Page 4 of True Blue

He didn’t mean it.

Part of me wants to defend him. Part of me knows that he didn’t mean it, and maybe if I repeat it enough, my mind will believe it.

But he said it to hurt me. And worse than that, he sounded just like his mother when he did. She’s in there. Her claws have sunk in too deep for me to pull out.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, his voice breaking and his arms tightening around me. “God, Indie, I’m so sorry.”

“I’m sorry too,” I say, my voice even.

That’s when I know.

If I stay, I’ll spend the rest of my life begging to be chosen.

And this time, I know.

It’s time to leave.

1

INDIE

TWO YEARS AGO

“I’m afraid I have some difficult news. The scan shows that the cancer has come back.”

Barbara Greene blinks at my words. She’s looking at me with a disbelieving smile, as if waiting for my punchline.

It’s an expression that I’ve seen many times on patients at Hyde Cancer Center, where they come determined to fight this vicious disease and win.

There is a careful protocol to follow when you tell someone that they are dying.

I’ve brought Barbara into one of the offices for privacy. It’s bright with natural sunlight, which I’ve found helps. You always sit so you are at eye level, and speak plainly. You’re not trying to show off your medical knowledge.

You’re delivering a terminal diagnosis.

“I don’t understand,” Barbara says slowly. “Did… did I do something wrong?”

That question always hurts the most.

Patients want to believe that there’s a mistake they made, because mistakes can be fixed most of the time.

My eyes flick to Barbara’s scans on the monitor behind her, showing the gray mass around her lungs. Barbara never smoked a day in her life and was never around smokers.

And yet she was diagnosed with stage 3 lung cancer six years ago, completed treatment, did everything right, and entered remission.

Two months ago, she came back complaining of shortness of breath and periods of confusion.

Her general practitioner thought it might be early-onset dementia and sent her to a neurologist. The neurologist ruled that out and sent her to psychiatry, who then referred her back to her general practitioner. He simply told her to drink more water and suggested it was probably menopausal symptoms.

No, it wasn’t menopause. The cancer had metastasized, spreading to her liver. Stage IV. She has months left, if she’s lucky.

It's not fair.

“No,” I say, trying to infuse that combination of gentle, yet firm in my tone as my mentors taught me. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Cancer is unpredictable. Sometimes it just finds a way to grow.”

Barbara studies me for a long moment, then straightens in her chair.

“Give it to me straight, Doc,” she says, her voice no-nonsense. “How long?”