“Valentina, no.”
He tries to stand his ground, but I know he sees the depth of my anger in my eyes. I stand and take a step toward him. He rears back only one step as he shakes his head.
“Out,” I hiss and point to my door.
He doesn’t budge, and I open the door. When he doesn’t step out, I press my hands to his chest and shove him out. I am weak, but he follows the direction of my push voluntarily until I slam the door on his face.
Even that small amount of activity has me nearly panting, and I’ve never felt so weak. I rest my back on the wall next to the door, and the coolness of it is inviting.
A sob I didn’t realize was building escapes me, and I can’t stop it. My legs are noodles, and I slowly slide down toward the floor, my back gliding down the wall.
I’m a crumpled mess on the carpet of my rental apartment. My entire family and support system is a country away, and I’ve kicked out the only human I care for who knows about my cancer.
I never looked into hiring a nurse because I thought I could do without one for a while. I hadn’t known then that I’d be having major surgery on top of everything else. Now was the time, though. I couldn’t keep feeling sorry for myself.
This is that moment in the fight when every fighter is so tired and beaten up, you consider giving up. But then you remember that the other guy is feeling the same and considering giving up too, so you push just a little more until you rise.
I set my jaw and tighten my fists. Cancer is the other guy here, and I have to rise because soon, the other guy will be giving up. I move to place my legs under me so I can stand up, but the movement shifts my abdominal muscles, and a searing pain radiates from the incision site, forcing my legs to stretch out again. All the air leaves my lungs, and I pant until the pain ceases. I guess the medication hasn’t kicked in.
The frustration deepens, and I fling my head to the wall. In my mind, I do this with force, but the effort is weak, so my head only gently taps at the wall.
Luckily, my phone is still in my pocket, saving me a trip crawling to it. I grab it, searching my contacts through my vision blurred by tears, and I call. It only rings once.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I can’t do this alone. I need you. I need . . .” Saying the actual word is more challenging than I would have imagined. “I need help,” I say, ignoring the pride that wouldn’t let me say it until now. The weird thing is, saying the word out loud . . . is liberating.
The doorknob turns, and Rory is once again in my apartment. I smile weakly because I know he never left the other side of the door.
He crouches in front of me, and plants a kiss on my forehead. “Thank you,” he says.
“For what?”
“Letting me help. I know that was hard.”
“You do?”
“We’re so much alike, you don’t even know. I have a hard time asking for help too.”
Rory places his hands under my armpits and lifts me like a doll. I wince at the sudden movement, and when we are both on our feet, he bends to place one arm under my knees, lifting me off the ground. I cradle my face in his neck and let him carry me back to bed.
“You’ve lost too much weight,” he comments.
“Et tu, Brutus?”
Rory chuckles. “I’m guessing Dr. Ramirez already laid it on thick?”
I nod. “There wasn’t much to begin with. You have to remember, my body was a fat-burning machine.”
“In the morning, that’s the first thing we will work on.”
Once I’m settled, he inspects the room to make sure I have everything I need.
“Thank you, Rory. I’ll hire a nurse tomorrow.”
“You betcha, and no rush, really,” he says with a wide smile.
“I don’t want to keep taking your time like this.”
“Valentina, you can have all my time, any way you want it.”
I laugh. “Even in my sickbed?”
“Especiallyin your sickbed.”
My heart sinks a little when I hear him settling in and taking all his things to my guest room instead of mine. It’s for the best, though. I’m not sure what crazy thing my body will do next, and I probably don’t want him right next to me all the time. He is respecting my privacy and trying to preserve what little dignity I have left.