Chapter Forty-Two Sophie #2
He releases me and grabs his keys and wallet from the dresser as I grab my purse from the bed and swing it over my shoulder.
Callum then walks to the bed, where Westley and Buttercup are placed in the center, grabs them, and hands them to me.
I take them with a smile, cuddling them to my chest. I need all my otters' support today.
"Are you ready?" Callum asks.
"Yes," I nod, taking his hand and heading toward the door.
I stumble, my abrupt stop causing Callum to look at me in concern. "Baby?"
My eyes turn toward my bedside table, and I walk over to open the drawer. It's still there, buried under a couple of sheet masks and tubes of hand lotion and lip balm.
But it's still there, wrapped in my pretty stationery envelope.
With shaking hands, I pull it out and look at it, gently running my fingers over the script of my own name.
All the emotions I felt while writing this crash over at me all at once—heartbreak, fear, and hope threaten to swallow me whole for a moment. My lungs tighten, and my legs wobble. I wrote this hoping for the best, but what if it's all for nothing? What if I take a turn for the worse? What if...
And then I feel him at my back, two warm hands on my shoulders, and a soft, steady voice in my ear. "What's that?"
Callum soothes all of the burning emotions in my chest, shutting them all out. I take a deep breath and tuck the envelope into my pocket.
I tilt my head up, offering a small, fragile smile. "I'll show you later."
He studies me for a moment with warm eyes, but nods gently, reaching to grab my hand and press a kiss to the back of it before threading his fingers with mine again.
"Let's go."
◆◆◆
The waiting is always the worst part.
My leg won't stop bouncing. Callum reaches over without a word and lays his warm, steady hand on my thigh.
He doesn't tell me to relax, he doesn't minimize my anxiety, he just steadies me.
That's all I need. He squeezes once, gently, and I take a deep breath to calm my nerves.
Meeting his eyes, I lay my hand over his and tangle our fingers together.
I left Westley and Buttercup in the car, having kept a death grip on them the entire ride. The other hand was locked into Callum's while I silently apologized for how sweaty my hand was. He didn't seem to mind, lifting it to kiss the back of it at every red light.
They drew my blood as soon as they took me back, then I had a chest X-ray and an ultrasound to make sure everything was clear.
Now they've tucked us into Dr. Rajab's office so he can review everything.
It's been about half an hour now. Long enough for my mind to catastrophize every scenario and send me into panic, so I distract myself by scanning the office.
Many impressive degrees line the walls, but what truly stands out are the family photos scattered throughout the room.
It's clear what Dr. Rajab takes more pride in.
A framed picture of him and his wife, Amara, standing in their wedding regalia, him gazing at her in wonder.
Another photo of their three children at a barbecue, smiling with toothless grins at the camera.
He framed a finger painting and hung it right beside his Harvard Medical Degree, signed in bright red Noor.
The photos and drawings give me comfort, in a way, to see life going on and to know that my doctor understands what his patients fight for, even if their families look a little different. It eases my nerves.
Last August, I sat in this same office—but beside a different man.
I talked with Dr. Rajab about treatment plans, what the future is going to look like for me, and what battle I'm going to be fighting.
Back then, I had felt scared, but hopeful, with a general idea of what was going to happen and who would be in my corner.
It all changed, though, that day in August, right after scheduling the beginning of my treatment, when Paul confessed. That, oddly enough, was the best thing that could happen. Would I be here, in the same spot, if he had never cheated or—God forbid—I had never found out?
Maybe I would have healed physically without Callum, without my friends.
But would I be this happy?
No. Not in a million lifetimes.
I wouldn't trade this life, sickness and pain included, for all of the money in the world. I would relive this year again and again if it meant I ended up right here again. My hand squeezes the larger one I'm covering, and Callum flips his hand over, raising mine to his mouth to kiss my fingers.
Just from that, I can breathe a little easier.
Two minutes later, the door opens. My pulse spikes, my palms grow sweaty, and my throat tightens.
"Hi, Sophie, Callum," Dr. Rajab greets us, shaking both of our hands. He sits behind his desk, folding his hands in front of him, and the air thickens with anticipation.
I try to scrutinize the expression on his face for clues. He's not smiling, but his face is soft, his eyes kind, but they've always been kind. I remember thinking the first time we met that he was in the right career, that he could put anyone at ease.
