Chapter 2 - The Pocket Where Love Lives
The oncology ward at St. Jude’s smelled of antiseptic and ozone, a stark contrast to the aroma of cinnamon toast and spilled milk that usually filled Claire’s mornings. In her room, the rhythmic hum of infusion pumps formed an unrelenting metronome. When the nurses arrived to start her first round of aggressive chemotherapy, Claire sat rigid in the vinyl recliner, terrified of the cold IV fluid about to enter her veins.
Her husband, David, had tucked a laminated snapshot of Lily into Claire’s small notebook. In the picture, Lily was laughing beneath an unruly crown of dandelions. Alongside the photograph was a small square of pink felt Lily had cut with blunt safety scissors, a jagged little shape meant to represent a heart. Claire slipped the felt piece into the front pocket of her knit cardigan.
Whenever the nausea rose like bile or the metallic taste of medication turned her stomach, Claire pressed her thumb against that woolen pocket. She imagined Lily’s steady, miniature pulse vibrating against her own chest. The nurses noted that Claire rarely complained, even when the fever spikes left her shivering under three blankets. When they asked what kept her so calm, Claire pointed to the small bump in her pocket and smiled faintly. She was not fighting for her own survival; she was merely guarding a heart that had been loaned to her in trust.
