In our quiet moments together, my Mom would whisper to me, her fingers fluttering across her belly. I still don't know who was mirroring who, but her voice always made me feel safe, and I knew that I would love her forever...

But, I didn't make it into the world alive.

One moment I was doing somersaults, kicking gently off the walls of the only home I'd ever known, the next, my life was constrained - constricted in an ironic twist, by the thread responsible for sustaining my existence. The thread that bound me to life, was now the very undoing of it all.

And as the last drops of oxygen lingered in my brain, I remembered only one thing: Maisie... My name was Maisie...

I had always wanted a daughter so when the radiologist revealed that my dream was becoming a reality, my squeals could be heard unabated across the hospital ward. I imagined what it would be like to hold my little girl in my arms one day - to gaze into her little cherub face and whisper her name... a name I had held close to my heart for many years; a nod to the other half of my whole. But when the time came, my silent words fell on deaf ears, and on an overcast day in September, I buried the pieces of my broken heart in a simple white seventeen-inch casket.

As my friends commiserated over the fleeting years, I sat wondering why time stood still for me. I felt stuck; marooned in a sticky quagmire, an ant in a puddle of syrup, attempts to move in any direction, thwarted. Escape seemed futile. Five years felt like a lifetime.

My recent diagnosis had not helped. As the doctor spoke, the medical jargon floated over my head, a complex of unintelligible words. "... stage 3..." is the only thing that had registered. His voice continued to echo inside my head. An erratic ball of fear was set in motion that day on an unknown path fueled by confusion and anxiety. Looking down at my breasts and touching them, they felt alien to me; the enemy within, a betrayal of their outer beauty. "Sometimes these things can go into remission," the doctor had added sympathetically.

Sure, there was always hope.

My mastectomy was scheduled. I went home and cried. I wondered in the days and weeks that followed whether I truly wanted to live... to find a way to reconnect with Shaun and climb out of this hell hole, or whether the effort required to do so was just too much. Could I not simply close my eyes and wake up on the other side of eternity, reunited with my baby girl? The one thing that kept me going was the feeling that she was still with me in some way. I rubbed my belly. Why did I have this sensation of her presence - like a phantom limb - but more comforting, despite the pain of her loss? In looking for the answers, I resigned myself to prayer.

A few months later, enrobed in a pink hospital gown, I greeted the nurse as she arrived to escort me to my final scans and blood tests before the procedure. "How are you feeling?" She asked as I eased myself off the bed. I wondered if the loud thump inside my chest would betray my true emotions. Would she hear it in my voice? I slipped my hands into my pockets, surreptitiously wiping them dry. "I'm ok," I lied, as I followed her out of the room and down the corridor to the clinic.

She placed her soft creased hand on mine and squeezed it gently, momentarily easing my angst, before asking me to hold still for a few seconds so that the images could be captured. My eyes met hers and I managed a weak smile in response to her own. It was clear this was not her first rodeo.

As I later lay in the hospital bed patiently awaiting the surgeon's pre-op visit, my thoughts in disarray, I wished that Shaun was there to see me through the ordeal. I tried valiantly to stem the flow of tears with the back of my hands.

I was forced to remind myself.

Shaun's absence wasn't his fault.

It was mine.

I thought back over the past few weeks leading up to this day. Recently, vivid dreams would awaken me - a whispered cry and my baby's breath against my cheek, the cries and breaths I never got to experience. And then reality would set in, fast and hard. I was still trying to regain my composure when Dr. Langston entered the ward.

He pulled up a seat beside me, motioning to the tablet in his hands. "I have today's pre-op lab results here," he said. I watched as his gaze wandered to the shiny gold bands lying discarded on my bedside pedestal. "Would you like us to wait for your husband before I share them with you?" he asked.

I don't know why I looked towards the doorway, as if willing Shaun to fill the empty space from which I had forcibly ejected him some months before. I turned again to face Dr. Langston, hiding my bare hands in shame. "No, it's ok," I murmured, "I think I'm alone on this one."

Doctor Langston smiled apologetically and turned his tablet to reveal the results of my recent scans.

"Amanda, firstly allow me to apologise for the delays today. I'll cut straight to it. I know we thought a mastectomy was your best option at this stage, but based on your scans today, I think we should postpone the surgery."

For a moment, I couldn't breathe. Was the news good or bad?

Seeing the consternation on my face, he continued quickly, "Let me show you these scans side by side. See this one on the left is at the point of diagnosis three months back. Now, this one on the right is from a few hours ago. Can you see the difference?" He pointed out the reduction in tumour size and the increased concentration of healthy cells. "Healthy cells appear to be migrating from other parts of your body in an effort to fight the cancer cells, and at this point, although there are no guarantees, it is looking quite promising."

"So my body is fighting back then, doc?" I whispered tentatively, not wanting to allow hope to re-establish a stronghold, for fear it may be ripped away again without notice.

"Well, yes! But also... not exactly! Knowing your medical history, when I saw the tumour reduction and unexpected increase in cellular activity on your scans, I called in a favour and asked for the bloods to be genome sequenced by a colleague of mine at Stanford University. It turns out that you have genetically distinct DNA engrained in your cellular structure."

I stared at him blankly.

"Quite simply," he added, "you are not doing this alone."

This post is in response to the prompt: thread for the Dreemport/Scholar and Scribe collaboration. Part 3 will follow shortly.

Resources:

1. Header Image DNA Spiral Structure by Idea Design on Canva Pro

2. Fastest DNA sequencing technique helps undiagnosed patients find answers in mere hours

3. Infinity divider created using Canva Pro library.

4. Dreemport banner used with permission of @dreemsteem and @dreemport and designed by @jimramones