"I talked to his mom some more, and then his father read the pathology report to me, over the phone..." Her voice trails off as she stops talking.
I don't want to ask because she's already answered me with the long pause, but I have to. So I prompt, "And?"
"At best, maybe a year. More likely six months."
"So, what, nothing? I mean..." This time, it's my voice that goes nowhere.
"Well, never say never. That's the beauty--if you can call it that--of this; no one responds to treatments in exactly the same way. He could be the one who blows the bell curve, so to speak."
"But, not likely."
"Yeah. Not likely."
"Did you tell them?"
"I couldn't. I tried to focus on the, you know, possibilities. The treatments that I've seen work at Memorial and here. I couldn't say it."
"They know, though, right? I mean, deep down, they know. They're both medical professionals, they'd have to know what that report means."
"'Course they do. But they're parents, first, and there's always hope. You always have hope, must have hope, no matter how unlikely, for your child. Because, if you don't, who will? You understand, don't you?"
Yes, I understand. I understand too well, now.
