- مبلغ: ۸۶,۰۰۰ تومان
- مبلغ: ۹۱,۰۰۰ تومان
I will remember her as Liz, though of course that was not her name. She was the sort who might have run half-marathons, or kept dogs, or gone camping for fun. Her real name was actually quite flowery and regal, but in her pragmatic way, she had shortened it to a title befitting her directness. I first met her in the spring. By any account, it was a nice day outside. The sky was cloudless and the breeze carried the scent of old gardens. But our first consultation had been under fluorescent lights in a windowless surgical clinic. When I was called down to discuss chemotherapy with her, I had perched on the corner of the desk—half-sitting and half-standing—while the senior surgeon wrote his notes. He had already examined the tangerine-sized breast mass, and the lymph nodes hiding deceitfully in her armpit. At some stage, I noted her familiar attire, the uniform of our own hospital staff, the ID badge. Her husband sat alongside, broad-shouldered yet powerless. “We will give the chemo upfront. This is a triple-negative breast cancer, so all going well the tumor should shrink, touch wood,” and I tapped the polyurethane desktop.