Now or Never: A Last Chance Romance (Part 1) Read Free Page A

cancer.  That was a shock, yes.  But I caught it early, I’m ‘lucky.’  It’s non-invasive — just surgery and radiation and Tamoxifin and I’ll be fine.
    It was the second phone call from the doctor that sent me into a tailspin.  Test results showed I carry the so-called breast cancer gene.  The one that significantly increases the chance of breast and ovarian cancers.  So significantly that many women opt for preventative mastectomies and hysterectomy.
    I have decisions to make.

Chapter 3
    Dr. Martell’s office is across the street from Bryn Mawr Hospital.  It’s a four-story brick building that no doubt had once been a large single family home.  It’s only a ten minute drive from work so I make these appointments on my lunch break without anyone realizing I’m gone.  Still, I told my department manager, Aimee, what is happening.  I felt I had to, though I was loathe to do it.  Aimee is young and ambitious and already looks at some of us like we are old work horses ready to be put out to pasture.
    “Have a seat, Mrs. Romi.  He’ll be right with you.”
    My last name is always a quagmire.  I’m not a Mrs. anymore, and I was never Mrs. Romi—that’s my mother.  I went back to my maiden name ten years ago, trying to shirk the last of my baggage left from my ex-husband, Peter McKenna.
    I pick up a People magazine but barely get to the Kate Middleton cover story when Dr. Martell’s physician’s assistant calls me back to his office.
    My breast surgeon is a handsome, silver-haired gentleman, and I do mean gentleman.  He is a Southern transplant, who wears a suit and tie under his white coat, and has an impeccable bedside manner — polite, respectful, but warm.
    He stands when I enter the room and smiles.  I sit in one of the comfy chairs in front of his desk, and he takes his own seat again.
    “How are you doing, Claire?”
    “Fine,” I tell him honestly.  This is one person with whom I don’t have to put on a brave face.  But around him, I feel brave.  There’s a problem, and he will help me solve it.  That’s the bottom line.  There are two types of problems in life.  Fixable, and not fixable.  As long as you are faced with the former, there’s not much to worry about.
    “Have you come to any decisions?” he asks.
    “Yes,” I tell him.  “I’m going to do the double mastectomy.”
    He nods.  “I think that’s a good decision.  And reconstruction?”
    I hesitate.  “Is it worth it?  Or am I just holding on to something that…”
    “Claire, you’re a young woman.  The reconstructive procedure is extremely refined these days.  We’ll get it started at the same time as the mastectomy and in a few months you’ll be as good as new.  The results are fantastic.”
    “Um, okay.  And they’ll be the same size and everything?”
    “They can be any size you want.” He smiles.  “Many of my patients see that as the silver lining.”
    “Okay, well, I have to think about.  The reconstruction I mean — not the…size.”
    He holds up his hands.  “Nothing you have to decide right now.”
    I nod.
    “In six to eight months, you’ll do the hysterectomy.”
    “How soon should I do the…” I can’t say the word mastectomy.  “Breast part?”
    “Carol Ann keeps my surgical calendar.  We can walk over there and get something set up.  What are you comfortable with?  There’s no rush.  Breast cancer is a slow growing cancer.  My rule of thumb is that I like to have at least a plan in place six weeks from diagnosis.”
    I nod.  “Um, so back to the hysterectomy, what happens?  I mean, what’s that recovery like?”
    He takes off his glasses.  “The biggest impact is that you’ll go into instant menopause.”
    The words instant menopause are like a bullet.  My brave face is immediately gone.  Tears fill my eyes.  Menopause at forty-one.
    I had barely admitted it to myself, but I can’t deny it now.  Somewhere along the line, I’d made a deal