I’m concentrating on getting us there and parked on time and trying not to be outwardly anxious. Nalani still has her hand on my thigh, tracing calming circles as she sings along with the music on the stereo. That’s more soothing than anything. I shoot her a smile, reaching down to squeeze her hand.
“Hearing you sing is one of my favorite things.”
The song changes, she has it on shuffle, and I can’t help but smile, recognizing the opening bars. The upbeat vibe of one of my favorite Twenty One Pilots songs, “Tear in My Heart,” is welcome, and hearing her sing along is like a balm to my soul. The idea of sometimes needing a hurt to remind you you’re alive is so fitting this morning. There couldn’t be a more perfect song to listen to my wife sing while I circle the parking lot. I don’t even mind the tedium of searching for an open spot because it gives me more time to hear her singing. Right in time, I see someone’s reverse lights come on and I pull up, signaling my intention, and grab their spot. I suck in a deep, steadying breath, lock the doors, and grab Nalani’s hand, taking us into the hospital.
32
Nalani
We make it to the waiting room and all the calm I had been feeling evaporates with the first blast of air-conditioned air. Ames is a bundle of nervous energy. He’s bouncing his knee, unconsciously chewing on the inside of his cheek, and the hand that holds mine is cold. We don’t wait for very long, especially not by big hospital standards, but it feels like an eternity. By the time we get called back, I feel as if my body is made entirely of solid, heavy ice. I want to move at the pace of a glacier. Ames propels us forward, thankfully unaware. He’s not very good at being still. The doctor greets us as Lieutenant JG and Mrs. Cabot. It gives me a little thrill. The first tiny twinge of real emotion I’ve felt since we got into the hospital. I don’t like the indication that there’s a crack in my wall of numbness. Numb is safe.
“Mrs. Cabot,” he addresses me, “I’ll get right to it. I have your test results back and, as we suspected, you do carry the mutative BRCA2 gene.”
Ames squeezes my hand and I’m vaguely aware of the pressure, but it’s far, far away from me. Somehow, all this time, I had allowed myself to think there was a chance the test would come back negative. I sort of expected it. Like being so happy with Ames meant that I deserved good things to come my way. As if life is fair like that, instead of random and chaotic. I should have prepared for this. Except I’m not capable of that. I guess I should have asked Ames to help me prepare for this.
The doctor is still talking. I hope Ames is listening. I numbly look over and see that he’s taking notes. Thank goodness one of us is paying attention. Not for the first time, I know how lucky I am to have him. I think the doctor is still talking. It sounds like the adults in the “Peanuts” cartoons. All warped, trombone voices speaking gibberish. Ames is doing a lot of nodding and writing. My eyes are unfocused, and my mouth is dry. All I can think about, with any semblance of coherence, is how much I want a drink of water. Ice cold water. More ice than water. So cold it makes my teeth ache.
The doctor’s voice cuts back through the fog. “I’m sure you will both want to take some time to talk all this through, discuss your options. I really just want to lay this out for you, give you the information I have, then we can schedule another appointment when you feel more prepared to discuss next steps. I want to emphasize, though, that this positive test result is not a death sentence. While you do carry the mutated gene, there’s no guarantee that you will get cancer. It’s simply that we know there is a higher percentage of probability that you will. I hope you can keep that in mind while working through your feelings about all of this. Do you have any questions?” He’s looking at me, but I can’t answer.
“I can’t think of anything right now, Doctor. I think we’ll bring all of this home and take some time to read over everything together. Do we need to schedule the follow-up appointment before we leave?” Ames asks, his pen poised over his notebook.
I don’t even absorb the answer. I guess it was a yes though, because we stop on our way out and Ames speaks to someone behind a desk, saving something on his phone. I don’t recall driving home. I look up and we’re parking in our carport. I lost at least thirty minutes there, staring out at nothing and being thirsty. Ames comes around to my side and lifts me into his arms, carrying me upstairs. It feels like I blink, and we’re wrapped up together, on the couch. Ames is holding me flush to his firm chest, hands stroking my hair gently. We stay that way for a long time. At least I think it’s a long time. It’s hard to tell in my present state. Eventually Ames moves us so he can be close to me but look me in the eyes. His face is drawn and there’s worry in his blue eyes. He brings me a glass of water, exactly the way I fantasized it, and watches me like he’s studying a subject in a lab while I drink it. He strokes my face with his long fingers, caring pouring from his touch and expression, as he talks to me. I can feel the callouses from his years playing guitar. I focus all of my attention on those small spots of rough skin against mine. They anchor me in the moment.
