The floor seemed to tilt beneath my feet

The floor seemed to tilt beneath my feet. The heavy glass container with Ben’s favorite lunch felt suddenly stone-cold in my hands.

“Told me what, Arnold?” My voice was barely a whisper, yet it rang out with terrifying clarity in the quiet corridor. “Where is my husband?”

Arnold didn’t answer right away. He swallowed hard, wiping a stray tear with the back of his sleeve, and reached out to gently take the tote bag from my trembling hands. He set it down on the nurses’ desk, grabbed me by the arm, and guided me away from the whispering staff into a private consultation room around the corner.

“Arnold, you are scaring me,” I said, my pulse racing against my ribs like a trapped bird. “Is he in surgery? Was there an accident? Is Ben dead?!”

“No! No, Clara, he’s not dead,” Arnold said quickly, holding up his hands to calm me, though his own voice was shaking. “He’s… he’s upstairs in the Advanced Oncology Ward. Room 412.”

The word oncology hit me like a physical blow. The air rushed out of my lungs, leaving me breathless and dizzy.

“Oncology?” I repeated, the word tasting like ash in my mouth. “Why would Ben be in oncology? He works in pediatric surgery.”

Arnold closed his eyes for a long moment, taking a deep, shuddering breath. “Because eight months ago, Ben collapsed during a twelve-hour procedure. We ran tests, Clara. Stage IV pancreatic adenocarcinoma. It had already metastasized.”

My knees buckled. Arnold caught me under my arms, easing me into a vinyl armchair beside the door. The world spun in blur of white tiles and fluorescent lights as my mind tried to process the impossible words…