"Who Would've Thought Getting Knocked Down Would End So Well?"

I’ve been watching blue skies
They’ve been turning blood red
Not a doubt in my mind anymore
There’s a storm up ahead.

This was it.

I had been in this position before. Again, I was powerless. My life was not in my own hands. I sprung to my feet at the sound of my name, perhaps a bit too quickly, because I could feel the blood drain from my face and rush straight to my feet. My blood pressure must have dropped—or raised—substantially because I suddenly felt light-headed. The accelerated rhythm of my heart thudded so hard I could hear it; scared, I reached instinctively for Billie Joe. My fingers clawed to get a hold of him. My rock. He was ready to catch me. He always was. I wondered then if I would ever have the opportunity to return the favor—to support him for once.

Gripping my hands tightly in his, Billie Joe moved us toward Dr. Stein’s office. My heart pounded against my ribcage, threatening to leap right out of my chest. My head began to throb in unison with my heart, the two conspiring in my torture. My hopes and my perception of reality vied for dominance in my already racing mind; alas, neither was the victor because fear had long crept in and infiltrated every fiber of my being.

In an attempt to shake myself out of my headspace, I glanced at Billie Joe. He looked straight ahead, his expression unreadable. Although our hands were intertwined, and we were physically close, we might as well have been in different worlds; if he was anything like me, he was also playing out various scenarios in his head. I just hoped that the outcomes he imagined were more positive than mine.

When we finally reached Dr. Stein’s office, we entered to find her already seated behind her imposing mahogany desk. The receptionist closed the door behind us and the three of us were alone. Again. All of the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stood on end.

The air in the office was still, almost stagnant. Eyeing the doctor, I attempted to gauge her expression. I was fishing, even for the tiniest morsel of an indication of the direction of our impending conversation. I received nothing from my ever-stoic physician.

“Hello Amelia, Billie Joe,” Dr. Stein began as we settled into our seats. “Amelia, how have you been feeling since we last met?”

“Fine.” I replied quickly, hoping to cut to the chase.

“Her hair has been growing back a bit, and her appetite seems better…” Billie Joe trailed off, providing the doctor with the kind of details she was looking for. His voice was hopeful.

“That’s good to hear,” she replied, jotting a note in my chart.

“So…” I trailed off, attempting to direct the conversation back to my prognosis. Meanwhile, my eyes darted between Dr. Stein’s overall demeanor and my chart, silently begging for hints and wanting nothing more than to redirect the conversation.

“So…” Dr. Stein replied. “I have taken a look at your blood work and cell samples.” She paused to push her glasses higher on the bridge of her sharp nose. Although it probably took less than a second, it felt like hours. Beads of sweat began to collect on my forehead, threatening to drench what must have been a panicked face. My chest tightened like it was being held in a vice.

“Amelia, the chemotherapy did not stop, or even slow, the progression of the disease.”

Breathe. Keep breathing.

“You have reached what is termed “blast crisis…”

Dr. Stein continued to provide details, but all I could hear now were my shallow breaths. I gripped my chair for dear life as if the armrests were keeping me from falling to the floor and just remaining there. Forever. I did not want to hear any more. My eyes slammed shut as hot, angry, terrified tears sprung from my eyes. My head shook in disbelief.

I had been feeling better lately. I had an appetite, my hair was growing back—I had even gained a bit of weight. How could my body so brutally deceive me?

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no” I muttered, barely audible through strangled tears.

No matter how much I had prepared myself for the possibility of a negative outcome, I was not ready for this. Why me?

At that moment, there was a wail so sorrowful that I could not believe it was not mine. It was Billie Joe. All composure—feigned or otherwise—was long gone. His eyes were wide with disbelief and all color had drained from his face.

“Are you sure those results are accurate? Wh-what do we do now? What are you going to do?” He was on his feet now. He didn’t know whether to firmly demand an answer from Dr. Stein or to comfort me, so he did neither. He stood, helpless, between the two of us. I had never seen him so lost.

I was emotionally wrung out. I could barely even lift my head. What would be next, more chemo? Surgery? Would this be my life forever? And how much of a life was left, anyway?

The doctor’s eyes filmed over briefly with tears before she regained her composure.

“Normally, this is where we would start to treat the cancer aggressively. In fact, your best chance at achieving remission at this point is to receive a stem cell transplant. However…” She trailed off unexpectedly, looking at her chart as if to again confirm her findings.

“However…?” Billie Joe prodded as he sat back down, his pleading eyes bloodshot as he attempted to hold back whatever tears he had left.

He was so perched at the edge of his seat that if he leaned forward much more, he would fall straight off. On another day, this might have been funny. Today, it was tragic.

The doctor nodded, understanding Billie Joe’s temperament. “I noticed that some of Amelia’s hormone levels were high, much higher than expected, even given the treatment she has been receiving.”

“So? What does that mean?” I could not handle much more of this conversation, and it was taking everything I had not to cross the floor and start shaking Dr. Stein to get an answer. I was both desperate to know and afraid to find out.

“I ran a few more tests. Amelia,” she said, looking at me in a way that I could not understand at the time, “you’re pregnant.”