FOUR WEEKS PASSED.
There are twenty-eight days in four weeks, six hundred seventy-two hours spread across those days, and for every hour of every day, it seemed like something was happening.
Friends visited constantly as word about Beth’s condition spread—there were questions, tears, vows to help, more tears. A group from her yoga class showed up with pink shirts inscribed with TEAM BETH over a small cartoon caricature of Beth. She broke down crying upon seeing them.
Endless trips to the hospital. Countless discussions about what to do next. Specialists were consulted. Oncologists, neonatologists, obstetricians. The fetus, they determined, was developed enough that Beth could proceed with treatment.
Treatment began. Targeted radiation. Weekly IV chemotherapy.
Some days were bad days—tiredness, vomiting, nausea. Other days were good days, times when Beth didn’t even appear to be sick. She’d even substitute taught for a few days.
The month had been the most exhausting time of Gary’s life, but as he sat on the living-room floor now, ten o’clock at night, Beth directly across from him, he was nowhere near tired. Wearing the same outfit he wore most evenings after his nightly shower—a pair of blue-plaid pajama bottoms and a faded Pearl Jam shirt from a concert he and Beth went to a decade ago—he stared at the Scrabble board on the floor between them.
“Jump,” Beth said, placing her tiles on the board. “That’s eight, nine, twelve, fifteen points.”
Gary wrote down the score. They’d been playing Scrabble for as long as they’d been together, thousands of games over the years. It was a simple pleasure, but that was their relationship—one full of simple pleasures, a relationship defined by little moments. Chinese takeout instead of a five-star dinner; a night watching Netflix instead of an evening at the opera. Vacations spent hanging out, maybe making a day trip to Detroit, instead of something exotic.
“Grazed,” Gary said, arranging a few tiles on the board. “Seventeen points.”
“Not bad.”
“Just glad I didn’t get stuck with the Z like I always do.”
Beth’s eyes went from her tiles to the board, back to her tiles. Her cheeks had gotten puffier over the past weeks, her skin a little pallid, but the treatment hadn’t changed her appearance too drastically. No major hair loss, just a small patch on the side of her skull where the radiation had been targeted. The biggest difference was that her belly had continued to grow. Thirty-four weeks along now. She’d had a few ultrasounds in the past month, and doctors said everything looked perfectly fine and healthy.
“Queen. Fourteen.”
“Wan and cow. Wan is a double word. Twenty total.”
The game continued, back and forth, steady like a pendulum, but Gary could barely concentrate. All he could think about was tomorrow.
Tomorrow. That’s when they would meet with doctors to learn if Beth’s treatment had shrunk the tumor or if it was still growing. Everything that had happened over the past month was leading up to that meeting. The last thing they wanted was to spend the evening sitting around and obsessing, so they’d decided to play Scrabble to distract themselves. They were already on their third game.
“Gary? Your turn again.”
“Sorry,” he said.
He stared at his tiles.
“Thinking about tomorrow?” Beth asked.
“Of course.”
“You’re not the only one.”
She weakly smiled, not much behind it. Gary set his tiles to the side and scooted over to her. Put an arm around her and she snuggled in next to him. She traced her finger over the Pearl Jam logo on his chest.
“Things will work out, Beth,” he said. “I’m positive.”
He kissed her forehead and held her in his arms for a few seconds—a nice little moment—then scooted back over to his side of the board.
• • •
THAT NEXT MORNING, GARY HELD BETH’S HAND AS THEY DROVE ACROSS town. He was on edge—a mixture of anticipation and dread.
They arrived at the hospital. Waited. Went to a room. Waited some more. Talked to a nurse. More waiting.
After all that waiting, what happened next felt like it happened very quickly, in the blink of an eye.
A knock on the door. Gary’s chest tightened.
Dr. Narita entered. His expression gave away nothing.
They exchanged greetings. Small talk for a second.
After a pause, Dr. Narita spoke two words that told the entire story: “I’m sorry.”
• • •
THE TUMOR, HE EXPLAINED, WAS STILL GROWING; TREATMENT HADN’T AFFECTED it. Gary and Beth took the news well. No tears. They weren’t blindsided, like they’d been when they learned about the cancer—they knew the facts; they knew they were facing a long shot.
“Now that standard treatment has failed, we’ll want to treat the tumor more aggressively,” Dr. Narita said. “We have a few options. A different combination of chemotherapy drugs to slow the growth. Or radiosurgery—a one-shot high dose of radiation—might buy a little more time.”
Gary fixated on the phrases Dr. Narita used. Slow the growth. Buy a little more time.
Nothing about eliminating the tumor.
Nothing about saving her life.
Dr. Narita also advised Beth to consider enrolling in a clinical trial. He explained that biotechnology and pharmaceutical companies tested new, unproven treatments during trials to gauge drugs’ effectiveness.
“I’ve talked to some people and looked online. I’ve found a few trials that I’d like to discuss with you.”
He opened a folder and fanned a few sheets of paper onto the desk.
“One in particular,” Dr. Narita said, “looks encouraging.”