Max rubbed his forehead.
“Tell me what happened,” she said.
He ran a finger over the rim of his cup.
“Please, I want to know everything.”
“All right,” Max said. He tilted his head upward, as if he were searching through his memories. “In Oldenburg, I’d begun to have episodes of feeling winded after long walks.”
Goose bumps cropped up on Anna’s arms.
“I’d had them before, so I didn’t pay much attention to them. But toward the end of guide dog training, the short of breath episodes increased, and—on a few instances—they included dizziness. The first occurrence was when I fell down the stairs at your home while taking Nia outside.”
An image of Max, lying on the ground in Norbie’s workshop, flashed in her head. Her mouth turned dry. “I remember. I thought it was because you weren’t getting enough food to eat.”
“Ja,” he said. “That’s what I thought, too.”
Nia padded to him and placed her head on his knee.
Max gently rubbed the dog’s ears. “I found out the real cause of my fatigue the day that Nia and I were assigned to explore the hospital grounds on our own. While we were walking in the garden, I became light-headed. A nurse came to my aid, and she summoned Dr. Stalling.”
Anna’s hands trembled.
“Stalling was very kind; he insisted on giving me a bowl of warm broth and examining me. After he listened to my chest, he summoned another doctor, who had expertise with treating veterans with gas inhalation.” Max took a sip of coffee, as if he was reluctant to finish the story, and then set aside his cup. “The doctor examined me, and I was given a few breathing tests. Afterward, I was informed that I was in the early stages of respiratory failure.”
No!Tears welled up in her eyes. She leaned forward and clasped his hand.
He squeezed her fingers. “I’d known, since my treatment in a field hospital at the front, that my lungs were scorched by chlorine gas. The doctors had initially thought that my lungs would heal enough for a normal life. But it turns out that there was far more damage done.”
Oh, God. “Were you prescribed a treatment plan?”
He shook his head.
“Have you been assigned a Leipzig-based doctor who can help you?” she asked, refusing to accept his diagnosis.
“Anna,” he said, his voice soft. “There’s nothing they can do.”
“Nein!” Anna cried. “There must be something that can be done.”
“I’m afraid not,” he said.
Tears streamed down her cheeks. “Did Stalling or his colleague tell you how much time you have?”
“Six months to a year.”
“Oh, Max,” she cried.
He stood and wrapped her in his arms.
Anna sobbed, her body shaking. She remained in his embrace, attempting to come to terms that Max had told her he was dying. She’d encountered terminal cases countless times as a nurse. But nothing could have prepared her, she believed, for learning that she had little time left with the man whom she wanted to spend her life with.
“I was in denial at first,” he said, as if he could read her thoughts.
She sniffed, trying to slow the flow of tears.
“When I’d returned to Leipzig, I’d refused to accept the diagnosis. I spent my initial days back home trying to land a job as a pianist, as if finding employment would somehow prove to myself and others that I would be fine. But as days passed, and my breathing became more labored, I came to terms with the truth.”
“I’m here for you, Max.”
