Sick man with a nasal oxygen tube resting in bed during a medical examination | Source: Magnific
Jack died while I was six months pregnant, leaving me with two children to think about and more questions than I expected. Then a stranger appeared with something he’d hidden from me.
I was thirty-five and six months pregnant with our second daughter. Our four-year-old, Lucy, still believed Daddy was going to get better because that was what grown-ups did.
For eight months, my life had been lists.
Medication times.
Oncology appointments.
Insurance calls. Bills.
Lucy’s preschool schedule.
My prenatal appointments.
Jack watched me sorting pills at the kitchen table. “You know you don’t have to control every second of the day, right?”
Daddy was going to get better.
“I’m six months pregnant, Lucy is four, and my husband has cancer. Which part should I stop controlling?”
“Maybe start with me.”
“You’re the least trustworthy one.”
“We’ve been together since high school.”
“Exactly. I have evidence.”
Which part should I stop controlling?
He smiled tiredly. “You’re terrifying.”
“Good. Cancer should be terrified of me.”
He laughed, then coughed until he had to grip the table.
That was us.