“Lani? I need you to talk to me. I know you need to process things at your own pace, in your own way. We don’t have to talk specifics right now. Just, please, Darlin', you’re scaring me a little bit. Can you talk to me?”
I nod, barely, swallowing thickly.
“Are you feeling numb from the news? Or are you overwhelmed?”
I hold up one finger.
“I’m feeling that too. What can I do?”
A tear slips out and I clutch at him, hugging him tightly. That single tear breaks the dam and suddenly I’m a sobbing, shaking mess. Ames strokes my hair, holds me tight, and kisses my wet cheeks. Finally, my tears begin to slow, though now my face feels swollen, and my nose is stuffy. Ames lifts me easily in his arms, carrying me to our bed. I feel a little childish, but I think he needs to show his caring with actions and I need him. So much. He dries my face and dresses me in comfy pj’s, then we climb into bed.
“Ames, I’m scared.” I whisper, my throat scratchy from disuse and all the crying.
“I know. I am too. Really fucking scared. I know this is your thing, your call, and I’m not supposed to be involved but I care, Lani. And the thought of you hurting, being sick, that terrifies me.” He holds me tighter, and I feel his breath hitch.
“I’m scared I’ll make the wrong choice. I’ve never even allowed myself to think about it. The idea of cancer is scary, but that’s not entirely unfamiliar either, ya? I feel frozen by the indecision, Ames. More than I’ve ever been in my life, and that’s saying something.”
“What would help? Should we name those fears? Maybe if they’re said out loud, we can get rid of some, or at least know what we need to work on.” The way he casually uses ‘we’ causes another tear to slip out. Ames lifts himself over me and lies in front of me, so we’re face to face. “You’re crying again.” He sweeps his thumb over my cheek, so gently it makes me ache.
“You keep saying we.”
“I’m sorry. I’m…”
I interrupt him, not wanting him to apologize more. “No. They were good tears, Maka. I’ve been worried about this test and what the results would mean for a while. The worst of it, though, was thinking about facing everything alone. I thought I was alone.”
“You’re not alone.” My insides twist for an entirely new reason.
“Naming the fears. I can try that,” I say instead of addressing what I’m feeling. That’s scarier than our current conversation. “Kids. I’m afraid that I won’t be able to have kids. I’m afraid I’ll choose to wait, because I want kids, only to get cancer with small children at home. I’m afraid it’s selfish to want to bear children when I know I can pass on this shit to them.”
He kisses me sweetly, a soft peck with pursed lips. “One down. And I may not have a cancer gene that I know of, but I understand that last fear very well. I love kids! I want kids. I think I’d be a good dad. But I wonder if I should want that, knowing that alcoholism can have a hereditary com
ponent.”
“You would be a fun, affectionate and caring father! You shouldn’t let your children’s possible-future-concern-about-maybe-abstaining-from-alcohol keep you from that.” I think about him rolling around on the floor with the Hammond kids and how he looked carrying Queen Millie to wash her hands. He’s wonderful with kids. He’s loving and thoughtful. Any child would be lucky to have him as a father.
“Thank you for that. I could say the same though. Do you think your mom wishes she could go back and not bring you into the world at all rather than pass down the BRCA2 gene?”
I exhale shakily. “You’re right. I know what she would say. So…scratch that one from the list. Also, not being able to conceive may be something I’ll have to deal with when and if it comes up. That’s not the only way to have a family. It doesn’t seem prudent to let that kind of ‘what if’ hold me up at this stage.”
“That’s true.” A gentle finger under my chin tips my face until we’re eye to eye. “You didn’t need my help with that one. That was some first-rate reasoning and decision making for anyone. I don’t think you give yourself enough credit, Lani.”
