Page 64 of Passing Ships

“Okay. So, what are our options?” I ask.

“In cases like this, we suggest palliative treatments, such as nerve blocks, opioid medications administered subcutaneously, or regional anesthesia as an alternative to surgery,” he says.

“In cases like this?”

“When life expectancy is short,” he says delicately.

“Oh,” I mutter.

Mrs. Shytle steps forward. “Surgery is invasive, and the recovery would be very taxing for her. She wouldn’t be able to walk or move really. She would have to have rehab to learn how to walk again, and there’s no guarantee she even could with the effects of the medications and the distress from not understanding what’s happening. She’d most likely be confused and frightened. With palliative care, they would keep her comfortable and pain-free,” she explains.

“How long?” I ask.

“Pardon?”

I bring my eyes to hers.

“How long does she have?”

Her eyes well with sympathy and her voice grows soft.

“No one knows for sure,” she begins.

I look from her to Dr. Cameron. “How long?” I repeat.

The doctor clears his throat. “My best estimate is three to six months.”

I nod. “Thank you,” I whisper.

I fight back the tears threatening to fall as Avie rushes to my side and wraps me in her arms.

“I’ll let you guys talk, and I’ll be back to check on her later. I’m very sorry it wasn’t better news, Amiya,” Dr. Cameron says before excusing himself.

“Will she still be able to stay at Everbright?” I ask Mrs. Shytle after a few moments.

“Yes, of course. We would set everything up with Palliative Care.”

“Good. I don’t want to move her somewhere unfamiliar.”

“I’m going to step out and get the paperwork started and arrange for transport back to the center while you guys spend some time with Mrs. Chelton,” she says. “You’re making the right decision, Amiya. I promise we’ll take excellent care of her.”

I give her an appreciative smile.

Once we’re alone again. I drop back into the chair at her bedside.

Three to six months.

I knew her time was limited. Truth is, she’s been leaving me for a while now. Bit by bit. And I know she’s ready to go. She’s told me so herself, but I’ve been holding on so tightly because I wasn’t ready.

She’s my anchor, and I’m afraid of what will happen if I let go.

I try to send Avie to my apartment to get some rest, but she refuses. She stays with me while I sign paperwork. She stays with me while I talk to a Palliative Care representative. She sleeps in the recliner while I sit and hold my grandmother’s hand all night. She’s there with me when the transport arrives in the morning.

She stays with me until her dad picks us back up to take us to the airport.

She never leaves my side.

That’s what friends do.