“Of course,” she said in a kind tone. “I totally understand. I’m a mom too. I can only imagine how hard this must be for you.”
I nodded, grateful for her kindness even though my stomach was twisting.
“I just wanted to see if there is anything we can do for Lacey. She does not look good, Doctor. It looks like she isn’t eating. And since she’s still not talking …”
Her expression shifted to sad seriousness as she leaned over her desk. “You have every right to be concerned. Especially when it comes to Lacey. Correctional facilities must provide medically necessary treatment, but necessary means the bare minimum.”
“Yeah, that’s what my lawyer said. But I was wondering if we could pay for protein shakes or talk about force-feeding meals. There has to be something we can do.”
She shook her head. “Unfortunately, families can’t pay for better medication or treatment, and they can’t oversee the chemo treatment itself. But I was able to move her into the medical unit of the jail, which is a lot safer for her.”
The air in my lungs turned heavy. What did she just say?
My head jerked back.
“I-I’m sorry … chemo?”
I waited for the correction. For the “oh no, you misheard.” Some kind of misunderstanding. But her brows lifted instead.
“Yes, chemo.”
“W … what?”
“Chemotherapy. For her clear cell ovarian carcinoma.”
Every muscle in my body tensed. “I don’t understand.”
Her eyes locked on mine.
“I’m talking about Lacey’s cancer.”
Her words were like a punch to the face. A ringing shot through my ears, high and shrill. Cold needles rushed up my spine. Then nausea flooded me, and I swallowed so hard, I thought I would throw up onto her desk.
My hand flew to my mouth. A sound escaped anyway, broken and raw. Tears spilled down my cheeks in hot tracks.
“You didn’t know?” she asked.
I managed a small shake of my head. Everything felt unreal. Like I had slipped into the wrong life. Or stepped into hell by accident.
“But,” I whispered, “she was just in the hospital a few months ago. After the attack. They checked her. They would have found this.”
She pinched her lips together before answering. “Hospitals don’t usually screen for ovarian cancer after trauma, and a CA-125 isn’t a routine test. They wouldn’t have run it. They did the right labs for a trauma case. Blood count. Chem panel. Pregnancy test. Nothing in those tests screams ovarian cancer unless you’re looking for it.”
I tried to calm myself so I could listen to her. “And clear cell ovarian carcinoma is very hard to detect,” she explained. “But a few years ago, I lost an inmate in a prison where I worked to this type of cancer. It was horrific. The prison refused to let me run tests and treatment, and we only found out about her cancer from her autopsy. The way she died …” Her voice broke off. “Horrific. So when I see inmates who are pale and extremely underweight, I run a few extra tests, including the CA-125, which is not a routine blood test. The jail lets me do screenings as I see fit. I negotiated this before accepting the job.”
I listened as my world fell apart. Every word felt like someone was carving out my chest with a dull spoon.
“Lacey’s CA-125 came back elevated, so I sent her for imaging immediately. And it confirmed my suspicion. I am so sorry.”
I sat there and cried. How much more could I take?
“Why?” The word felt distant, foreign, like someone else was talking, using my body. “Why is all this happening to us? There are so many bad people out there. Rapists. Murderers. Which I swear my daughter isn’t. Why is this happening to my daughter? To her sweet kids? To me? To good people? No parent should ever outlive their child.”
Oh, God, the kids. How was I supposed to tell the kids? They loved their mother so much.
“I don’t think I can keep going,” I mumbled as my face fell into my hands. Then my gaze shot up to Dr. Langford. “How do people keep going in moments like this?”
She rose, walked around her desk, and sat in the chair next to me. Her hand grabbed mine, warm and steady.
