Billionaire, I Am Not Your Wife! novel Chapter 42

Chaoter40: Cancer Treatment

Sedona’s POV

The treatment began on a Tuesday.

Dr. Mitchell sat with me for two hours the morning before the treatment started, just the two of us, with Cameron in the corner being very quiet, not saying, which told me he already knew what Frank was going to say to me, but he wanted me to hear it from him directly.

He walked me through everything that had been going on; the restaging, the new scans, the probability that we were looking at stage four rather than three. The clinical trial where he managed to get me into, through asking a colleague. The twenty-four weeks. The thirty-one percent that I had based on probability.

I’d expected the numbers to be worse than what Chicago had told me. I’d felt the progression in me, I knew I was getting worse, I didn’t need a doctor to tell me that. These were things that you just knew, in the way you feel things that are happening inside your own body when you’re honest enough to pay attention.

The bleeding episode in the hotel had told me something was escalating and my time was running low. I just didn’t point it out because I didn’t want Cameron to argue with me on this.

I listened to Frank explain it all, and I thought about Nick, and I thought about everything that I had experienced this past few weeks.

“Thirty-one percent,” I said.

“Yes.”

“That’s not nothing.”

Frank smiled, just slightly. “No. It’s not nothing.”

“Then we do the trial.” I looked at Cameron, who was still being quiet in his corner, as if, if he kept still enough, he would become one with the furniture and picture frames there.

“Stop holding your breath, Cam. We’re going to try.”

He exhaled, and the sound of it held about a week’s worth of contained fear. He had been worried that I would change my mind about fighting back.

The first chemotherapy session was technically my second-they’d started me in Chicago, but that felt like a different lifetime, that I couldn’t still process it’s been barely a week since I started.

This was different. More aggressive, more precise, and more monitored in ways that the hospital in Chicago didn’t do.

My mother sat beside me for the entire four-hour infusion, her hand around mine, talking sometimes and sometimes just sitting in the silence not saying anything, not needing to say anything.

“Tell me what you want to do,” she said at one point. “When this is over. When you’re better. Tell me what you want.”

“Tennis,” I said immediately, and surprised myself with it-the immediacy of it, the certainty that I wanted to do this once more. This was a life that I had given up for a family, but i was still in love with it.

“I want to get back on a court, Even if I’m terrible because I am out of practice for far too long. Even if I can barely swing the racket. I want to feel grass under my feet and a racket in my hand.”

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify