Dying To Play. Debra Webb

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СКАЧАТЬ that Elaine hadn’t bothered to come in at all last year, the nurse had also firmly counseled Elaine as she led her to the exam room this morning. The you-know-better-than-that lecture had continued as Elaine stepped into the tiny dressing room and removed her clothing.

      She was the deputy chief of detectives for the Atlanta Police Department, Homicide Division, for Pete’s sake. She wasn’t supposed to cow so easily to a gray-haired, rosy-cheeked nurse who looked old enough to be her grandmother. But there was something oddly intimidating about having to take her clothes off under orders from a woman who would have made the staunchest instructor at the police academy proud.

      As if that wasn’t bad enough, then there was the humiliating experience of greeting the doctor while wearing a paper gown that opened down the front. Of course, Dr. Bramm could always be counted on for bedside humor, especially the kind that involved police work, like, “Captured your quota of bad guys already this week?”

      Elaine had laughed, as expected, and gone on to answer his barrage of health questions in the most normal tone possible, considering her body was being plundered with cold, clinical objectivity.

      She’d explained about the acute cramping and the increased nausea, which were the actual reasons she’d even bothered to come in. She was twenty-nine, the youngest detective, male or female, ever to make deputy chief. She didn’t have time to be sick—or to be at this appointment. But she’d said nothing of the sort to the good doctor. Any negative comment on her part would only serve as a catalyst to start him on a tirade about how people took better care of their cars than themselves. She vaguely remembered hearing that one, the last time she was here.

      She’d thought at first that her ulcer might somehow be causing the new problems and had said as much to the doctor. Lord knew it was already the bane of her existence. To her way of thinking she should own stock in the Tums and Maalox companies by now. But Dr. Bramm had informed her pretty quickly that her current symptoms might not be related to her ulcer at all. Then he’d felt compelled to repeat the lecture she’d already heard from the militant nurse who stood by, smiling and nodding in punctuation of his every word.

      A lengthy exam and ultrasound later, Elaine waited in the doctor’s office for his closing comments. He would lecture her some more, she presumed with a fair measure of certainty. She’d decided that, when he drew out the exam and insisted on the ultrasound. She couldn’t ever remember one of these visits taking so long or being so complicated and uncomfortable.

      Let him have at it with the lecturing. She’d take it, feign humbleness and swear on her life that she would never miss another annual exam. And everyone would be happy again.

      When Dr. Bramm at last entered the office and sat down behind his massive mahogany desk, rather than feeling relieved as she’d fully expected, Elaine went on instant alert. Between his rigid posture and the solemn expression on his face, the news couldn’t be good. If it was, the man needed to seriously rethink his bedside demeanor.

      She resisted the urge to jump to conclusions. She absolutely would not even think about the “c” word. Other than the blasted ulcer she was young and healthy, surely it couldn’t be that bad.

      He opened her chart and stared at it for one somber moment before looking up at her over the rim of his bifocals. “Elaine, are you familiar with the term endometriosis?”

      A tiny burst of fear flared inside her. “I don’t think so,” she said slowly, searching her memory for recognition. She found none.

      He closed the chart and laid it aside, the gesture somehow ominous. “It’s an abnormal growth of cells in the female reproductive system which sometimes spreads to other organs. Some of the symptoms you related to me, the pain, the nausea, were suggestive of the disease.”

      Elaine tried to read him for a clue as to the severity of the problem, but his expression was closed now. “So, just how bad is it?” Another slow, hesitant response, so out of character for her. She shrugged in an effort to shake off the adrenaline pumping through her veins, making her heart pound. It wasn’t as if he’d said cancer. Or had he? “And what do we do about it?”

      He reclined in his chair and considered her questions for a time before answering. “Based on my preliminary findings and the severity of the symptoms, I’d say it’s advanced. Stage three or four. Of course, there are more detailed tests needed.” He flared his hands. “I’m going to refer you to a specialist. Once he confirms my diagnosis, he’ll likely suggest surgery and hormone therapy.”

      “Surgery?” Elaine could feel her muscles tensing. She felt nauseous, even more so than usual. She should have eaten this morning. She would pay for that oversight. More Maalox or Tums, whichever she had in the car, would be in order.

      “We won’t know how extensive the surgery will need to be until you see the specialist,” he said, obviously being vague. “He’ll give you more details about what you can expect and how the disease will affect your future.”

      An epiphany abruptly struck Elaine with a stunning effect. “Does this mean I won’t be able to have children?”

      The question seemed to echo in the room. Children. She hadn’t really given much thought to the possibility before. She would have one or two eventually, she’d assumed. Eventually being the operative word. Right now her whole life was focused on her career. She didn’t even have a boyfriend. She blocked that seed of self-pity before it took root. She definitely wasn’t going there at the moment. The fact was she’d put her entire personal life on hold eight years ago, and now the future was bearing down on her with what felt entirely too much like an ultimatum. She came from a big Catholic family. She wanted children. Someday.

      Dr. Bramm sighed. He looked directly at her, his eyes giving her the answer before he spoke. “I can’t give you any absolutes. I can only say…it’s doubtful that you’ll be able to conceive at this point. Very doubtful,” he stressed. “If we’d only discovered it sooner.” He shook his head solemnly. “But we’ll do everything we can to increase the probability if that’s what you want. You’re still single?”

      “Yes.” Elaine felt as if someone else had answered the question. This couldn’t be happening. She came from good stock. Both her parents were healthy and fit. Her older sister had four children already. And her three brothers had a whole gaggle of kids, all of which she doted on incessantly. Would loving her siblings’ children have to be enough for her?

      The doctor went on to praise the credentials of the specialist he’d recommended, but another realization had hit Elaine with the force of a bullet between the eyes, stealing her attention. This was her fault. She’d put her education and career before all else since she was eighteen years old. She hadn’t taken the time to do the little things that she was supposed to do to take care of herself. Though she was thin by anyone’s standards, she ate too much junk food, didn’t really have time for anything else. She tried to make up for it by running every night with Sally, her big old golden retriever, until she exhausted herself. She didn’t smoke, but she did indulge in a little too much wine most nights before bed to help her sleep.

      No one would argue, however, that she didn’t have the perfect excuse for her negligence. Her job was incredibly stressful.

      Who was she kidding? Her job was murder.

      Literally.

      And now the prospects of having children, of sharing her future with anyone, were dim at best.

      Maybe even dead. Who would want her now?

      She had no one to blame but herself.

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