Shall We Dance?

Content note: This story contains themes of terminal cancer and impending loss.

“Grace, the doctor wants to speak to you.” Noah steps into the ward, his face paler than the white walls surrounding me.

My heart skips a beat. Is this the news I’ve been dreading?

“Will you stay with me?” I ask through trembling lips.

“Of course I will.” Noah steps across the room, perching on the springy corner of my hospital bed. “We’ll go through this together.” He plants a tender kiss on my damp forehead.

Footsteps shuffle outside, followed by a gentle tap on the door.

“Come in,” Noah answers with his usual friendliness.

A tall man with copper hair and blue eyes that hide behind his spectacles steps in. A clipboard is tucked between his left arm.

He looks too young for this.

He glances awkwardly around the room before catching sight of a spare chair resting in the corner.

“May I?”

Noah waves his hand.

The chair squeals in protest as the doctor drags it in front of my bed.

I don’t think he learned how to carry…my mind muses, relishing the meagre entertainment.

The doctor clears his throat, trying to steady his eyes on me. “Grace, I need to talk to you about your results.”

I glance at Noah.

He squeezes my hand, taking care not to catch the thin tube protruding from beneath my skin.

“I’m so sorry.” The doctor begins, his voice raw with genuine concern. “The cancer is spreading, and it’s very aggressive. Unfortunately, it’s now terminal.”

My heart plunges.

The doctor’s voice thuds somewhere in the distance. “We’ll be moving you to palliative care.”

My stomach is churning.

I can’t even focus on what he’s saying.

Terminal?

At twenty-three?

The walls blur into grey around me.

Noah grips my trembling hands; one arm wrapped around my shoulders.

I try to focus on the blurred figure of the doctor.

“How long do I have left?” I stammer, my mouth as dry as the Sahara Desert we visited last year.

“One week, maybe two.” He swallows hard, twisting his fingers.

Silence pummels the air, so heavy I feel I’m drowning.

My mind races with the reality.

One week.

Seven days.

One hundred and sixty-eight hours.

Ten thousand and eighty minutes.

“That’s all I’ve got left?” My voice cracks.

“Well, there are some treatment options, but there’s no guarantee they will work. And it will only add days.” The doctor leans forward; his eyes riddled with care. “But I will look into it if you would like.”

“Can we have some time to talk about it, please?” Noah interjects gently.

I nod numbly; hardly noticing what he’s just said.

“Absolutely.” The doctor stands up, towering above us both. “Just let me know when you’re ready.”

He slips out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.

I turn to Noah, burying my face in his side.

“I’m so sorry.” He holds me tight, his tears dripping on my shaved scalp. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“I thought we’d grow old together,” I sob, biting my lip as painful spasms clutch my stomach.

“I wish we could.” He chokes. “But…”

I know what he’s about to say.

I glance up, staring into his damp olive eyes. “He’s taking me home.”

* * *

Two thousand, eight hundred and eighty minutes.

My eyes flit open, adjusting to the golden light besieging the room.

The drip stands beside my bed, and a range of screens show information I can’t make out.

A slight cough to my right steals my attention.

Noah sits in the chair next to the window, dressed in a dark grey suit and cap to match.

“Happy Anniversary,” he beams, placing a bunch of wildflowers in my gaunt hands.

Hues of red and blush pinks brighten the room; a stark contrast to the deathly white walls I’ve spent days befriending.

My lips curl into a shaky smile.

Of course. Our first anniversary.

“They’re beautiful.” My lungs burn as I speak; each breath a weary endeavour.

“And so are you.” His eyes sparkle.

Or maybe they glisten.

My heart swells a little at his words. I hardly feel beautiful with tubes tangled across my body and my golden curls lying somewhere in one of the hospital’s many bins.

But he thinks I am.

“Noah?” I try to push myself up.

He jumps forward, gently helping me rest against the bed frame.

“Can we do something?” I clutch his hand, unwilling to let go.

“Of course.”

“Remember our wedding, when we danced in the rain after the photos?” I can see the memories flickering across his face.

“Yes!” His voice trembles.

“Can we do it again?”

Noah glances towards the window, watching the light splashing through the glass. “But there’s no rain.”

“We’ll pray for rain.” I squeeze his hand.

* * *

Noah pushes my wheelchair through the winding corridors, dodging the dreary-eyed patients and nurses as they walk stiffly past.

Everything is so white here.

So sterile.

We approach the sliding doors, and I can see the sunlight streaming through.

Please, may it rain.

The warmth of summer feels strange against my skin, but I welcome its embrace.

“Look!” Noah’s voice is filled with excitement as he points in the distance.

Ominous clouds bulge across the sky, smudging ink grey into the blue.

The wheels rattle against the tarmac path as Noah pushes me towards the hospital garden.

Weeping willows and oaks rise tall from the grass-laid ground, and the carefully-pruned beds burst with vibrant colour.

It feels so good to be outside again.

Thunder rumbles in the distance.

I watch the wind playfully rock the leaves, whispering silvery lullabies through the branches.

“I think it might just rain,” Noah whispers, bringing the wheelchair to a gentle halt.

I glance down at my left hand, running my fingers across the thin tube responsible for keeping my pain bearable. My gaze fixes upon the two silver rings stacked upon my finger; the first is delicately thin with a flaming ruby chip sparkling in the light. The second is a simple twisted band.

I’ve been blessed with 365 days to wear this ring.

A faint smile reluctantly creases my dry lips.

Some people don’t even get one.

A cold drop splashes upon my forehead.

Then another.

And another.

The rain falls almost as fast as my tears, dissolving the sunlight into a distant memory.

“Well, your prayers were answered,” Noah laughs softly, his voice dancing in the wind.

He stands behind me, one hand firmly upon the wheelchair handle.

Then he offers me his spare hand.

“Shall we dance?”