Page 360 of Steamy Ever After

Pancreatic cancer.

Those two words fill my world with an ache so deep, I can’t form a coherent thought.

The EMTs, Fred Cavanaugh and Tom Jenkins, allow me to ride in the ambulance for the two-hour ride to Billings. Tom works with a quiet efficiency, placing an IV into my uncle’s hand and taping it securely in place. He hangs fluids, takes vitals, and scratches on a flowsheet.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a prolonged silence. “You didn’t know?”

I shake my head. “He didn’t tell me.”

Tom flicks his sandy blond bangs back from his freckled face and blows out a deep breath. “Well, it’s not common knowledge. I don’t think anyone really knows.”

“You knew.”

“Well, he had to tell us.”

“How long?” How long has my uncle been dying? That’s the question I want to ask. “When was he diagnosed?”

“A month or two at most. Maybe he was waiting to tell you in person?” Tom crinkles his nose, his brows pinching together.

“Maybe.”

Would it change things? If I knew, would I have agreed to take over his practice one year out of residency? I planned on years, learning by his side. I’m not ready to practice alone.

The only reason I agreed was because I needed an excuse to leave Redlands. It was too easy to slip into an unhealthy relationship and even harder to leave it behind. My uncle gave me the perfect out because I sure as hell wasn’t able to walk away on my own.

I wasted a year trying to establish myself as a new graduate, failing more often than not alongside a man who used his fists more than his heart.

My uncle’s call saved my life, and the idea of working beside him fills me with pride. Never in a million years did I envision myself as a small-town doc, but he loves his job, and I’ve been excited to return to the town which filled my summers with love and cherished childhood memories.

Now?

Pancreatic cancer?

All cancers are bad, but none sweep into a person’s life with the same speed and devastation as pancreatic cancer.

There’s palliative treatment, but no cure, and once diagnosed, the relentless course of the disease can rarely be slowed. Some people live a few years, but most die within months. If I understand what Tom says, my uncle only found out a couple of months ago.

We don’t have enough time.

The ambulance races down the small highway and soon pulls up outside St. Vincent’s emergency department in Billings.

“Thank you,” I say my goodbyes to Tom and Fred.

“Our pleasure,” Tom says. “Listen, if you need anything, give us a call. I’m sorry we had to meet under these circumstances. Doc Bateman says nothing but good things about you. I look forward to working with you.”

Fred shakes my hand. “Seriously, anything you need, you call us.”

A lump in my throat is the only thing holding back a flood of tears. I will soon be working with these men, and I don’t want them to see me break down. Perhaps they understand because they don’t pressure me for more conversation. They jump inside the ambulance and wave goodbye.

The staff of St. Vincent’s places my uncle on the HemeOnc ward for observation overnight. The doctors tell me he’s dehydrated and attributes his fall and subsequent disorientation to that, but they’re thorough and examine him for any injury to his head from the fall. They fully expect a short stay and have hopes he might be released in the morning.

Visiting hours end, and I make reservations at a local motel. As I snuggle under the scratchy covers, my thoughts turn to the soft flannel of Bert’s twin bed and to the magnanimous stranger who saved my life and kissed me senseless.

When I arrive at the hospital the next morning, Uncle Pete is sitting up in bed, picking at the food on his breakfast tray.

“Uncle Pete!” I race through the door and give him a hug.

He reaches up, returning a much weaker hug. “Abigail! Honey, it’s so good to see you.”

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