PART 1 – The Nurse Who Came Back
My husband waited until the home nurse drove away—or so he thought—before forcing my head over the trash can because I couldn’t keep dinner down.
Then he pressed one finger directly into the tender surgical area until I gasped and felt warmth spreading beneath the dressing.
“Tell the nurse the cancer did it,” he whispered.
What he didn’t know was that the nurse had forgotten something in our house.
And when the front doorknob turned seconds later, my husband’s face changed completely.
My name is Emily Carter.
I was forty-three years old, three weeks out from abdominal cancer surgery, and still learning how much energy ordinary things could take from me.
Showering felt like work.
Walking from the bedroom to the kitchen could leave me exhausted.
Food was unpredictable.
One morning I could eat toast.
By evening, the smell of soup could make my stomach turn.
