Chapter 90 The Diagnosis
Elena: POV
I half-dragged, half-carried Mom to the Uber. She kept trying to slow down, mumbling about not needing to rush, but I wasn't having it.
"Get in the damn car."
My voice came out harsher than I meant. I didn't care.
She eased into the backseat, moving like her bones might shatter. I slid in next to her and gave the driver the hospital address.
"Elena, really—"
"Don't." I cut her off. "Don't you dare tell me you're fine."
Mom leaned against the window, eyes closed. Her skin had this grayish tint that made my stomach twist.
"Tell me what's wrong," I said. "All of it. No more bullshit."
She didn't open her eyes. "Pancreatic cancer."
The words hit me like a fist to the chest.
Pancreatic cancer.
I knew enough to know that was bad. Really fucking bad.
"How long have you known?" My voice cracked.
"Six months. I told you that."
"No." I grabbed her hand. Too thin. All bone. "How long have the doctors known? How far along is it?"
She finally looked at me. Her eyes were red-rimmed, exhausted.
"Stage four."
I couldn't breathe.
"They found it six months ago," she continued, voice flat. "It had already spread. Liver. Some lymph nodes."
Three months ago—when Josephine suggested moving out of the old mansion—there were already signs back then.
"Why didn't you—" I stopped. Shook my head. "Fuck. Never mind. Just... what are they doing? What's the treatment plan?"
"There isn't one."
I stared at her. "What do you mean there isn't one?"
"I mean exactly that." She squeezed my hand weakly. "Dr. Morrison from New York recommended chemo. Radiation. All of it. After coming here, the doctor here, Dr. Smith, suggested the same thing."
"But you're doing it, right? You're fighting this?"
She didn't answer.
"Mom. Tell me you're doing the treatment."
"I'm seeing Dr.Smith today," she said quietly. "That's why we're going to the hospital."
Relief flooded through me. "Okay. Good. That's—"
"I haven't decided yet."
My blood went cold. "Haven't decided what?"
"Whether I want to go through with it."
"Yes, it is!" I was screaming now. The driver's eyes flicked to the mirror again.
“Elena, it's not that simple,” She said softly.
I didn't give a shit. "It's exactly that simple! You do the treatment, you fight, you—"
"Elena." Her voice was soft but firm. "Let me finish."
I clamped my mouth shut. Tears streamed down my face.
"The treatment would buy me time," she said. "Maybe a year. Maybe less. But the side effects... Nausea. Pain. Hair loss. I'd be sick all the time. Weak. Barely able to function."
"So what?" I choked out. "So what if you're sick? At least you'd be alive."
"Would I?" She looked at me. "Or would I just be... existing? Suffering?"
I grabbed both her hands now, my voice choked with emotion, "But I can't stand the thought that you'll be gone soon."
The car pulled up to the hospital entrance.
We took the elevator to the oncology floor. The doors opened onto a hallway painted in soothing blues and greens, like that would somehow make cancer less terrifying.
The receptionist led us to an exam room. Small. Sterile. A poster on the wall about nutrition during chemo.
Five minutes later, Dr. Smith walked in. Younger than I expected, with kind eyes and graying hair.
"Josephine." He nodded at my mother. Then he turned to me. "And you must be Elena."
"Yeah." My voice came out rough.
"I'm glad you're here." He shook my hand. "Your mother has mentioned you many times."
I looked at Mom. She wouldn't meet my eyes.
Dr. Smith pulled up a stool, opened a laptop. His expression grew serious.
"Josephine, I got the results from last week's CT scan."
My stomach dropped.
"The tumors have grown." He turned the laptop screen toward us. Images of her insides. Gray and white and completely meaningless to me. "The largest one has increased by approximately thirty percent since your last scan."
I felt like I'd been punched.
"What does that mean?" I asked.
"It means the cancer is progressing faster than we initially projected."
"How much faster?"
He hesitated. "Without treatment, I'd estimate... six months. Maybe less."
The room tilted.
Six months.
That was nothing.
"And with treatment?" I pressed.
"Elena—" Mom started.
"Let him answer."
"With aggressive chemotherapy and radiation, we could potentially extend that to twelve to eighteen months. But the quality of life would be significantly impacted."
"I don't care about quality of life," I said. My voice shook. "I care about her being alive."
"She wants the treatment." I looked at Mom. "Tell him. Tell him you want to do it."
Mom's eyes filled with tears. "Sweetheart—"
"No." I shook my head. "No. You're doing this. You're fighting."
Dr. Smith stood. "I'm going to step out for a moment. Give you two some privacy."
He left.
I turned to Mom. "You have to do this."
"You have to." I was crying now. Full-on sobbing. "I can't lose you too. I can't. Please. Please don't give up."
She reached for me. I collapsed against her, and she held me while I fell apart.
"I'm so tired," she whispered. "So, so tired."
"I know. But please. Just... try. For me. Please try."
She didn't answer.
Dr. Smith returned. "Elena? Can I speak with you outside?"
In the hallway, he leaned against the wall. He looked exhausted.
"Your mother doesn't want treatment," he said quietly.
"I know. But—"
"She's made that very clear to me over the past few months."
"What if she does the treatment?" I asked desperately. "What are the real chances? Be honest with me."
He was quiet for a long moment.
"Even with aggressive intervention, pancreatic cancer at this stage... the five-year survival rate is less than three percent."
Three percent.
"So you're saying treatment would just..." I couldn't finish.
"Prolong the inevitable," he said gently. "And cause significant suffering in the process. She'd spend what time she has left feeling miserable."
I leaned against the wall. Felt the cold tile against my back.
"So there's no real hope," I whispered.
"There's always hope." But his eyes said otherwise. "But I won't lie to you. The odds aren't good."
I went back into the room.
Mom was still sitting on the exam table. She looked at me, and I could see everything in her eyes. The fear. The exhaustion. The resignation.
I walked over to her. Knelt down on the floor beside the table.
Took her hand in mine.
"Mom. You've never done a bad thing in your entire life. How the fuck is this fair?"