Chapter 8
My eyelids flutter open, and pain hits me like a Mac truck, sudden and everywhere all at once. I suck in a sharp breath, my heart pounding. There’s a moment of disorientation, but it all comes back to me.
I’m in the hospital, in the PACU, post-op.
The fluorescent lights above me buzz and flicker. They’re too bright. Too annoying. I turn my head, and my gaze falls on Noodles.
“Hey.” I force a weak smile onto my face, trying to reassure him.
“Hey yourself,” he responds, trying to keep his voice steady. “How do you feel?”
“How did it go?” I try to shake off the effects of anesthesia, but I can barely think because of the pain.
I try to sit up in the bed, but the world spins. A wave of nausea washes over me.
“No, you don’t.” He tries to get me to lean back. “You should rest.”
I shift my gaze downwards, my heart pounding as I brace myself for the first look. There’s a flatness where my left breast used to be. An emptiness. A void. A testament to what I lost to the scalpel.
My breast, part of what defines me as a woman, is gone. Taken by cancer.
Tears prick my eyes, but I blink them back, refusing to let them fall.
“I love you so much.” Noodles leans over and kisses my forehead. “I will love you to the end of time.” He squeezes my hand as my mind tries to settle.
I’m not alone.
Noodles is here. He’s always by my side.
“The Chick Brigade is here,” he says. “Congregated in the waiting room, waiting for you to get out of recovery. Even the guys are here, and guess what?”
“What?” My mouth feels like cotton. An after-effect of anesthesia?
“We’re working on a special tour to donate all proceeds to breast cancer research.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
Now that the guys are married, with a passel of kids to keep all of us on our toes, tours are getting harder and harder.”
“That’s what I said, and they voted me down. It’s going to be epic.”
“That’s wonderful.” Yet again, they astound me. Angel Fire started as a band of five men: Ash, Bent, Bash, Spike, and Noodles. They took their brotherhood and added wives: Skye, Piper, Holly, Angel, and me. We’re all one huge, massive, crazy family, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Days blur into nights and nights into days. Hours become indistinguishable as pain, rest, medication, and more pain become the revolving door of my existence. Noodles never leaves my side, his hand forever entwined with mine. Between the band and the Chick Brigade, there’s always someone by my side.
I’m lucky to have so much support. Each day, despite the pain and shocking emptiness on my chest, I regain my strength. Recover. After discharge from the hospital, time warps strangely.
I’m back at the doctor’s office. It feels like I woke up in recovery only yesterday, disfigured for life. Yet here I am, weeks later, in the comforting familiarity of my OB’s office, listening to the soft echo of my baby’s heartbeat. Each thump is a sweet reassurance and a small victory amidst my personal turmoil.
With her calming presence, Dr. Johnson moves the transducer gently over my belly, her eyes locked on the screen. “Your baby’s doing well. The heartbeat is strong, and growth is on track.”
“That’s good news.” My health, and my baby’s safety, are entwined. We expect news any day about biopsy results from the lymph nodes they took when I lost my left breast.
Fingers crossed, the nodes are clean, and I’m cancer free.
That night, nestled against Noodles, my hand rests on the mound of my belly, feeling the rhythmic pulse of life within. The small thumps of our child’s vigorous kicks bring joy and trepidation.
I’m out on an operation with the Guardians the morning after the OB appointment. Sam told me to take time off, but I’m tired of sitting at home. It’s great to spend time with Kai, he deserves more mommy time, but it’s challenging to recuperate with all the kids wanting my attention.
Work provides a much-needed distraction. The day is long, grueling, and I’m worn to the bone when I return home. I find Noodles sitting in the kitchen with a mug in his hands. His back is hunched, his gaze fixed on the mug, a faraway look in his eyes. A heavy silence in the room, something that’s never there when he’s around.
“Noodles? What’s wrong?”
He looks up, meets my gaze and forces a tight smile. He takes a deep breath, clutching the coffee mug tightly as though it’s a lifeline.
“The oncologist called.” His voice cracks, and he closes his eyes.
A chill runs down my spine. Noodles has permission to receive medical updates when I’m not around, a necessity considering my work with the Guardians. I swallow hard, bracing myself for what’s to come.
“It’s in the lymph nodes.” His voice is a hollow echo. When he lifts his mug, his hand shakes, and a droplet of coffee spills onto the table. “They say it’s aggressive.”
Icy fingers creep up my spine, and tears sting the back of my eyes.
“They want to start chemo—and radiation. As soon as possible.” His voice shakes as he tries to explain. “They both carry risks for the baby.”
The world around me slows down, every sound fades into the background as his words sink in.
Aggressive. Spread. Chemo. Radiation.
Silence fills the room, pushing against the walls, pressing down on me. My mind races, thoughts spiraling, whirling, crashing into each other as I try to wrap my mind around this news.
My chest feels heavy. The air is too thick. Without thinking, my hand drifts to my belly, my fingers brushing against the fabric of my shirt. Beneath it, a tiny life stirs, oblivious to the cancer that threatens his, or hers, life.
The following days are a blur.
Each day a struggle.
Everything feels wrong.
Looks wrong.
Even Insanity feels off. I get great support from everyone, but no one knows what I need. I don’t know how they can help me. We’re all frustrated and feel helpless.
But we are together.
When I struggle with my altered self-image, the Chick Brigade is there for hugs. We’re tight, and they rally around me, doing what they can to help me through moments of despair and moments when tears seem my only solace. When I feel a tiny flutter from my belly, it’s silent encouragement from my unborn child. It gives me strength and inspires me to continue fighting, not just for me but for my family.
The numbers on the calendar change relentlessly, edging closer to the due date. It’s too far away. Giving the cancer within me yet another day to grow. Another day to threaten the unborn child within me.
I look down at my swelling belly, tracing the curve with a trembling hand. I’m in a race against time and a battle against my own body.
Our days are spent in a whirlwind of doctor visits, lab tests, and therapy sessions. Dr. Johnson explains my worsening condition with a measured calmness, detailing possible scenarios and interventions. There’s talk of inducing labor early, of maximizing both mine and my baby’s chances of survival. The thought of bringing my baby into the world prematurely is a terrifying prospect.
But the alternatives are just as grim. The cancer’s aggressive, and we can’t wait.
Noodles and I weigh the options and consider the choices that could spell life or death for me and our unborn child. His hand, warm and steady, holds mine, offering silent reassurance. Skye is a lifeline, helping us navigate the complex medical landscape, breaking it down into language we understand. The guys help by taking Kai off our hands, ensuring he doesn’t feel neglected. Despite the whole cancer thing, I’m lucky to have such a supportive family.
I’m torn between wanting to protect my baby from an early birth and needing to preserve my own life if I want to be there for my baby after delivery.
Each decision feels heavier than the last, each choice laden with an unbearable weight.
Distance creeps between Noodles and myself. It’s as silent, and as invasive, as the cancer in my body. Noodles is still there, still holding my hand, still bringing me breakfast in bed. Still helping me with my physical therapy, but there’s a strain in his smile, a weariness in his eyes that wasn’t there before.
Our nights are no longer filled with soft whispers and shared dreams. Instead, there’s a quiet tension neither of us can ignore.
We hold hands, but we don’t kiss.
We no longer have sex.
I lay awake in the early hours of the morning, listening to the rhythm of his breathing, worrying about the toll this is taking on him. Our relationship is being tested in ways we never imagined. I just hope our love is strong enough to survive. My body may be the battleground, but this war against cancer is being waged on our relationship too.