly as though it’s a lifeline.
“The oncologist called.” His voice cracks, and he closes his eyes.
A chill runs down my spine. Noodles has permission to receive medical updates when I’m not around, a necessity considering my work with the Guardians. I swallow hard, bracing myself for what’s to come.
“It’s in the lymph nodes.” His voice is a hollow echo. When he lifts his mug, his hand shakes, and a droplet of coffee spills onto the table. “They say it’s aggressive.”
Icy fingers creep up my spine, and tears sting the back of my eyes.
“They want to start chemo—and radiation. As soon as possible.” His voice shakes as he tries to explain. “They both carry risks for the baby.”
The world around me slows down, every sound fades into the background as his words sink in.
Aggressive. Spread. Chemo. Radiation.
Silence fills the room, pushing against the walls, pressing down on me. My mind races, thoughts spiraling, whirling, crashing into each other as I try to wrap my mind around this news.
My chest feels heavy. The air is too thick. Without thinking, my hand drifts to my belly, my fingers brushing against the fabric of my shirt. Beneath it, a tiny life stirs, oblivious to the cancer that threatens his, or hers, life.
The following days are a blur.
Each day a struggle.
Everything feels wrong.
Looks wrong.
Even Insanity feels off. I get great support from everyone, but no one knows what I need. I don’t know how they can help me. We’re all frustrated and feel helpless.
But we are together.
When I struggle with my altered self-image, the Chick Brigade is there for hugs. We’re tight, and they rally around me, doing what they can to help me through moments of despair and moments when tears seem my only solace. When I feel a tiny flutter from my belly, it’s silent encouragement from my unborn child. It gives me strength and inspires me to continue fighting, not just for me but for my family.
The numbers on the calendar change relentlessly, edging closer to the due date. It’s too far away. Giving the cancer within me yet another day to grow. Another day to threaten the unborn child within me.
I look down at my swelling belly, tracing the curve with a trembling hand. I’m in a race against time and a battle against my own body.
Our days are spent in a whirlwind of doctor visits, lab tests, and therapy sessions. Dr. Johnson explains my worsening condition with a measured calmness, detailing possible scenarios and interventions. There’s talk of inducing labor early, of maximizing both mine and my baby’s chances of survival. The thought of bringing my baby into the world prematurely is a terrifying prospect.
But the alternatives are just as grim. The cancer’s aggressive, and we can’t wait.
Noodles and I weigh the options and consider the choices that could spell life or death for me and our unborn child. His hand, warm and steady, holds mine, offering silent reassurance. Skye is a lifeline, helping us navigate the complex medical landscape, breaking it down into language we understand. The guys help by taking Kai off our hands, ensuring he doesn’t feel neglected. Despite the whole cancer thing, I’m lucky to have such a supportive family.
I’m torn between wanting to protect my baby from an early birth and needing to preserve my own life if I want to be there for my baby after delivery.
Each decision feels heavier than the last, each choice laden with an unbearable weight.
Distance creeps between Noodles and myself. It’s as silent, and as invasive, as the cancer in my body. Noodles is still there, still holding my hand, still bringing me breakfast in bed. Still helping me with my physical therapy, but there’s a strain in his smile, a weariness in his eyes that wasn’t there before.
Our nights are no longer filled with soft whispers and shared dreams. Instead, there’s a quiet tension neither of us can ignore.