The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 345

Blood pressure normal. Heart rate normal. Oxygen saturation normal.

He logged each metric into the rounding chart, returned the clipboard to the nightstand, and turned toward the door.

"Dr. Foster."

His footsteps froze. At some point, Sloane had rolled over and was watching him with wide eyes.

Backlit by the afternoon sun, her irises looked like crystal-clear, pale brown glass—sharp and unclouded.

"After my cancer treatment is done, will I be able to swim again?"

Garrison remained silent for a long beat.

The room was dead quiet, save for the occasional chirp of a bird outside the window. Finally, he spoke.

"I'm sorry, but no."

Sloane pushed herself up against the mattress, the blankets sliding from her shoulders down to her waist.

"Why? Brain cancer doesn't affect my limbs. Don't you guys have that hyper-precise targeted drug? Cassandra told me it has practically zero side effects. If I'm cured, why can't I swim?"

Garrison stood perfectly still, his fingers curling slightly at his sides.

He knew exactly why she couldn't swim. The last time she had dived into that ice hole, plunging into subzero temperatures, her lungs had endured water pressure far exceeding safe limits. Coupled with the massive overdose of corticosteroids she had inhaled, the alveolar-capillary membranes in her lungs had sustained irreversible damage.

Even if Vitas-1 eradicated every last tumor cell in her brain, it couldn't repair the alveoli that had necrotized from oxygen deprivation and extreme pressure.

She would never endure competitive swimming again. Honestly, she wouldn't even have the lung capacity to hold her breath at the bottom of a standard pool.

But he couldn't tell her that. He had no way of telling her the truth.

However, as a doctor, he could still offer a perfectly plausible medical explanation.

She couldn't swim. She had no degree. No recent competition records. No work history.

Her resume consisted solely of half a college education that no longer existed, followed by a massive, ten-year blank slate she couldn't possibly explain to an employer.

After racking her brain, she realized there was only one path forward: she had to get her degree again. Whether it was the SATs, night school, or anything else, she needed to start over. That was why she was studying English.

The afternoon bled into evening, and evening surrendered to the dead of night.

Outside, the shadows of the sycamore trees stretched and flattened under the streetlights. The fluorescent lights in the room had automatically shut off, leaving only the dim glow of the bedside lamp.

It was 2:00 AM.

The sound of the nurses doing their rounds echoed faintly down the hall before fading away entirely. Outside, there wasn't even the hum of a cicada. The entire building was as silent as a world on mute.

Sloane closed her book, massaged her temples, and got ready to lie down. But just as she shifted, an agonizing spike of pain exploded from the deepest part of her skull!