Page 8 of The Perfect Gift

But I’m terrified.

Sitting across from Dr. Samuel, I hold Noodles’s hand as she explains the procedure. Diagrams, percentages, risks—it’s an onslaught of information. Unreal and too much to process.

“During the mastectomy,” she begins, her voice steady, “we’ll remove the entire breast tissue to ensure we’ve gotten rid of all the cancerous cells.”

Those words hang in the air, cold and clinical.

Cancer. Cancer. Cancer. Cancer.

Cancer. Cancer. Cancer. Cancer.

Cancer. Cancer. Cancer. Cancer.

My heart thuds painfully as she explains the possible complications and risks of the procedure.

Part of me wants to scream, to run away from all of this, but I need to understand what I’m facing. For myself. For Noodles. For our family.

This isn’t a routine medical procedure. We ask all manner of questions. Noodles is amazing. He’s done so much to learn what to ask. I can barely string one sentence together.

Later that night, Noodles and I put Kai down to bed. Bedtime is a simple ritual, something we’ve done hundreds of times. Something I look forward to every night. One of us reads Kai a bedtime story, teaching him the letters and the sounds they make. How they turn into words and describe the pictures on the page. After story time, we tuck him in with a gentle kiss on his forehead.

Will I still be able to do this after the surgery? Or will Noodles be alone and have to do this all by himself? I brush away tears and take a deep, shaky breath. After putting Kai down, Noodles and I retreat to our bedroom.

It’s late, but sleep won’t come for either of us. I curl under the covers, my fingers twisting and untwisting as anxiety rushes through me. Noodles drapes his arm over my belly, providing support, but he clearly struggles with his thoughts.

“Talk to me. Tell me what you’re thinking.” I break the silence, my voice barely a whisper.

“I’m scared.” He confesses his fears, his voice rough. “I’m scared of surgery tomorrow. I’m scared of losing you. I’m scared of what this is doing to you. I’m scared of what this could mean for our baby.”

His honesty unravels something within me. It makes me stronger. My hand finds him in the dark. His fingers intertwine with mine, holding on tight. I appreciate his honesty. I’d rather know his fears than have him lie to me.

“I’m scared too.” My voice trembles, mirroring the shaking of my hands.

Noodles rubs circles over my knuckles. “We’re going to fight this, and we’re going to win.” He pulls me into the warmth of his embrace.

This isn’t a conversation that provides answers. It’s not meant to be that. But it’s honest. It’s raw. And it’s real. It’s a shared moment of facing our fears and standing together.

The next morning, I take a long, hot shower. The bathroom fills with the soothing sound of rushing water, and the special soap they told me to use before the surgery smells funny. Steam fogs the mirror as I let the water wash away my fear.

It can’t, but I pretend it is.

I trace the familiar curves and planes of my body with my fingertips, taking in every freckle, every scar, and every part of me that makes me who I am. The warm water trickles down my belly, rounded with new life. My hand slides higher, ghosting over my breasts.

They’re round and full, growing with my pregnancy. I stare at the tiles, the patterns blurring together as I let my mind wander. This body has seen me through every stage of life, every triumph, every setback. It has carried me, protected me, and betrayed me.

But now it’s about to change.

Drastically.

I cup my left breast, my thumb caressing the soft skin. I think of the lump hidden underneath, an invader in my body. It’s hard to comprehend that I’ll wake from surgery in just a few hours with a part of me missing.

My mind fills with fears. What will I look like after the surgery? Will Noodles still desire me? Love me? Will I still feel like a woman? Or will I feel… less?

What about breastfeeding my baby?

I can’t afford to be weak like this. Not now. I can’t let fear hold me captive.

But that’s a very hard thing to do.