It’s four in the morning, and I wake up to the sound of crying. Again. Except this time, it isn’t Chloe, my little girl. My own tears stir me from a miserable, nightmare-fueled sleep. For the last view months, I’ve been dealing with horrible stomach and back pains that leave me curled up in a ball on the floor. At first I thought it was the stomach flu, but then I started losing weight and the pains just wouldn’t go away. It’s been steadily getting worse, but between trying to take care of Chloe and working at the garage full-time, I’ve done my best to ignore it.

I can’t ignore it anymore.

I get out of bed and check on Chloe, who is sleeping peacefully in her crib next to me. We live in a studio apartment, so I have to tip-toe to the kitchen to avoid waking her up. As has become my ritual, I drink down half of a bottle of goopy pink stomach medicine to try and combat the pain. But the vile liquid stopped working a while ago, so I’m not sure why I even bother.

When Chloe was born, my family didn’t understand why I refused to tell Pierce about her. I’m not sure why they were confused. Pierce can barely take care of himself, so I knew telling him about the baby would just add a whole lot more drama to both of our lives. Besides, she’s my responsibility, and he’s away with the SEALs, which is exactly where he needs to be to take care of his responsibilities. I vowed to raise her myself — whatever it took. Yet now, as I lay on the cold tile floor of the kitchen, I can’t help but wish I had backup, someone to help me as I try to deal with my body betraying me to this misery.

Three days ago, my aunt and uncle forced me to go to the doctor, concerned about my rapid weight loss and the fact that my skin was starting to tinge a strange shade of yellow. They scraped up every penny they could to pay the bill. They even said they’d take care of the bills after that, but that didn’t exactly make me feel better. It’s like they knew something was wrong. Really wrong. The doctor ran all sorts of blood work, then sent me for a CAT scan and a really uncomfortable biopsy. Even though it was all over in the course of a few hours, I knew the medical bills would be obscene. As I leave the doctor, I realize I’m already more terrified about the money than what the results might show.

In four hours, I have to pack up Chloe and all of her things and go back into the city to find out the test results. I can already hear her cooing in her crib, starting to wake up. My favorite part of the day is when she wakes up, all smiling and happy, excited to start the day. I always kiss the inside of her neck, where it smells like sweet milk and baby powder. It always makes her giggle, and she gives me that toothless grin, perfect and pure. It almost makes me forget about the creeping dread I feel at the idea of being sick, at not knowing how we will make rent. She is the only thing that keeps me going.

Should I have told Pierce? No. I’ll never be able to count on him.

Chloe lets out a little whimper, and I drag myself up off the floor to get her morning bottle ready. My pain doesn’t matter. Only Chloe matters, and it’s time to start the day.

Chloe and I are sitting in a sterile doctor’s office in downtown Manhattan, waiting in silence after a nurse has taken my vitals. The nurse is extremely kind, almost treating me like a China doll, and it makes me nervous. Chloe is on the floor, trying to lift up on her knees and crawl. I take her and sit her up when the door budges, holding her steady. I bend my body in half to keep her steady, ignoring the creeping pain in my body. When Dr. Arnold walks in, he wears a strained smile on his face. He sits on a rolling stool across from me and sets his hands on his knees, making extended eye contact, as if he’s steeling himself for something. My stomach curls into a snake of anxiety.

“Arie, we got your results back yesterday. I’m going to need to refer you to a specialist to confirm, but…”

I feel like I’m going to throw up. For the third time today. “What? Just tell me. I’m a big girl. I can take it.” I smile and shrug, like he’s about to tell me I just have a stomachache.

“Your test results indicate that you have a mass in your pancreas. It’s most likely contained at this point. But the preliminary exam seems to indicate that the tumor is malignant.”

Cancer. He won’t say it. But it’s there, on the tip of his tongue. I can almost see the word hanging in the air between us.

My head starts to swim, and I think there is a very good chance I am going to pass out. I lower myself onto the cool tile floor to sit with Chloe. There’s a very real chance I’ll fall right on top of her from the chair if I’m not sitting right next to her. I focus on her voice.

“Da,” she says. She holds up a piece of a wooden puzzle, as if to show it to the doctor. “Da,” she repeats. “Ta.”

I swallow hard before I speak. “How? Are you sure? What does that mean? What can we do? How much will...”

I know I’m asking more questions than he can answer but I’m afraid if I stop talking, I might replace the words with sobbing. He bends down awkwardly and puts a hand on my shoulder, an action I don’t find remotely comforting.

“Arie, this is why I need to send you to a pancreatic oncologist. You need to have the results confirmed by someone who knows this disease inside and out. I am not that person. I’ve already set an appointment up for you with the best doctor at Sloane-Kettering. You’re seeing her tomorrow.”

I shake my head. “No, I can’t tomorrow. I have to work. I need someone to watch Chloe. Maybe next week. But I can’t go tomorrow.”

He squeezes my knee. “Arie. You can’t wait a week. You have to go tomorrow.”

“What? Why? What are you trying to tell me? How long do I have?”

Dr. Arnold looks down at his feet. “I can’t tell you that with any certainty, Arie. I’m not an oncologist.”

“Bullshit. You’re still a doctor. Tell me how long I have.”

He glances over at Chloe and takes a long, slow breath. “I can absolutely not make estimates in your case. But in the average case of pancreatic cancer, once discovered, the patient survives three to six months with treatment. Could be months. Could be years. There’s no way to know for sure.”

Chloe grabs my finger and shakes it in the air like a toy. I drink in the small sounds she’s making, trying to make a memory of her.

A deep pain grows in my throat. Its taste is acrid and salty all at once. The taste of anger and sadness, and the horror of realizing that if I’m gone now, there’s no way she’ll ever remember me.