Page 94 of Dublin's Danger Dancer

“You know you can probably sue the welfare services in Ireland, don’t you?”

“What’s the point, Doctor? By the time the judgement is made, I won’t be around to enjoy the money.”

He coughs, clearing his throat, and opens the envelope.

His eyes scan down the figures on the report as I try to gauge from his facial expressions how long I have left.

“We can manage the condition. You know there are promising developments.”

“I’d be a guinea pig.” I say.

He taps his pen on top of the pile of paper. “Some patients with this disease go on to live another fifty years and some less, but I’ve always found if you’ve got something to live for, you can give this disease a run for its money.”

I look down at my stomach. I haven’t started showing. It’s still too early. And my appointment at the abortion clinic tomorrow they’d be nothing to show. I release a breath slowly.

“If you went ahead with the pregnancy. You’d have to deliver by Caesarean. There is no way your lungs could take a natural birth.”

A loud scream suddenly erupts outside the door.

The white varnish door slams open. Liam stands in the doorway. His wearing a navy blue satin finish suit with a crisp white shirt. Presumably he’d come straight from court.

“I’m sorry,” breathes the receptionist, a young woman with brown wavy hair. “I’m sorry,” she gasps. “I couldn’t stop him coming in. Ravinder, should I call the garda?”

The doctor stands up behind his desk.

“You can’t do this, not without my consent. It’s my baby too.”

“Liam, what the hell are you doing here?” I ask.

“I’m stopping you from aborting our baby.”

“Mr?” the doctor asks.

“Mr O’Shaughnessy,” he says.

“Mr O’Shaughnessy, I am an oncologist. I specialise in cancer growth, not the kind of doctor who specialises in babies growing in wombs.”

Liam looks at me, his eyebrows knitting together. “You’re ill?”

“Miss Ahern, would you like me to have Mr O’Shaughnessy escorted out of the practice?” The doctor asks picking up his phone.

“No,” I say. “Just sit down and listen, will you? I told you I’d tell you. Now seems as good a time as any.”

“So you’re still pregnant?” He asks.

“Yes, I’m still pregnant.

“Can you get Mr O’Shaughnessy a glass of water?” the doctor asks his puzzled receptionist.

She closes the door behind her with the kind of gentleness you’d expect from someone who had just informed a husband their wife had died.

Once the water was set down in front of Liam. He takes a big gulp and asks “so what’s the treatement here?” looking between me and the doctor.

“I told you I was in a series of foster homes. What I didn’t tell you was that one of my foster families used to lock me in the attic.”

“I thought this was a cancer doctor, not a shrink?”

“The attic was filled with asbestos. I managed to breathe some in.”

---