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They don’t.
“We’re doing everything we can.”
Everything we can.
The sentence feels wrong, like there should be more after it.
“But?”
The doctor swallows, and I see the answer before she says it.
“The antibiotics are working against the infection, but your husband's organs are continuing to fail. His kidneys and liver are deteriorating, and there's fluid accumulating in his lungs.” She pauses, and something in her expression changes. “Even if we manage to clear the infection, his body won't be strong enough to withstand another round of chemotherapy. I'm so sorry, Mrs. Raimondi. I don't think he's going to survive this.”
For a moment, I just stare at her, waiting for her to say something else. Something that will make those words mean anything other than what they mean.
She's telling me my husband is dying.
The world stops.
“No.” My voice sounds strange, like it’s coming from somewhere far away. “No.”
“Mrs. Raimondi—”
“No!” The word explodes out of me, and people turn to stare, but I don’t care. “He’s twenty-five.” The tears come instantly, hot and angry. “He is only twenty-five years old!”
The doctor says nothing. She just stands there and waits.
What is she waiting for?
Somehow that makes me angrier.
“You need to do something!” My hands are shaking. “Start the chemotherapy again.”
“His body—”
“I don’t care!” The hallway spins around me. “Start it again!”
“Mrs. Raimondi—”
“You said he needed treatment. So treat him.”
The doctor’s eyes fill with tears.
Actual tears.
And suddenly I hate that too, because doctors aren’t supposed to cry.
Doctors are supposed to fix him.
“Please.” The word comes out broken, the anger disappearing as quickly as it came. I’m not yelling anymore. I’m begging.
“Please save him.”
Her face crumples, and when she speaks, her voice breaks. “If I could wish for anything in this world…” She pauses, looking past me toward the room where my husband is sleeping. “…anything at all…”
Tears spill down her cheeks. “I would wish I could heal him.”
Something inside me shatters.
