At breakfast the next morning, Landon asks me when I would like to schedule an appointment with my OBGYN. With the thought of my other appointment consuming my mind, I tell him I would like a two o’clock appointment for that day.

“I have an important meeting at two. Could you make it three?”

I pause in the middle of spreading raspberry jam across my toast. “I’d didn’t realize you’d want to come with me.”

“Of course, I would. Why wouldn’t I?” he asks incredulous.

“I don’t know I just…didn’t think about it, I guess,” I shrug. If he wants to come to all my doctor appointments, it is going to get increasingly difficult to keep my secret. I continue preparing my toast.

“You need to eat more than toast, Beagchaithnini sneachta.” The Irish rumble makes me shiver.

“This is what I always eat for breakfast.”

“I know; you eat like a baby bird. Here, try some eggs.” He plops a substantial portion of scrambled eggs onto my plate. The smell makes my stomach churn, and I push my plate away.

“I think I’m going to go call the doctor make an appointment.”

Landon sighs. “Three, please, Brooke.”

I pause with my back turned toward him. “Mmhhmm.” I nod my head and leave the room.

*****

“And you’re sure your pregnant?”

“Yes, the doc confirmed it yesterday.”

“Well, that explains the increased hormone levels.” Dr. Goodmin stares down at my chart some more.

“All right, what is it you want to do?” Goodmin asks me.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you have options here. Do you want to keep the baby?”

I gasp, the thought of getting rid of my child never even crossed my mind. “Of course, I want to keep him.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you, Mrs. Campbell. I just want you to understand what going through with this means.”

“Can I safely carry my child to term?”

“Yes, the child would be fine. You, on the other hand, wouldn’t be. You would have to go completely off your medication, and as you know already, that will cause your liver to rapidly deteriorate. Also, as you know if you cease all treatment, you would be removed from the waiting list for a transplant.”

My throat feels so thick I cannot swallow. It is as I feared. “If I… If I do that—stop my treatment and have my baby—he would be healthy, right?”

“There are never any guarantees. Wilson’s disease is genetic but very rare, and the father doesn’t have any hereditary health issues. There should be no reason you don’t deliver a happy healthy baby.”

“But I would die.” My voice croaks. It was not a question, but the doctor answers anyway.

“That is a very high possibility. Probably around twelve to fifteen months after stopping treatment.”

My heart stumbles. That would give me three to six months with my baby. Three to six months of being so sick I would not even be able to see or raise my arms.