In 500 Words Or Less

Six Months Later

I followed my wife into the hospital consulting room.The first thing I noticed was that there were three doctors there, sat in a ring around an empty chair. That was when I knew it was going to be bad news. One of the doctors, a woman who looked younger than my wife, did the introductions. Then she asked me, "And you are?"

"He's my husband," my wife said. "I've brought him with me."

"Good." The second doctor, a man with a neatly-trimmed beard, pulled another seat up and motioned for me to sit down. "This won't make it any easier, but ... ."

"But what?" I asked.

The second doctor ran his hand through his beard. "We got the results back from the biopsy." He glanced from my wife to me, then back to my wife. "The swelling on your pancreas - it's cancerous. You have pancreatic cancer."

I sat shocked, unable to move. A pit had opened up beneath me, and I was in freefall. I felt my wife reach out and take my hand in hers.

The doctor kept going. "It's bad, I'm afraid. If you were shopping for a cancer, this is not the one you would buy."

I looked at my wife. All the colour had drained from her face. She sat there, nodding at the doctor as he described her options, her possible treatments, what we needed to think about. I could hear him talking, but the words just went past me, like a stream around a rock. Finally the doctor stopped talking and turned to look at me. "Do you have any questions?"

I struggled to speak. "My wife. What are her chances?"

The third doctor, a man in a short-sleeved shirt, answered. "We don't like to discuss survival rates. All I'll say is that every case is different. But, look at this way. We would not be offering your wife this treatment if we didn't think it would work."

I nodded, unable to say anything. If I had spoken, I would have burst into tears.

The first doctor stood up. "You'll probably need a few moments to yourselves," she said. "Take your time. We'll wait outside until you're ready."

Now, six months later, my life has been shattered beyond repair. I am a widower, trying to exorcise my grief through my writing.