Page 58 of Love, Just In

‘When you say “biopsy”,’ I mumble into the phone, ‘do you mean you’re looking for … cancer?’

The line rustles like Doctor Theodosi’s switching the receiver to her other ear. ‘It’s too early to have that conversation,’ she replies a little impatiently. ‘As I said, the lymph nodelooksbenign, but we do need to watch closely anything that’s over one-and-a-half centimetres.Your lymph node is two centimetres. But if it’s nothing to worry about, it should resolve on its own within a few weeks.’

I swallow through the cement lining my throat. ‘OK. Thank you.’

After we hang up, I sit motionless on the edge of my bed with the doctor’s no-nonsense words echoing inside my skull.

I will suggest we do a biopsy.

If it’s nothing to worry about.

If.

With trembling fingers, I snatch my phone back up and type into Google: ‘Swollen lymph node and cancer’.

Tens of millions of results overcome the screen and frighten my eyes.

Lymphoma.

Leukaemia.

Metastasized tumours.

Secondary breast cancer.

Breast cancer.The same cancer that stole away the lives of my aunt and my grandma.

My palms break into a sweat as I grab at my armpit again, searching for evidence that the lymph node has reduced since the last time I checked a minute ago.

It’s still huge.

A monstrous feeling of dread takes root in the pit of my stomach.

No … please no.

My fingers sweep over the lymph node again beforemoving to my left breast … my right breast…my right armpit…back to the swollen gland.

My mouth turns so dry that my lips clack as my lungs struggle to find oxygen.

My god, I’m going to be next.

Just like my aunt, my grandma … Tara …

I’m going to die.

CHAPTER 20

Today

Doctor Ellison is running nearly an hour behind, leaving me plenty of time to read and reread the cancer awareness posters taped to the wall until my palms are slick and my mouth has dried to a desert. By the time a gentle voice calls out my name, I’m considering making a run for it.

I buck up and stride towards the young doctor, who offers me a disarming smile as I step through to her consultation room.

‘I’m Claudia,’ she says with a mild Scandinavian accent, which I cling to as a source of comfort—my dad was born in Norway. ‘How can I help you today?’

My gut clenches as I dig for courage, still contemplating fleeing.

‘I think I have cancer,’ I say in a small voice.

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