Page 49 of Where Angels Hide
The doctor took a deep breath. "Based on the aggressiveness of the tumour and its progression, we estimate that you may only have a few weeks left," she said softly.
The room seemed to close in around them.
Abby gasped. “What?”
“I am so sorry.” Compassion laced her words.
How was it possible that her mother, her constant source of strength and love, now faced a reality measured in weeks?
As the doctor spoke of palliative care options, Abby nodded, trying to take in the practicalities, the next steps, but her mind was clouded with emotion. This couldn’t be happening. Her gaze shifted to her mother, searching her face for signs of how she was processing this news. The finality of it, the way the doctor spoke, was overwhelming.
“... it will be difficult to manage the final stages outside of hospital…”
Abby felt a crushing sense of helplessness. There was an unbearable weight to the knowledge that no matter what they did, no matter how hard they fought, this enemy was insurmountable. It was a battle with a predetermined end, and that realisation filled her with a profound sense of injustice and rage. Why her mother? Why now?
Beneath the surge of anger and denial, a deep well of sorrow was beginning to form. It ached in her chest, a dull, persistent throb that threatened to rise up and claim her. She wanted to scream, to unleash the torrent of grief that was building inside her, but couldn't crumble. Not here, not now.
Guilt gnawed at her too. An hour ago, she stormed out of the hospital in a selfish fit of temper. Angry at her mother, at Zep and the world in general. And for what? The past was the past. A sob rose up, but she choked it down.
“I’m going to give you some time to process this,” Dr. Carchedi was saying. “I’ll come back in a few hours and we can talk some more, okay?” She stood, and quietly left the room, closing the door.
Abby searched for words, for a plan. Nothing came.
Rachel let out a long, slow breath. Her hand still trembled in Abby’s.
This couldn’t be right. It was a mistake. A misdiagnosis. A seed of hope blossomed in her belly. This kind of thing was bound to happen occasionally.
“We should get another opinion.”
“Darling…”
Abby twisted on the bed so she was facing Rachel. “We could ask for a referral to Sydney or Brisbane.”
“You heard what the doctor said. I have weeks, not months.” The colour had drained from Rachel’s face; her smile was sad. “I don’t want to waste time chasing false hope.”
A flush of exasperation burned inside. “I just think it’s worth exploring–”
“No.” Rachel shook her head. “The diagnosis is correct. I can feel it, eating away at me.”
“Mum!” Abby clasped her hand in her own. Her heart warred with her head. She wanted to stamp her foot and scream; she wanted to curl into a ball and howl. Abby wanted to shake her mother until she saw reason. She wanted to wake up and find this was all just a bad dream. Instead, she lay her head in her mother’s lap, and wept.
Somewhere,just out of reach, muted voices spoke of things she couldn’t quite hear. A word reached her, now and then. Distinct, but without context. Beneath her cheek, her pillow felt solid, and scratchy. She wanted to open her eyes, but they refused to cooperate. Was someone crying?
Her limbs were heavy. Her legs, curled up close to her chest, refused to stretch out. Someone was rubbing her back. Scott?
“Darling?”
Mum? Why is she in my bedroom?
“What time will the doctor be back?”
“She didn’t give a time. I just want to go home.”
Abby opened her eyes. Her mouth was dry and her neck felt stiff. Where was she?
“I think she’s awake.”
“Hey, babe.” Scott’s face filled her vision.