"I've reviewed your pathology from your surgery, your post-radiation scans, and your bloodwork from today. I'm very happy to tell you that you currently have no evidence of disease."
He says it so casually, like he's telling me to schedule my flu shot, that I almost miss it. I blink, the words blending together in my frantic brain until the last words finally register with me.
"No... no evidence?"
Dr. Rajab's smile turns bright. "Sophie, there is no evidence of cancer in your body."
Callum's breath hitches beside me, his hand squeezing my fingers and grounding me back to reality.
I swallow, voice shaking as I practically have to force the words out. "So you're saying that I'm... cancer-free?"
"Yes," he says simply.
"I'm cancer-free," I repeat slowly, my voice barely above a whisper. Relief smacks into me hard. When I turn to the man next to me, I see that his eyes are wet with unshed tears, but he's smiling at me. I half-laugh, half-sob the words, "I'm cancer free, Callum."
"Baby," he whispers, reaching to cradle my face. He presses his forehead to mine, noses brushing against each other, "You're cancer-free, baby..."
I fall into his arms, burying my face into his shoulder as the sobs overtake me.
Months and months of pain and suffering and fear bubble out of me and overflow like a volcanic eruption.
Callum just holds me steady through it, and I see out of the corner of my eyes, Dr. Rajab smiling softly and pushing forward a box of tissues.
Callum's arms tighten around me, pressing kisses to the side of my head and murmuring my name over and over again.
Like back at the store when I spoke with Paul, I feel all of those horrible emotions flowing out of me and draining to the floor, to be washed away forever. In their place is love, and happiness, and hope, and joy.
I revel in the sudden absence of fear and anxiety.
It takes a couple of minutes, many tissues, blowing my nose twice, and many deep breaths before I can speak again.
"Thank you," I gasp out, turning to Dr. Rajab. "Thank you so much."
"You are so welcome, Sophie. Now," he says gently, "let's talk about what happens next. Survivorship is its own phase of treatment, and I want you to feel fully prepared for it."
Callum and I straighten in our seats, but don't let go of each other. He's moved his chair against mine and keeps his large arm wrapped around me, hand brushing up and down against my arm. I lean into him, but focus on the doctor.
"First," Dr. Rajab says, "you'll take your chemotherapy pill for five years. It dramatically lowers the chance of recurrence."
I nod, "And after five years... ?"
"We reassess," he says. "Some women stay on it longer, but we'll decide together when we get there."
"And for..." I start to ask, my eyes briefly glancing at Callum before continuing, "... family planning?"
Callum straightens in the chair, glancing at me with a small, hopeful smile. I turn back to Dr. Rajab, whose face softens, as if he wants to minimize a blow but not cut off my dreams of children with Callum.
"Will it... be possible?" I ask quietly.
He doesn't sugarcoat—but he doesn't take away hope either.
"It is possible," he says. "We can absolutely talk about that now.
It is very possible for women in your situation to conceive naturally after treatment.
Many do. Some experience difficulty, and others explore assisted options.
Some go for adoption. Chemotherapy and hormone therapy can impact fertility, but they do not guarantee infertility. "
So, difficult, but not impossible. That's all I need to get by, just a small flicker of hope that I can tend to and turn it into an inferno.
I nod my head in understanding and turn to Callum, who smiles softly at me, on the same wavelength.
I don't even have to say it out loud. If it's just us, then that's okay.
If we can conceive one day, that would be amazing too.
I just want to enjoy the here and now with Callum for a little longer.
"These medications aren't safe for you to take during a pregnancy, so when or if you decide to start trying, let us know. We can plan a treatment pause. Many women safely conceive after completing therapy or during a supervised break."
"And follow-up visits?" Callum asks, voice steady now, like he wants every detail locked down.
"Every three months for the first year," Dr. Rajab replies. "Then every six months for several years, then yearly. Bloodwork and exams at each visit. If anything ever feels unusual—new pain, swelling, lumps—you call me. Immediately."
"Okay," I nod my head, wiping my cheeks with the back of my hand.
Dr. Rajab reaches out, and when I offer my hand, he wraps his warm palms around mine in a gesture that feels so human.