The First Request
Present
Unlike other hospital offices, Dr. Braum’s office isn’t cold or uninviting. It’s the exact opposite. Pictures of his large, beautiful family surround the small area—a space with just enough room for a large oak desk, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves loaded with medical text and certificates of achievement, and even a sitting area near the windows. Probably would look larger with smaller scale furniture, but it’s the perfect combination of overdone and just right. It feels … safe. Before finally finding Dr. Braum, we’d searched high and low looking for the person who could help us with our needs. It took a while—seven specialists to be exact—and it took another three months to get an appointment, but we’re here. He’ll be able to help. Amidst dozens of other physicians, Dr. Braum is our only shot. Doesn’t hurt that in his reviews he’s listed as Dr. Bruce J. Braum, MP (Miracle Performer).
As I sit nervously, my knee bouncing—probably out of socket—in the oversized plush chair, I have to redirect my attention outside, using the people milling about the courtyard to keep me from having a breakdown. It’s not enough looking at the images of his wife and children, but seeing every single picture of smiling faces—spitting images of the man before me—makes me realize there are multiple generations of Braums. It’s a happiness I’ll never achieve. Back when we got married—started a life—it’s no secret why we can’t conceive. It’s been one of the toughest obstacles I’ve ever faced. It’s my only regret, staring down the barrel of nearly thirty-five that I’ll never be a mother, not that it was of my own doing, or Rowan’s for that matter. It still stings. Every time I watch a mother pick up her child to kiss a boo-boo, or see a father tossing a ball in the front yard with his son, I long desperately for that type of love. A love that can stand the test of time. An unconditional, unadulterated kind of love that only a child—your child—can provide. A legacy.
Before long, Dr. Braum—the short, stout man with an impeccable reputation—comes through the door and looks back and forth between Rowan and me before taking a seat behind his desk. My stomach aches with anxiety, waiting to hear our fate. “I can” or “I can’t” determine how the rest of my life will play out. Two words seal the deal.
“How are you today, Charlotte?” he asks in a timbre so soothing it can ease even the most frazzled of nerves.
“Not too bad, Dr. B. Just hoping you’ve got some good news for us,” I respond, then grab onto Rowan’s hand under the edge of the desk away from the doc’s eyesight, silently praying he’s the answer to my prayers. There aren’t words to describe how crushing it’ll be if the result isn’t in our favor.
“You know there are other options, right?” he offers, and my heart plummets. The truth is, there aren’t other options. We’ve exhausted them all. He knows that. This is our only shot—my only shot at peace.
“Dr. Braum, you know that’s not correct,” Rowan chimes in, squeezing my hand back, without words telling me he’ll take it from here. Forever my protector and mouthpiece when I can’t put one foot in front of the other… or keep said foot out of my mouth—he’s there. “This is what we want. What we need. We’ve researched you, done our due diligence. We know if there’s anyone to help, it’s you. All we need is a yes from you,” Rowan pleads, and I smile over at the man I fell in love with when I was just a child. I’d gladly challenge anyone who thinks teenagers don’t know this kind of love. Because I have the market cornered.
Over the years, not much has changed. Other than physical appearances, he’s still the same person to his very core. The man who’ll give me the world if he can. Even when he can’t offer me the one thing I want more than anything else, he stands at my side and does what he can to guard my heart from any unnecessary heartbreak.
Since the day we met, Rowan has been everything I needed him to be at the exact moment I needed it, even when I didn’t know what it was I needed. He’s my rock, my support system, my biggest fan. Rowan’s my everything. Even through his fear of the unknown, he puts on a brave face, never stopping the fight for ... me. And even here, in this doctor’s office, he’s my voice.
“What I mean is, this isn’t the only option. I can show you other ways …”
Rowan cuts off the doctor with a quipped, “For us, it is the only way.”
“Alright then,” Dr. Braum says, hiding a smile behind his hand, obviously impressed with my husband’s insistence. “You know the risks. You know everything.” Dr. Braum looks over at me with sympathetic eyes, searching my soul for the answers he had to know before he agreed to take on such a momentous case. It isn’t going to be easy, but in the end, it’ll be worth it.