That was a first for me. Both the doing it on my own and the validation. I feel something bloom in my heart, sweet and fragile. I hold onto that inner warmth and press on.
“Next, the big one: my body. I know preemptive surgery is an option. But it’s a pretty severe, permanent option that still doesn’t completely remove the possibility of getting cancer. I’m scared of altering my body, first of all. Will I still feel like me? What if…” I’m nervous admitting this, especially since it feels presumptuous given our current friends-with-benefits-and-a-marriage-license relationship. “What if my body isn’t attractive. What if I don’t have breasts anymore and you’re turned off by me? I won’t look like a woman. Or what if I choose to get implants and they feel weird and unnatural? What if I don’t get sensations back?” My voice is barely above a whisper. “I know these fears are a little impertinent, thinking about your opinions about me in the far away future, but after earlier today especially, it’s on my mind. Ames,” I gulp, my voice dropping even more, “I love how you touch me. What if it doesn’t feel good anymore? And even worse, what if all of that happens and I don’t get cancer — which is a fucking ridiculous thing to be worried about, isn’t that the goal?”
My voice is rising now as my freak out is growing, whisper building to wail. “What if I alter my body, you aren’t attracted to me, I can’t feel my nipples, and I don’t get cancer, so it was all for nothing?” My chest is tight and I’m feeling panicked. I squeeze my eyes shut and work on box breathing, thankful that I can’t see how Ames is looking at me.
“Lani,” he touches my cheek with those rough fingertips, forcing me to open my eyes and look at him. “I 100% cannot tell you what to do or how to feel about your body. But you can completely remove me from that equation. My attraction and how you make me feel is about more than your physical presence. I can’t tell you how good it makes me feel to hear that you love how I touch you. It can’t be as much as I love touching you though,” he says with a small smile.
“But even without surgeries or cancer, our bodies are going to change. It’s inevitable. Things may not always feel the same, and what we like or dislike doesn’t stay stagnant either. I think as long as we are open and keep talking to each other, it won’t matter. If what I’m doing stops feeling as good, you can tell me, and I’ll try something else. I like you and I care about you, but how much I like your breasts shouldn’t factor into what you decide when it comes to your overall health. I want all of you, and I refuse to endanger all of you for the sake of one small part.”
I release a shuddering breath, “Do you ever not know the right thing to say?”
“Sure, but I put in a lot more effort when it comes to you. You deserve the best of me I can give you.”
Oh my. I don’t even have the mental energy to consider how good he is to me and how much I don’t deserve him.
“My brain is on overload right now. I think I’d like to close my eyes.”
It’s not a line, my head feels like a bowl of oatmeal. I’m on the verge of shutdown as it is. It’s better to choose it.
“You rest, Darlin'. I’m not going anywhere.”
Curling up against him, I sink into oblivion, welcoming the darkness and the quiet.
I feel like I’m operating from inside a heavy cloud. I’m cold and uncomfortable and sounds and sensations reach me as if through fog. I didn’t expect the news to hit me this hard and I cannot pull myself out of this funk. Ames is always hovering on the periphery, watching me, his concern making me feel even worse. I know he’s hurting, but at this point I’m unable to process my own feelings and I definitely can’t deal with his. It’s all too much. He doesn’t press me or try to draw me out, thankfully, but he’s always there. I spend a lot of time sleeping. I’m not purposefully trying to avoid my thoughts or him. I guess it’s my default right now. I go to bed early, I sleep in later than usual, I doze sitting on the couch. I sleepwalk, zombie-style through jobs, grateful there aren’t witnesses. I won’t deny, being unconscious is easiest.
I become aware that I’m not taking care of myself when Ames steps in and starts doing it for me. After a few days he comes home from work, in sweaty workout clothes, and sees me curled up on the couch in the same clothes I slept in and possibly wore the day before. I’ve lost track. He doesn’t lecture me or shame me. He doesn’t say anything at all, actually. He just scoops me up and takes me into the bathroom.
