The Wish She Had Been Afraid to Say
A few days later, Alicia asked me to visit her during a quiet moment.
She looked unusually serious.
“I’ve been thinking,” she began.
“That sounds dangerous.”
She smiled.
“See? That’s why I like you. You’re predictable.”
I pulled a chair beside her bed.
“What have you been thinking about?”
She looked down at her hands.
“There is one thing I want to do before I die.”
I waited.
“I want to get married.”
For a moment, I thought I had misunderstood her.
“Married?”
“Yes. With a ceremony and everything. Although I reserve the right to complain about the flowers.”
I tried to smile, but I could see that she was serious.
“Have you talked to your family about this?”
“My sister knows I want to do something special. But that’s not the whole thing.”
She took a shaky breath.
“I want to marry you.”
The words seemed to stop the air in the room.
I stared at her, unsure how to respond.
“Alicia…”
“I know what you’re going to say.”
“Then you know this is complicated.”
“I know.”
“I’m involved in your care. There are professional boundaries we have to respect.”
“I know that, too.”
Her eyes began to fill with tears.
“I’m not asking you to pretend I’m going to live forever. I’m not asking you to promise that you can cure me. I’m asking if, for one little moment, I can have something that belongs to me and not to my illness.”
I looked away.
There were ethical responsibilities I could not ignore. A doctor must protect a patient’s vulnerability, and a patient’s request, however moving, does not erase those responsibilities.
I knew that any decision had to be considered carefully, with her wishes, her well-being, and the professional boundaries surrounding our relationship taken seriously.
But I also knew that Alicia was not asking for a miracle.
She was asking for a meaningful moment at a time when so much of her life had been taken out of her hands.
“Why me?” I finally asked.
She gave me a small, almost embarrassed smile.
“Because you listen. Because you don’t treat me like I’m already gone. Because when you enter the room, you talk to me like I’m Alicia, not just another patient.”
She paused.
“And because you make terrible jokes, and I think someone should be legally responsible for them.”
I laughed despite myself.
She smiled, but her eyes remained serious.
“Please, Lucas.”
I didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, I spoke with the appropriate people about what she had asked, considered the ethical implications, and made sure that her wishes were not being shaped by pressure or a misunderstanding of her situation.
The circumstances were unusual, and I knew that love could not be used as an excuse to ignore the responsibilities I had as a physician.
Eventually, after careful consideration, we agreed that the moment she wanted would be a small, personal ceremony focused on her wishes and the people she loved.
When I returned to her room, she looked at my face and immediately understood that I had an answer.
“Well?” she asked.
I took her hand.
“If we’re going to do this, we’re doing it your way.”
Her eyes widened.
“You’re saying yes?”
“I’m saying yes.”
For several seconds, she simply stared at me.
Then she began to cry and laugh at the same time.
“Oh, my goodness. I need to tell my sister. I need flowers. I need to find something white. And you absolutely need a better tie.”
“I own one tie.”
“Then we’re already in trouble.”
For the first time in weeks, Alicia looked genuinely excited about something beyond her medical care.
And for the first time in weeks, I felt something other than fear when I thought about the days ahead.