“Yes, sir. The only thing we still don’t know is when we can get started. We’re ready,” I confirm, my voice coming out stronger than I imagined it would. Probably Rowan again, lending me his strength.
“We’ll start by running some tests and getting a full workup. I’ll send you down to the nurse and see you two back here in a few weeks. I’d like to give you a final answer now, but until I get a complete look at the picture with my own eyes, I’m not comfortable. But I will say, if everything that comes back reflects what your GYN sent over, I don’t see a problem getting right to work.”
Nodding his head, he exits the office just as quickly as he entered, leaving only Rowan and me sitting in our seats.
“It’s really going to happen,” I say softly. “No more waiting.” I can’t help the smile my lips curl into. I know it’s not set in stone, but I know no miracle’s taken place inside my body. I’m going to get my peace.
“I love you,” Rowan whispers, squeezing onto my hand still firmly in his grasp one more time. I can feel his nerves through the façade he’s failing to execute. But there’s no reason for that—we’re going to be fine.
Turning my head toward him, I lean over and place a gentle kiss on his cheek. “You’ll never love me more than I love you.” With a wicked grin, he extends a helping hand and escorts me out of the office.
Walking back out to the lobby, Rowan and I take our seats and patiently—or maybe not so patiently—wait for a nurse to call me back to begin the blood work. It’s all fairly routine; I’ve been poked and prodded for as long as I can remember, and this time is no different. While we’re here, another couple is ushered back to the doctor’s office, and I wonder to myself if they’re here for the same reason as us. It’s a fairly true assumption if you’re here to see Dr. Braum, you’ve reached the end of the line and he’s the only person who can do anything other than a generic “I’m sorry”.
What’s her diagnosis? Are they here because of her or her husband? Do they love each other the way Rowan and I love each other? All of these questions race through my brain at warp speed, and they might have continued longer if the petite, blonde nurse didn’t summon for me from the opened door.
“Charlotte Thorne,” she announces in a sweet voice.
“Right here,” I respond.
Once inside the cramped room with barely enough for Rowan to squeeze in behind us, she directs me to a chair that much resembles one from my school aged days—the kind with the small desk attached to the metal-framed chair—only the top is much smaller and has a thin cushion. Resting my arm atop, she quickly gets to work putting the tourniquet just above my elbow and searching for a vein she can access. I chuckle to myself and Rowan catches on.
Good luck with that, ma’am … if you can find one, use it, because you’re not gonna find another.
I’ve always had an aversion to needles, so out of instinct, I look away as she pulls out the thin butterfly-style needle, stopping my laughter. I instantly catch Rowan’s kind, empathetic smile. He sees my anxiety clear as day. With one hand, he takes mine and rubs small strokes over my knuckles. He places the other over my shaking leg, giving it a light squeeze. Through all this, his eyes hold mine, and I calm almost instantly.
“It’ll be fine,” he reassures me, and I nod my head and squint my eyes as the needle makes contact. Suddenly feeling hot and flushed, I grip onto him tighter. In a sweet maneuver, he crouches down to my level and brushes the stray hairs away from my face.
“What was your first happy memory?” he asks, attempting to distract me so I don’t pass out.
“My first happy memory in general, or my first one with you?”
“Always with the questions,” he chuckles. “Both.”
“I was five, I think. My mom had taken me to visit my aunt and she had horses. A few of them. I remember thinking they were magical, like unicorns. My uncle took me for a ride.” My gaze drifts off into space, as if I’m seeing the memory come to life. “It was the greatest experience. It was like my uncle and the horse were in sync and could read each other’s mind. Since that day, I’ve always been fascinated by them.”
“I remember,” he whispers. “All those horse posters all over your walls. Why’d you never take riding lessons? I bet you would have been amazing.”
“Probably,” I answer not-so-modestly. “But after they passed away, it seemed like my love for riding, not the love for the animal, had died with them. It was our special thing. I only wanted that with them. Does that make sense?”
“Perfect sense.” Rowan smiles. “Now how about your first happy memory with me. When was that?”
“It was the moment I fell in love with you. I knew you were it for me.”
“You couldn’t have possibly known that back then, Charlie. There’s no way.”
