Flash Fiction Entry 4.17

“There's nothing you can do about it?” she asked with tear-filled eyes.

“We can try radiation and chemotherapy, but surgery is not an option.  And the radiation and chemo would just add a few months at best….” the doctor replied, trying to avoid her grief-stricken eyes.  “I’ll give you two a minute,” he said as he backed slowly out of the room.

She clutched her husband’s hand tightly, as if he were going to be snatched from her grasp right then and there.

He’s too young.  He’s too young.  What about the girls? What about our family? I can’t raise them alone.  I can’t do this!

Her thoughts ran rampant, whirling around in her head at 90 miles an hour.  She couldn’t bring herself to look at her husband.  She was afraid if she stopped staring at the checkered, tile floor she might throw up.

Her husband put his arm around her and whispered softly, “It will be okay.”

He’s consoling me?

It’s as if he knew about this.  He didn’t look devastated like she did.  It was like he had already made his peace with it.

“How can you just put your arm around me and tell me it will be okay?” she asked turning to look into his deep, brown eyes.

“I knew something was horribly wrong, and as I stood by the crib watching the baby sleep last night, I just got an eerie feeling…like I knew it wouldn’t be much longer.  I knew there wasn’t anything to be done.  So I decided instead of wasting my last days in worry, I would cherish every second.  I know where I’m going.  I know I’ll be okay.  And I want you to take comfort in that.”

Take comfort? she thought as her gaze drifted back to the floor.