Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 134212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 671(@200wpm)___ 537(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 671(@200wpm)___ 537(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
He clears his throat and crosses one leg over the other. “When I operated to remove the mass, I found that it was wrapped around the base of your spinal cord. I’m afraid it was too risky for me to continue.”
“What?” I breathe. It’s the only word I can muster. I don’t mean to tighten my grip of Billy’s hand, but it seems my body isn’t my own. They sewed him up with a deadly lump still inside him?
Keeping his attention on Billy, Dr. Smith goes on. “The type of cancer is called Chordoma. It’s very rare and can go without symptoms for some time before it’s discovered. It’s very unlikely had you visited your GP regarding the back pain that he would have referred you.”
Billy remains silent, just looking at the doctor. I feel numb. A rare cancer. I didn’t hear cancer so much as I heard the word rare. I’m taking that one word, rare, and concluding one thing. My new husband has less chance of survival than someone with a common cancer. A cancer that had been researched more. A cancer that probably has a ton of treatments. Rare to me means less chance of survival. Limited treatment options. Bleak outlook. Fatal.
“What’s the prognosis?” I blurt, my voice shaky, my palms sweaty. I didn’t want to ask that. I didn’t mean to ask that. I would grab those words and stuff them back in my mouth if I could. But I can’t.
“Each case is unique,” Dr. Smith says. “I have limited experience in this area, and at this point, since even removing part of the tumor wasn’t possible, I’m inclined to get Billy on a course of radiotherapy to see if we can at least shrink it. We can revise our treatment plan from there.”
Billy releases my hand, and I drag my gaze from the doctor to my husband. His eyes are closed. He’s hiding from our stark, agonizing reality. “You won’t even try to remove the tumor?” I ask, fighting to keep myself together. I can’t fall apart. Not in front of Billy.
“No, Mrs. Harper. I’m not confident anything will be gained, but much will be lost.”
“Like what?”
“The sacral nerves, which will likely result in motor, sensory, sphincter, or sexual dysfunction. The extent of dysfunction depends on which sacral nerves must be sacrificed. In general, the higher the tumor extends in the sacrum, the more sacral nerves must be sacrificed, and the more dysfunction will be experienced. Not to mention the risk of paralysis.”
I can only stare in shock, the onslaught of shitty information too much to hear. To bear. Why didn’t he tell me before Billy woke up? But God, would I have wanted him to?
“From what I saw in the operating theater,” Dr. Smith says with way too much regret in his tone, “those dysfunctions are guaranteed should I operate. I’m not confident I can remove even part of the tumor without damaging the spinal cord or nerves. It’s not a risk I will knowingly take.”
My eyes fall to the sheets of Billy’s bed. The silence is excruciating. A heavy silence, laced with grief and hurt. So he can live with this tumor until it kills him, or he can lose some of his functions for the rest of his life. I know my husband. I know the latter isn’t an option for him.
Peeking up at Billy, I see he’s still holding his eyes closed, his hands now safely from my reach, clasped together on his lap. He’s shutting down. No. He can’t.
“There’s a doctor in The States,” Dr. Smith goes on. “He’s a specialist in Chordoma. He may be able to help.”
“The States?”
“He’s a private doctor. I can pass Billy’s records over to him to assess.”
“You mentioned radiotherapy, too,” I say, my jaw and throat tight with the strength it’s taking me to keep my voice steady and my lip from wobbling. “When?”
Dr. Smith stands, putting the chair back in its place. “I’m drawing up a treatment plan.” He smiles sadly, flicking his eyes to Billy. “I’m sorry it’s not better news.” He turns and leaves, and if the silence was excruciating before, now it’s screaming, horrifically unbearable.
I reach for Billy’s hand and grab it before he can try to withdraw. “We’ll get through this,” I tell him, with one hundred percent confidence. He’s young. He’s strong. Radiotherapy will shrink the tumor and then the doctor can remove it. “We’ll reach out to the specialist in America. Everything will be fine, just wait and see.” His lack of response hurts me more than imaginable. He’s just lying there, eyes closed, silent. I need him to tell me it’ll be okay too. “Billy,” I beg, losing all control of my emotions. “Tell me it’ll be okay.” I burst into tears, my body shaking hysterically as panic of the cruelest kind overwhelms me. He has to believe everything will be okay. He has to! “Please,” I sob.