IT WAS THE SHAKING THAT UNNERVED HER. SHE COULDN’T STOP the shaking.
“I’m sorry.” Kendra held herself, trying to focus on the oncologist. “I can’t . . . stop.”
Derek moved closer and draped an arm around her. Their chairs, upholstered with fabric in a pattern of brightly colored leaves, were positioned across from a doctor Kendra had met minutes before . . . who’d pronounced her fate quickly.
“It’s metastatic.” Dr. Watson’s voice was even, his hands folded on his desk. “The cancer has spread to your neck.”
“This means it’s . . . it’s Stage IV?”
“It’s Stage IV, yes.”
She should’ve brought a sweater. Was the AC on blast?
“I advise aggressive chemotherapy,” he was saying, “followed by a mastectomy, radiation, and likely more chemotherapy.”
Kendra was reeling. “And if I do . . . do all of that, is there a chance it’ll be cured?” She had to ask, though her research had already supplied the answer.
“This is not treatment with a curative intent. This is terminal.” His expression was empty. “But if you respond well to treatment, you might live a little longer—although I can’t give you any guarantees.”
Derek came forward in his chair. “What do you mean ‘a little longer’? How long are you giving her?”
“The five-year survival rate for inflammatory breast cancer is about 30 percent.”
“Only 30 percent live five years?” Derek asked. “And given Kendra’s particular diagnosis, what’s your best guess for her?”
The doctor looked at Kendra, as if questioning whether he should say.
“I’d like to know,” Kendra said.
“I’ve seen dozens of IBC patients, and my best guess is that two to two and a half years would be optimistic, if she responds well to treatment.”
Kendra had read story after story. She knew the life expectancy, even of a metastatic IBC diagnosis. But hearing it about her life . . .
She scrambled for air, scanning family pictures on the doctor’s desk, one of his wife and him as bride and groom. They probably had a perfect wedding, both in perfect health.
Dr. Watson was jotting notes. He looked up briefly. “I’m also advising that you start the chemo next week.”
Kendra’s eyes went wide. “Doctor, I’m getting married next week. We’ve been planning this for months. I can’t take the chance that I’ll be sick on my wedding day because of chemo.”
The doctor paused his pen. “Miss Woods, you’re sick now. I don’t think a dream wedding is your goal at this point.”
Kendra stared at him, dumbfounded. Did she no longer have input in her own life? Had she relinquished it to a man she’d known all of ten minutes?
“With all due respect, Dr. Watson,” she said, “you just told me this is not a cure, and there’s no guarantee it’ll even extend my life. So I’m not understanding why I can’t put it off for one week, to enjoy the wedding we’ve planned.”
He removed his glasses and looked pointedly at her. “My job is to effectively treat the cancer, Miss Woods. I can’t do that when patients get in the way. I need you to put all the ‘life’ things you want to do behind you and focus on the matter at hand.”
Kendra stood. “Thank you for your time, Dr. Watson.”
Kendra left the doctor’s office, almost more upset about his attitude than her diagnosis. Put the wedding behind her? Is that what he was saying? Chuck all the planning and money invested—not to mention how much her heart was invested—and do what? A quick vow exchange outside the chemo room?
She needed another oncologist. But she also needed a second opinion, just in case. She needed to know that her desire to proceed with her wedding as planned wasn’t insane.
Kendra remembered Dr. Myra Contee, a former neighbor back home and an oncologist who specialized in breast cancer. On staff at the Siteman Cancer Center at Wash U, Dr. Contee had made herself available for questions and support during Kendra’s mom’s illness.
Kendra called, and Dr. Contee said to fax her medical records ASAP so she could take a look. And while she waited to hear back, Kendra was determined to stay in the swing of wedding planning. She was inside the federal courthouse, making her way to the chambers of the Honorable Jayne Cardwell to discuss the final order of the ceremony. Derek had planned to come, too, but got called back to the office to handle a client crisis. They would connect a little later this evening, when they’d have dinner with his best man and Charlene.
