Chapter 365
[ 503 words ]
Chapter 365:
Each optimistic word, each hopeful plan for a future Caroline already knew would never happen, was like a tiny, sharp piece of glass working its way into her heart. She smiled and nodded, playing her part—the cheerful, supportive daughter she was still learning to be. Dr. Foster had been honest with her after the surgery. Months, not years. The cancer had spread. She had understood the words, had absorbed them with the clinical precision of a nurse who had delivered similar news to families herself. She knew what “palliative” meant. She knew the prognosis was terminal.
But knowing the words and watching her father—this stranger who had become her father—plan a future that would never arrive were two entirely different kinds of pain.
She slipped out of the room to let him rest, her own smile dissolving the moment the door clicked shut behind her. She needed to check on the post-op schedule. She walked toward the main nurses’ station, her mind a numb fog of logistics.
She saw a small group of nurses huddled together, their voices low and serious. She paid them no mind and continued down the hall to the women’s restroom.
She locked herself in a stall, leaning her forehead against the cool metal of the door, taking a single, deep breath. Just get through the next hour. Then the next. One step at a time.
The restroom door swung open, and two nurses came in, their conversation continuing from the hallway.
“In 502. Mr. Sinclair,” one of them said.
Caroline froze. 502 was Donovan’s room. She held her breath, listening.
“It’s just tragic,” the first nurse said, the sound of running water from the sink punctuating her words. “His daughter is so devoted. She has no idea.”
“No idea of what?” the second nurse asked.
There was a heavy sigh. “Dr. Foster was talking about it at rounds this morning. It’s a Grade IV glioblastoma. The surgery was palliative at best. It won’t save him. It might buy him a month or two, but the quality of life will be terrible.”
𝗪𝗵а𝘁 e𝗏𝘦𝗋уо𝗇е іѕ 𝗋𝘦а𝘥𝗶n𝘨 о𝗻 gа𝗹𝗻o𝘷e𝗅𝘀.𝗰o𝗆
Glioblastoma. Palliative.
Caroline closed her eyes. She had known. Dr. Foster had told her the truth—months, not years. She had processed the information with the clinical detachment of a trained nurse. But hearing it spoken aloud by strangers, hearing them dissect her father’s remaining time with such casual, brutal precision, was something else entirely. The words she had filed away in the logical part of her brain now detonated in the part that felt. This wasn’t new information. It was the same unbearable truth, finally breaking through the wall she had built around it.
“And the cost!” the first nurse added, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I heard someone is footing the entire bill. It’s like throwing millions of dollars into a fire. For what? Two more months of suffering?”
Caroline’s entire body went rigid. The world outside the stall door faded into a distant, muffled hum. She felt a wave of nausea so intense she thought she was going to be sick.
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