For the less fortunate, it’s a death sentence.
But Antonia knows that.
“How long has it been there?” I ask her.
Suddenly, I’m back in that hospital corridor, sitting in the waiting room with Bex as we wait for more results from scans, hope slipping away with each test.
Antonia swallows. “Just a few days. I thought it was hormones. I thought it would go away, but it didn’t.” Her voice dips on the last word. “And I didn’t want to worry you with it. Over nothing.”
“Nothing?” I say. “Lumps are never nothing. You never wait a few days. These things should be checked straight away.” I’m about to launch into a lecture when she winces, her arm flexing. The doctor inside me rears his head, and I try to pack him away.
This isn’t my patient.
This is my partner.
And I need to be her rock, not her consultant.
“I can’t check it for you,” I say. “It’s not ethical. But I can refer you to a colleague who can. Someone I trust. I trust them with my life, so I trust them with yours. But please, let’s move on this now.”
“Okay,” she whispers, eyes filling with tears.
I’ve never seen her cry. And every instinct in me screams to fix this, solve it, save her from this. To check that this isn’t what I pray it’s not. But none of that is what she needs right now.
A tear escapes down her cheek. I sweep it away with my thumb, then bring it to my lips. “Even your tears are sweet.”
She laughs softly. “I don’t think anyone’s ever called me sweet.”
We stare at each other. Both of us have been here before with people we love. And now I can’t believe we’re back here again.
The fear. The terror.
I see it day to day in my work. But nothing prepares you for it when you’re sitting in front of the person you care about. And I’m furious I’ve been dragged here again. That this could once again be my life.
“Can you call your friend?” she says.
I pull out my phone, and the reply comes back almost instantly.
“Ten o’clock tomorrow,” I tell her as I read the reply. “We’ll find out what’s going on. Or start the process anyway.”
She nods, reaching for my hand. We sit there, looking at the spreadsheet again. Looking at numbers that mean nothing. Because if what happened today could be anything, it could change the trajectory of our whole lives.
“I didn’t want to tell you,” she says.
I glance at her. “Why?”
“I didn’t want to remind you of your past when it could be nothing.”
That knocks me sideways. “But I’d want to know.”
“But you knowing is so much more than someone else,” she says. “Because you know a lot more. You know the possible outcomes. You know what could happen. You’ve been there. You’ve lived it. You work with it. The last thing I wanted to do was bring that to your door.”
Tears run down her cheeks. I touch my own face. They’re wet too.
This is the last place I ever expected to be again.
But here I am.
I take both her hands. Spin her chair toward me and pull her forward. Our knees connect.