It was after five, and the judge’s assistant and current law clerks were gone. The judge buzzed Kendra through the door herself.
Kendra smiled big when she saw her, sans black robe, impeccably dressed in a summer suit and top. They hugged like old friends. “Judge Cardwell, it’s so good to see you.”
The judge, nearing retirement age, smiled from her eyes. “Always a joy to see my favorite clerk.”
“You say that to all your former clerks.”
The judge laughed, neither confirming nor denying. Kendra had learned much from her about diplomacy in the year she’d spent there.
“How are you?” The judge always asked in a way that questioned the soul.
Kendra’s gaze faltered. “Fine, thanks.”
The judge’s eyes sparkled at her. “Can you believe the wedding is almost here? This is the most exciting thing on my docket.”
“Well,” Kendra said, “I guess I’m flattered that our wedding beats the trials of hardened criminals on the excitement meter.”
The judge chuckled. “And don’t forget those month-long patent infringement suits on the intricacies of computer hardware wiring. They’re a rousing good time.”
“Ah, yes, I remember well.”
“Let’s have a seat and get comfortable.”
Kendra followed Judge Cardwell from the outer chambers to her office, where she took the sofa and the judge took a chair.
“First, I want to say again that I am humbled that you’ve asked me to officiate your wedding. I consider it a great honor.”
“The honor is ours,” Kendra said. “We didn’t want anyone else to marry us.”
When they’d first gotten engaged, Kendra considered getting married back home, since her mother was sick and doing little travel. But the only pastor she knew was Pastor Lyles of Living Word Church, and she hadn’t been there in over a decade. Then her mother died, mooting the question.
Judge Cardwell grabbed a notepad from the side table. “So, the service starts at five o’clock in the evening,” she said. “What time should I arrive?”
“There’s another wedding before ours,” Kendra said. “Our party will be allowed in as early as three o’clock. Maybe since you won’t be able to attend the rehearsal you could arrive at four, for any last-minute instructions.”
“That’s a good plan,” the judge said. “In terms of the ceremony, when the string quartet signals the start of service, I walk out with Derek and the best man. Correct?”
“That’s right,” Kendra said. “Then our attendants will partner up and walk down the aisle—we have four bridesmaids and four groomsmen—then the maid of honor, flower girl, ring bearer, then yours truly.”
Kendra got butterflies picturing it. How often had she dreamed of that moment, when Derek would see her in her gown for the first time?
“And you’ll be walking down the aisle alone?”
“Yes. My father won’t be there, and it doesn’t make sense for anyone else to give me away.”
“Okay,” the judge said. She looked at her notes. “I have the Scripture verses that will be read, two songs, and”—she glanced up—“I believe I have the final copy of the vows?”
Kendra nodded. They’d cut and pasted different versions of traditional vows they’d found.
“Okay, and one more question—”
Kendra’s phone sounded. She’d given Dr. Contee a special ringtone too. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I need to get this.”
A million beats per second. That was her heart’s rhythm as she walked into the outer office. “Dr. Contee, hi.”
“Hi, Kendra, sorry to make you wait all day.”
“Not at all,” Kendra said. “Thank you for taking the time.”
“Even now, I only have a second before I see a patient,” Dr. Contee said. “But I wanted to give you my thoughts on this.”
Kendra closed her eyes. “Okay.”
“You’re not insane, is the short answer.” Dr. Contee had a soothing tone. “I see no problem with your moving forward with the wedding as planned. But you need to postpone the honeymoon and begin chemo right after the wedding.”
“Dr. Contee, I can’t thank you enough. This is the best news I’ve heard in days.”
“Kendra, again, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’m still stunned. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call my private number. I’ll also compile a list of recommended oncologists in the DC area, as you asked.”
“I appreciate everything, Dr. Contee. Thank you.”
Kendra held the phone after she’d hung up, turning over her words.
I see no problem with your moving forward . . .
She couldn’t wait to share the news with Derek.