Billionaire, I Am Not Your Wife! novel Chapter 136

Remission

Sedona’s POV

My doctor came into my ward at nine. knew it was discharge news before he said anything, because he was carrying the folder differently, less with urgent care and a bright smile on his face, blinding as he set his eyes on me.

He sat down in the chair beside my bed, which he did whenever he wanted to talk to me casually as he opened my folder, looked at the report inside and then looked at me with a pleased look,

“Your markers this morning,” he said.

“Tell me.”

He turned the folder so I could see the graph myself as I saw the line, the one that I had been watching for two months straight that told me where my life laid, the one that had been going down and down, with every passing day, at a snail space had suddenly gone down further than the red line that was marked clearly.

He didn’t need to say it first before I realized what that meant, my life was no longer in the critical stage and I had a 90 percent chance of surviving.

“I’m clearing you for discharge,” Frank said. “Two months at home before the next monitoring cycle. Then we will follow it up again by scans, blood panels, a full reassessment.” He paused, with the care of a man who understood just how much weight his word carried, especially in a matter like this.

“If the trend continues, and there’s good reason to believe it will, we’ll be having a different conversation at that appointment.”

“Remission,” I said stating it out loud as he nodded his head..

“I’m not using the word officially yet,” he said, and the not-quite-smile of his was present, trying to stay professional since he was on duty. “But you can use it in your own thinking. You have earned the right to use that word.

I looked at the graph.

Months ago I’d been in a hotel room in Chicago bleeding onto a hotel floor. Six weeks ago I’d been in a fever that my brother had watched through observation glass, unable to be with me but watch as I go through the most painful procedure that I had ever experienced in my life, childbearing not withstanding. Three weeks ago I’d been in a that had a thirty-one percent remission rate and I’d made my peace with the possibility that I wouldn’t be in that thirty-one percent and had decided to try anyway, just to prove to my family that I wasn’t giving up on me just yet.

The line on the graph was almost at the bottom of the chart.

“Okay,” I said. My voice came out uneven which surprised Noone at this point because the emotions in me were to be, to be handled.

“There are instructions,” Frank said, returning to the folder, not making my emotional short breakdown a

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Claim

big deal, giving me a moment to compose myself. “You know most of them by now-your nursing team will walk through everything before you leave. Diet; activity levels, what to watch for, when to call.”

He looked up at me as he continued speaking.

“Nothing strenuous for the first two weeks. Tennis-” He paused, reading my expression. “Not yet. But we’re talking about it as a future-tense possibility that can happen as you get stronger, which was a different thing from when you were first admitted.”

“It’s a different thing,” I agreed.

“Give yourself the two months. Let your body do the settling. Carry out the hobbies you wanted to carry out, see and eat what you like….within reason. Go for a show, or a dance class, don’t spend the two months in the room, waiting for feedback from us. Come back in December and we’ll see where we are.”

He closed the folder and stood, bringing out his hand for a handshake as he continued “You’ve been a remarkable patient, Sedona. Difficult, occasionally, in the way that people who understand their own bodies are always a bit difficult-”

“I argued with you about the third cycle’s dosage adjustment.”

“You were right about the third cycle’s dosage adjustment,” he said. “Which is why it’s in your file as a note for future reference.”

He held my gaze as he continued speaking.

“You need to understand something Sedona. You’re one for the record books. I mean that. What your body has done across these two months is not ordinary!”

I took his hand.

He shook it gently, not squeezing too tight or letting it last longer than necessary.

“Thank you,” I said. “For getting me into the trial in the first place, if you had not given a chance about this, I would not be here today. Also thank you for being honest about the odds and not letting the honesty become an argument against trying.”

“Thank you for trying,” he said. “It’s always a choice. Not everyone makes it.”

He left.

I sat in my hospital bed alone and stared at the door that he just vacated as I allowed his words to settle in my heart and let it be real.

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