“He’s been good to me, Issa.”
“I know he has. But have you looked into that clinical trial I sent you?”
“Brian says it’s a long shot. He doesn’t want me to get my hopes up.”
“You’ve been shrinking.”
My friend was quiet for a moment.
“And what do you want?”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Somewhere along the way, I had stopped asking myself that question.
***
For years, specialists told me there was nothing they could do.
Then, a month ago, through Marissa, I learned about an experimental laser eye surgery offered through a clinical program. The doctors warned me it wasn’t guaranteed to work, and Brian thought I was getting my hopes up for nothing.
“What do you want?”
***
That night at dinner, I brought it up anyway.
“Dr. Halim’s office called back about the laser program.”
Brian set his fork down. “Sweetheart, we talked about this.”
“I know. I just thought…”
“You’ll break your own heart,” he said, and there was that tightness again, the one I could never quite place. “I don’t want to watch you fall apart when it doesn’t work.”
I sighed.
“We talked about this.”
“I’ve thought about it a lot,” I said. “Marissa’s willing to help me through the recovery either way.”
“Marissa,” my husband repeated flatly. “Of course.”
He didn’t say no again.
He just changed the subject to the leftovers, and I let him, because arguing with Brian had never been something I was good at.
He didn’t say no again.
***
A few days later, my husband left for another one of his week-long business trips.
He kissed my forehead and told me he’d call every night.
The house grew quiet around me.
***
With Marissa’s help, I decided to take the chance on the laser surgery, anyway.
The following afternoon, my best friend came in with a letter from the clinic.
I had been accepted into the trial!
My husband left.
***
That night, I thought about the woman I’d been before the diagnosis, the one who’d argued with a contractor until he redid the whole back porch. The one who’d picked her own paint colors and driven herself to Asheville just to see the leaves.
