Chapter 19 The Question Repeated
Clara’s hand was still raised.
For a moment, no one spoke, as if the room itself needed permission to breathe again. The doctors looked at her with a kind of wary attentiveness, the way people do when they sense a question will not be simple, and will not stay neatly within medical language.
“Yes, Clara?” the lead oncologist said gently.
Her arm felt heavy as she lowered it, resting her hand back on her lap. Her fingers trembled, but she pressed them together, grounding herself.
“If I were to travel,” she began, voice quiet but steady, “what would that mean for me?”
Her mother turned sharply toward her. “Clara…”
“It’s okay,” Clara said softly, not looking at her. “I need to ask.”
The doctors exchanged another glance. This time, it was unmistakable.
“We assumed,” the specialist said carefully, “that this question might come up.”
Clara nodded. Of course they had. She had been circling this moment for days, weeks, ever since Amsterdam had stopped being just a dream and started becoming a possibility.
“I’m talking about Amsterdam,” Clara said plainly. “If I went.”
The room stiffened.
Her father’s jaw clenched. Her mother’s hand tightened around the edge of her chair. Even the doctors’ posture changed, backs straightening, expressions firming as if an invisible line had been drawn.
The oncologist exhaled slowly.
“Clara,” he said, choosing his words with care, “we strongly advise against it.”
The sentence landed heavy and final.
She felt it in her chest first, then her throat.
“Why?” she asked, even though she already knew.
The specialist leaned forward slightly, hands folded. “Your lungs are compromised. You’ve experienced repeated fluid buildup, oxygen deprivation, and episodes of respiratory distress. Travel, especially long-distance travel, places significant strain on the body.”
“We’re not just talking about discomfort,” another doctor added. “We’re talking about real danger.”
Clara swallowed.
“What kind of danger?”
“Hypoxia,” the oncologist replied. “Low oxygen levels during flights. Changes in pressure. Stress-induced complications. Even something as small as a delayed response in an emergency could be catastrophic.”
Her mother shook her head slowly, tears welling. “Catastrophic,” she whispered, as if saying it quietly might make it less true.
“And there’s the issue of medical support,” the specialist continued. “If something happens there, you won’t have immediate access to a team familiar with your history. Peter…” she paused, careful now, “..is very devoted, but he is young. He is not trained to manage acute medical emergencies.”
The words cut deeper than Clara expected.
Peter isn’t enough.
She felt heat rise behind her eyes, but she refused to let it spill over.
“What if my mother came with me?” Clara asked, her voice firmer now. “What if we planned everything, oxygen, contacts, emergency protocols?”
The doctors didn’t answer right away.
That silence felt worse than a no.
“Even with those measures,” the oncologist said finally, “the risk remains high.”
Clara leaned forward.
“But there’s always risk,” she said. “There's a risk when I wake up. There's a risk when I walk across my room. There's a risk just sitting here, isn’t there?”
Her voice cracked slightly, but she kept going.
“So what exactly am I supposed to do? Just… wait?”
Her father looked at her then, really looked at her, eyes shining with something raw and unguarded. “Clara,” he said hoarsely, “they’re trying to protect you.”
“I know,” she replied, turning to him. “But protect me from what? Living?”
Her mother let out a small, broken sound. “From dying far away from home.”
The words hung between them.
Clara’s chest tightened.
“I don’t want to die anywhere,” she said softly. “But I don’t want to stop living either.”
The doctors listened in silence as her emotions spilled over, not dramatic, not loud,just painfully honest.
“I’ve spent years doing everything right,” Clara continued. “Taking the drugs. Showing up to appointments. Being careful. Being strong. And I’m grateful.. I am. But Amsterdam isn’t just a trip. It’s… it’s something I chose.”
She paused, breath shaky.
“It’s something that makes me feel like I still have a say.”
The oncologist’s expression softened, but his voice remained firm.
“Clara,” he said, “we understand the emotional importance. Truly. But medically speaking…”
“She’s Stage Four,” the specialist finished quietly.
The words struck like a physical blow.
Stage Four.
Not whispered. Not softened.
Stated.
Clara’s vision blurred.
“We’re not saying this to take something from you,” the oncologist continued. “We’re saying it because your condition is fragile. Very fragile. And traveling could push it beyond what your body can recover from.”
“So that’s it?” Clara asked, voice barely audible. “You’re saying I’m too sick?”
The room was utterly still.
Her mother covered her mouth. Her father closed his eyes.
The oncologist met Clara’s gaze and nodded once, slowly.
“Yes,” he said gently. “You’re too sick.”
The words echoed in her chest, hollow and final.
Too sick to go.
Too sick to choose.
Too sick to hope.
Clara leaned back in her chair, feeling smaller than she ever had. The world she had been reaching toward suddenly felt impossibly far away.
And somewhere deep inside her, something fragile and precious began to crack..
because if even this was being taken from her, she didn’t know how much more she could lose and still recognize herself.