“Pinky promise. I was seventeen and my world started and stopped with you, Rowan Thorne. You were every wish I made on every star, and every dream I’d ever dreamt. You were it.”
“We’re all done here,” the nurse interrupts, placing a cotton ball in the crease of my elbow. “If you’ll have a seat in the waiting room, the doctor needs to speak with you again before you leave.”
“Okay, thank you.” I hold my arm close to my chest and again smile at the woman. Or maybe girl. She can’t be more than twenty-one, twenty-two tops. Oh, to be that young ... Then again, when I was her age, I was married to the man I love and there wasn’t anything that could have made me happier.
My life to this point has been nothing short of spectacular. I’ve had extreme highs and the lows to match. I’ve experienced extraordinary amounts love. I found my soulmate before I even really knew what one was. I have everything any woman could ever dream of, and after my next appointment, I just know I’ll have the answers to the only thing standing in my way of a perfect life.
Control.
But … how the hell did we get to this point?
“Mrs. Thorne,” the receptionist calls, and Rowan and I follow her back to Dr. Braum’s office again. When we enter, his face is no longer welcoming, yet stern and professional.
“Have a seat, Mr. and Mrs. Thorne,” he says, and we both comply.
“I thought it was going to take longer to get your records, but the second your physician heard your name, he emailed the chart right over. I’ve looked at your scans and have determined you’re certainly a candidate, so we can start the process now, if you’d like.”
Rowan grabs my hand and squeezes tightly. Dr. Braum must have been able to read my face because I haven’t said a single word, yet he pulls out an old-fashioned tape recorder. Pressing the buttons on the side, he places it on his desk.
“Please state your name,” he commands, still stern and professional; however, I still feel the warmth I had earlier.
“Charlotte Thorne.”
“Can you please state your diagnosis and prognosis?”
“I’m stage four—the biggest of the bads—and have been given up to fourteen months, but I’m not the best-case scenario.”
“Have you tried every viable option to treat the cancer?”
“Based on the four doctors we’ve spoken to, there is no treatment plan that will increase her lifespan. This is our last option,” Rowan says, speaking on my behalf.
“While we do value your input, Mr. Thorne, I need to hear this from Charlotte.”
“I’m sorry about that, Dr. Braum. My husband and I have considered every option available for my aggressive diagnosis, and the truth is, nothing is going to let me live. I’m not a candidate for surgery because of how advanced the cancer is, and chemo won’t do anything but make me sick and give me another month or two, if I’m lucky.”
“Thank you, Charlotte. Are you showing symptoms?”
“Some, yes. I have short-term memory loss and am in pain constantly. I’d very much like to live the last little bit I have not being someone I don’t recognize. I’m a vivacious woman, Dr. Braum, and I would like to be remembered that way.”
“You’ve done the leg work, Charlie. You’ve dotted the I’s and crossed the T’s. Nothing here says I shouldn’t say yes, but …”
“No buts, Dr. Braum. You’ve been seeing me for weeks now. You got all the reports from every other doctor I’ve seen. Every blood draw, every scan. Everything. I don’t need your buts, I need your yes. Can you give that to me? To us?”
Rowan turns away, my hand still in his, but looks out the window nonetheless. I’m sure, like me, when he planned on picking out our headstones and talking about wills and final arrangements, it was going to be far into the future, not in our thirties. I don’t blame him; instead, I give him a subtle squeeze, telling him I have this. He’s going to need his strength for after. I’ll take this one since I won’t be able to soothe him when I’m gone.
“You’re only thirty-two, Charlie.”
“Yes, Dr. Braum, I am in my early thirties. I’m also dying. Quickly. And if everyone in this room’s aware I will not live to see thirty-three, why is my age even a question? If my scans were of a sixty-year-old patient, would you have the same reservations?”
“I can’t say that I would,” he answers, obviously taken aback by my line of questioning. What can I say? My husband taught me at a very young age, when you want something, you go get it. He wanted me and he got me. I wanted a child, he made it happen, albeit with a fur baby. Now, today, sitting here, knowing my body’s ravaging itself and there isn’t a medication in this world that can save my life, I will fight for this.
