Luckily, she was always there to pick up my pieces, drown me with wine, and send me back to my family with a patched up heart and paper bravery.
The past few months had been hard.
Ren had gone downhill again.
At the start of the year, his coughing came back with a vengeance, and, whenever he lay down or bent over, he struggled to stop. His throat became raw, his energy levels depleted.
The more he tried to hide his discomfort, the worse it got, and Jacob flinched just as much as I did when he had a coughing fit.
Rick said Ren’s tumours hadn’t spread, but he was suffering pleural effusion and suggested surgery. If he didn’t, Ren would continue to drown in his own lungs, thanks to fluid constantly building.
For a week, Ren and I tossed up the pros and cons.
Pros—if the surgery went well with no hiccups, it would mean he’d have a better quality of life, wouldn’t cough or be out of breath so badly, and be back to being active and strong. If the Keytruda kept his immune system supported and attacking his mesothelioma, there was no reason he couldn’t have many more years.
Cons—if the surgery ran into complications, he might be hospitalised for a while, running the risk of becoming ill with pneumonia or worse…putting his body under such strain it suffered respiratory distress or cardiovascular problems.
In the end, it was Jacob who helped us decide.
He ran into our bedroom one morning and slammed to a stop as Ren came out of the bathroom, dripping wet and wrapped in a towel.
His adorable little face scrunched up as he pointed across the room. “You’re skinny.” Running over to his father, he poked Ren in the side—or as high as he could reach—saying, “One, two, three ribs, Daddy. Eat more, ’kay?”
Ren had looked at me, another awful cough tumbling from his lips.
He just nodded, and I knew.
The next week, Rick organised the Pleurodesis surgery, and Ren had a night in the hospital after the procedure, just to make sure there were no issues. Rick told us to be kind to ourselves and not panic about the results for a few days. However, by the fourth day at home, Ren’s colour was already better, his appetite improved, and his coughing nowhere near as wracking.
It had been a gamble, but it’d paid off, and yet again, we had a future with sunshine rather than shadows.
For so long now, we’d existed in the middle of a seesaw. Sometimes sliding one way, only to scramble back to the middle before slamming to the ground.
Ren never missed a treatment of Keytruda, and for now, he remained stable with no side effects. We were optimistic but also realistic.
Hence the photo-shoot to capture Ren fit and smiley…just in case.
“Okay? You ready?” The purple-haired photographer popped her bubble-gum, smiling. “Arrange yourself on the hay bale. The light is good against the barn, so we’ll start there, then make our way around the farm and any other places you want, okay?”
I nodded. “Sounds great.”
Cassie stood to the side with Chip and Nina, ready for her own photo-shoot once ours was done. John lingered, overseeing with encouragement and wisecracks, occasionally agreeing to photo bomb and be forever immortalized.
As Ren gathered me in his arms, smoothing my white dress, and Jacob stood obediently in front of us with my hand on his shoulder, my heart fluttered for more.
More of this.
More of everything.
Just more.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
REN
* * * * * *
2028
“YOU TRULY ARE a miracle, Ren Wild.”
I smirked at my oncologist who’d become a firm friend over the years.
Rick Mackenzie was a rare type of human who I didn’t just tolerate but genuinely liked his company. He was calming, encouraging, and made me fight just that little bit harder because to let him down was unthinkable.
“I have too much to live for.” I put my t-shirt back on after yet another chest X-ray. If my lungs didn’t kill me, the radiation from all the X-rays would.
“I told you love would turn out to be your biggest ally.”
I glanced at my tattoo, familiar crests of affection rising in my heart. “Love is worth fighting for.”
“I think you just stole that from a Hallmark card.” Rick chuckled, typing into his computer the results of today’s check-up. I let him finish before he suddenly said, “Oh, almost forgot!” Wrenching open his desk drawer, he pulled out a folder with a flourish. “After waiting so long, the trial went well.”
“Oh, yeah?” I sat down, recalling the affidavit I had to give, the tests I’d submitted to from doctors trying to prove I was lying, right through to agreeing to be shadowed for a few weeks seeing as I was one of the younger patients but also one who’d survived the longest.
Lawyers had taken every bill and invoice I’d incurred in the years, along with tallying up the free healthcare I’d received, thanks to the off-label trial.