He gets the water going, gently undresses me and sits me in the bottom of the tub, under the shower’s spray. A minute later he’s naked and stepping in behind me. Strong arms lift me, getting us both wet. He’s tender and careful, washing my hair, and it brings tears to my eyes, the first hint of emotion I’ve had since my breakdown. When he’s done washing me, he lets me sink back down to the ground, curling up on myself while he takes his own quick shower. The fact that I’m in here with Ames, naked, and all I want to do is go back to sleep is mildly concerning. I’m sure it should be more concerning than it is, but minor worry is all I can manage right now. He wraps me up in a towel and leaves me sitting while he dries off, pulls on a pair of loose sweatpants, and gets me clean clothes.
I let him dry and dress me like I’m a giant, bendable doll. He even combs through my now damp hair and braids it. Who exactly is this guy that I married? I’m cradled in his arms, the crease between his eyebrows and weariness around his eyes at odds with the gentle curve of his smile. There’s no anger there. No judgement. Sitting me on the couch, Ames covers me with a blanket, pressing a light kiss to my forehead.
My eyes are closed, I’m warm and clean and safe, and I can hear Ames moving around our tiny kitchen. There are small dings, I think text alerts, then good smells start to reach my nose. Time is hazy, but a while later he comes over to the couch and sets a couple of bowls on the coffee table. He sits me up, rearranging my blanket, and hands me the bowl with a spoon.
“You need to eat this, Lani. When did you last eat?” I shrug, unsure. Lifting my shoulders is exhausting, the effort surely warranting a sheen of sweat. He presses the spoon into my hand, pointing to the soup. “Eat. Please?” He eats his own soup, but watches me the whole time, making sure I’m doing as I’m told. I am. Disappointing him would be worse than what’s pressing down onto my body and mind. The soup is warm and flavorful, reminding me of something Kachaan used to make for me. My stomach wants to revolt when the first bite hits, I’m genuinely not sure how long it has been since I ate anything, but I continue until it feels better. Ames makes sure I finish the entire bowl before he gets up, taking my dish to the sink and bringing me some water. Worry is tightening in lines around his eyes and the lean lines of his body lack his usual energy.
“You have to take care of yourself, Lani. I’ll help wherever I can, I want to, but I can’t be here all day. I’m worried about you.”
I merely nod, wrapping the blanke
t tighter around me.
“I know you don’t want to, but I think we need to go over what the doctor told us during your appointment. It seemed like you weren’t absorbing much and he’s expecting us to be ready to discuss your options at your next appointment. These are things we can’t ignore.” He gives me a minute to respond and when I don’t, he slides closer to me, taking my hand in his.
“Okay,” he sighs, “the main thing is that nothing has to be decided right this second. We have the results, and you’ll get your yearly screening. There is some more specific research about the surgeries that we can ask the doctor about, but it’s early days. You’re only 26.” He looks at me closely, cupping my face in his hands. “Is there anything you want to ask? Anything you need?” I shake my head. I can feel myself slipping away again. Ames pulls me into his lap, holding me through it.
The rest of the night is a haze. I don’t recall leaving the couch, but I wake up in the night in bed, cradled in Ames’ arms. I slip out to use the bathroom and notice, in the moonlight, that Ames cleaned everything up at some point. Even in my current state I know he’s a prince among men and I’ve saddled him with too much. I try to get back into bed without disturbing him, but even in his sleep Ames is determined to take care of me. He lifts the sheet for me and tucks me up against him. I can feel some of my fog burning off in the warmth of his arms. I sigh and relax into him, drifting off into a sleep that feels more restful than any I’ve gotten in the last week.
The next morning, I sleep in, waking up feeling refreshed. It’s not an immediate 180 degrees from the last week, but I feel less numb and that’s a start. I put in a load of laundry and mop the floors, wanting the apartment to smell fresh and clean. I change the bedding and switch the laundry over. I play piano for a little bit, feeling a little more human with every note. I’m sitting on the couch, enjoying the cool air and sweet smells blowing in from the windows, folding the laundry, when Ames opens the door.
Like a Good Wife (Oahu Naval Officers Book 2) Page 17