Page 35

Please, God, don’t do this.

Damiano sleeps through most of it, only waking for a few minutes at a time before drifting away again.

At first the doctors talk about infection, antibiotics, cultures and bloodwork. The language we’ve become used to.

At some point Damiano wakes long enough to look at the doctor.

“What about chemo tomorrow?”

The doctor shakes her head. “Not while you’re this sick. We need to treat the infection first.”

“But I need the chemo.”

“I know.”

His fingers tighten around mine.

“When?”

“As soon as your body is strong enough.”

He closes his eyes again, and I squeeze his hand.

“It’s okay,” I whisper. “We’ll do it when you’re better.”

Because of course he’ll get better.

Then, sometime around three in the morning, the conversations change.

Doctors start appearing in groups. They stop smiling and start using words they haven’t used before.

Sepsis. Kidney function. Organ stress.

I don’t understand most of it. I only understand the look on their faces.

And suddenly, for the first time since the diagnosis, something cold settles in my chest. It isn’t the fear I’ve grown used to carrying with me every day. It’s something worse.

The feeling that we might be losing ground.

Damiano sleeps through most of the next day while machines breathe and beep around him and I sit beside his bed, counting the rise and fall of his chest.

At some point, Dr. Mia asks if she can speak to me privately.

I follow her into the hallway, and the moment the door closes behind us, I know.

I know before she opens her mouth because she’s looking at me the way people look at someone standing on the edge of a cliff, about to fall.

“Mrs. Raimondi…”

I wring my hands so hard I leave red marks.

“Your husband’s infection is severe.”

I stare at her as she keeps talking, throwing words, medical terms and numbers at me that I hear but can’t make sense of.

Kidney failure. Fluid in his lungs. Sepsis. Organ damage.

I blink once, then twice, waiting for the words to become English.