I take a deep breath and open the door. Faith stands there, her face arranged into a peaceful expression. She is resigned and it guts me like a fish.
She knows.
"Hello, Faith," I say, listening to my voice as if it is not my own. It's clunky, stilted.
"Owen," she greets me. Her voice is the opposite of mine. Serene, accepting.
I step back from the door, ushering her in with an open arm. She strides, head high, to the seat Ace sat in just hours ago. I choose the chair beside her, needing to be closer to her as I deliver the bad news. I haven’t told her why she needs to come in, just that it’s to discuss some bloodwork.
She ducks her head a fraction. "So, is it as bad as I think? You're sitting on this side of the desk."
I exhale loudly, heavily. Gathering her hand in mine, I open my mouth to speak but find there are no words. Faith started out a long time ago as my girlfriend's mom but she has become so much more than that: a friend, a mentor, an ear to listen, a giver of advice when my dad began down his destructive path—a mother of my own.
Reaching out, she cups my cheek. “It’s okay, Owen. Just tell me.”
Something inside me gathers, growing like a tornado, extracting all my strength from the furthest corners of my body. Faith deserves a doctor who can be strong for her.Ishould be consolingher.
I level my gaze on hers, throat tight. "Faith, your most recent blood test results showed an increase in white blood cells. Chemo actually works to lower your white blood cell count in its effort to attack the cancer cells, so an increase as drastic as yours tells me we need to get you in for a CT scan. The cancer is … growing."
Her face remains passive. I'm waiting for the breakdown, but I don't think it's coming. Not yet at least.
"Alright," she says, stoic. "Just tell me when."
I grab for my appointment book and open it. Despite all the technology surrounding me, I'm old school. I like writing down my appointments. I’m booked solid tomorrow, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll work late to squeeze her in. Javier is the best radiologist we have and a good friend. He will squeeze her in too. That way, I can see if it’s spreading to her lymph nodes or surrounding organs.
My mind calculates all of the treatments we can try if this looks bad. Bone marrow, blood transfusions, even stem cells. I know of a great clinic in Scottsdale. I will pull every fucking favor I have to save this woman.
"How is tomorrow at two?"
"That works." Faith straightens her shoulders. I can't believe it was only a few nights ago that I sat at her kitchen table, eating a meal cooked by her hands, while something new, possibly another cancer, spread and grew inside her. It was a typical Monday evening, or so we thought.
Her eyes search mine, beseeching. "Can I ask something of you, Owen?"
I nod, afraid of what it is she might request.
"Don't tell Autumn. Not until we know something concrete."
My heart falls at her request but I completely understand it. I don’t want to worry Autumn unnecessarily either.
With one finger, I gesture from me to her. "Client-patient confidentiality, remember?"
She raises an eyebrow. "Do you think in the dark of night, when they are with their lovers, doctors don't break their code?"
I point back at myself. "Not this doctor."
Faith smiles, just a small one, and gently pats my cheek. "You're a good man, Owen Miller. I hope my daughter knows how lucky she is."
"I make sure to tell her every day," I say, with a wink.
Faith chuckles and stands, prompting me to follow her. At the door, she turns around. "We'll take this one day at a time. Just like we always have." Then she steps through, letting the door close behind her.
The first time I told her she had cancer, I was an intern and I said we'd take it one day at a time. And that's what we've been doing ever since. Maybe that's all we can ever do, cancer or not.
I want to be optimistic like Faith, stoic in the face of something frightening, but I have the burden of knowledge.
I chose not to tell Faith something I'd learned only from experience, something not yet verified by testing but known by gut feeling.
What I'll see tomorrow on those scans won't be good. It will be a downhill road from here on out.