If given the opportunity, I’d choose to live, hands down. I’d go through all the hell they could throw at me if it meant, in the end, I’d have my husband and my family and our life. But that’s not an option on the table. I have the choice between Death with Dignity and just death. I’m choosing my terms.
“Then, Dr. Braum, can we stop the second-guessing and the questions? My time is very limited and you’re a busy man. You’re the one man who can give this to me and you’re who I’m asking, no demanding, to help. You told me I should make arrangements. Prepare myself and my loved ones. You promised you could keep me comfortable. This, Dr. Braum, is my comfort. Knowing my family and friends won’t watch me die miserable, unhappy, and in pain.”
“You’re very persuasive, Charlie. I gotta hand it to you, I was prepared to fight you on this, do everything I could to make you see that Death with Dignity isn’t the only way, but you’ve made a very compelling argument.”
“It’s not an argument, it’s the truth. It’s not pretty, but it’s real.”
“Is this really what you want, Charlie? You don’t want to try another round of chemo? Radiation? Drugs? It won’t save you, but it can possibly buy you some more time.”
“How much more time?”
“Honestly, I’m not sure. After all the rounds we’ve already done, your repeat scans don’t show much difference. Maybe, if we’re lucky, another month or so.”
“And that month … would I be stuck in a hospital? Unable to be myself? Probably, most likely, unconscious and fading a little more every day until I die in the night, inside the sterile walls of the hospital? Not surrounded by my loved ones because, you know, they have lives to live, too?”
“Yes,” he answers and nods his head, sympathy and understanding in his eyes. “That is what we’d be looking at.”
“No, thank you. I would very much like to exercise my legal rights under the state statute and die with dignity.”
“Okay. You win, Charlie.” Dr. Braum opens a folder on his desk, pulls out a piece of paper that resembles a legal document, and adds his signature to the bottom. When he hands it over to me, there’s an arrow sticker pointing to another line. My signature.
Without hesitation, I take the pen from his waiting hand and add my John Hancock where it’s required. Leaning back in the chair, I let out a breath of satisfaction. All these months, all this wandering and wondering, and I have my answers. My borrowed time will end on my terms and nobody else’s.
“Thank you,” I offer.
“I’m just sorry I couldn’t do more.”
“Dr. Braum, you’re a good man and a great doctor. You gave me a fighting chance. And with this paper, you’re giving me a way to continue being myself through the biggest upset the world’s ever seen. I’m not nearly ready to go, but I couldn’t, wouldn’t, bare watching everyone I love fall apart. You might not have been able to save this one life, but you’re saving a dozen others.”
“Rowan, you’ll need to witness this form, please.”
Rowan turns in his chair and catches my eyes. “Are you sure, Charlie? This isn’t about us, it’s about you. Please, don’t do this for me.”
“Baby,” I run a hand over his cheek, throwing every ounce of love I have into our locked gazes, “this is for me, too. Everything is out of my control. When I go, I don’t want to be in a hospital with strangers. I want to be with you, in our home, in our bed, with our family waiting nearby. I want that peace as I go. That’s all I want.”
“But I can’t live without you.” He breaks down, tears falling rapidly, so quick I can’t wipe them away fast enough, let alone attend to my own.
“You can. And you will,” I whisper, taking both of his hands in mine. Squeezing them tightly, I stare at him. “You have a gift, baby. You get to keep living. You get to make a difference. You get to go on. I want that so badly, and I can’t have it. You. Can. And you’re going to do something great, I just know it. I love you more than I love anything else in this entire world. In your position, I’d probably say the exact same thing. One way or another, I’m going to die. Either I win, or the cancer does. Let me win, baby. Let me win.”
“This is so fucked.” Rowan pulls his hands away from mine to wipe his face. “A man shouldn’t have to sign a form so his wife can die. I was supposed to go first, Charlie. Dammit.”
He takes the pen and on all the boxes, he places his initials. Before he signs at the bottom, he looks to me again and I nod and smile. “Thank you,” I whisper sweetly.
He promised me on the day we married, he’d give me anything my heart desired. He’d never tell me no. And when push came to shove, and he could’ve been selfish, he chose me.
He’s beyond fucking perfect. And he’s all mine.