Three years of marriage. One year trying for a baby. Still no pregnancy.
Ethan loved children. After their wedding, he'd always talk about how he'd spoil their future daughter like a princess, or take their son to baseball games on weekends. He even wanted two kids and had picked out names. They'd stopped using protection last year, but nothing happened.
Now there might never be a chance.
Christine sat in the hospital bathroom, staring at the pregnancy test. Fifteen minutes passed. Still one line, harsh and clear.
Her heart felt numb.
But she couldn't give up this chance. A biological child had better matching odds than a stranger. For most leukemia patients, their children were their last hope.
After a moment of silence, Christine took a deep breath and called her best friend from high school, Rachel, who worked at a famous hospital in the city.
"Rach, I need your help."
...
4 PM.
ICU visiting hours lasted forty minutes, one visitor at a time. Rebecca sat outside, giving today's slot to Christine.
Christine had got used to the routine — putting on the disposable isolation gown, cap, mask, shoe covers, and gloves before entering the private room.
Ethan was still sleeping, his chest rising weakly with the ventilator's noise. Doctors had put a tube through a small hole in his neck, connecting it to the breathing machine. IV needles stuck out from his hand, chemotherapy drugs dripping from brown bags at the top of the pole into his veins.
His vital signs had been stable these past few days. After checking the IV rate was normal, the nurse left, giving Christine privacy.
Christine held her sleeping husband's hand. His skin was dry, his joints prominent. He'd lost so much weight.
A week before this happened, Ethan had mentioned feeling dizzy after work. She thought he was just tired and told him to rest more.
The morning it happened, he'd texted her: "My dearest dearest wife, I took next month off. Let's go to Greece!" With a kissing emoji.
His colleagues told her what happened when he collapsed. In those few seconds, he'd stared at his gushing nosebleed in disbelief. Then he'd looked at his colleagues in panic and shouted: "Christine-" before crashing to the floor.
After waking in the hospital, he'd fainted several times, unable to accept reality. Then he found himself incontinence. When the nurse came with a washcloth, he nearly broke down, trying to scream for everyone to get out.
But he could only move his lips. No sound came out.
By then, Christine stood outside the glass window, watching her usually cheerful husband. His eyes were wide with terror and helplessness as the nurse removed his pants, leaving him exposed and undignified. As they cleaned him, Ethan closed his eyes and turned away, crying. Like his soul had left his body, he didn't even have the strength to resist.
Now he lay quietly in bed. Christine held his hand, telling herself that the boy who'd once held an umbrella for her couldn't leave like this.
"Ethan, I'm pregnant," she said softly.
Only the ventilator's hum and the IV's dripping answered.
She forced a smile, placing his hand on her stomach as if he could feel new life growing.
"Remember how you wanted a son to play baseball with, and a beautiful daughter? Look, I'm pregnant. You're going to be a daddy, and I'm going to be a mommy. Stay with me to see our baby? When the baby's born, we can test for a match. Our baby will save you. Trust me, promise me, okay?"
The doctors said without a match, Ethan had maybe a year left.
Pregnancy took eight months. One year was enough.
She wouldn't give up any hope.
"Honey, please don't die?"
She crouched down sobbing, pressing his hand to her cheek, letting tears fall.
Then she heard a hoarse: "...okay."
Christine looked up. Ethan was awake.
His eyes were red, looking at her just like when they'd said their wedding vows.
"You... suffer... for... me..." he struggled to say through the ventilator. He tried to say more but pain stopped him. His eyes told her: If she divorced him, she was young enough for a new life, new love.
This baby would bring her judgment and suffering. Without it, she could have a bright future.
Christine held up the ultrasound report, reading it to him word by word.
After reading "4 weeks pregnant," she laughed and cried, wiping her tears on his hand.
How could it suffer?
Without Ethan, she had no life at all.
For him, she'd do anything.
After forty minutes, Christine left the room.
She looked back at Ethan, seeing him lying there silently, his face covered in tears.