Cancer Pt. 01: The Falling

Cancer

By Henry Jekyll

Part One: The Falling (chapters 1-4)

*****

Synopsis: A loving couple's child gets lymphoma. A tale of love, hate, sex, betrayal, and the mind. This is an eight chapter story in two parts.

FYI: Yes, this story is in LW and there is a betrayal, but you won't get to it until Ch. 3. Many readers will ask if the story is a BTB or a RAAC, so they will know if they want to read it. The answer is "yes." Or "maybe."

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A few notes:

The story, and all its characters, are fictional.

The somewhat villainous oncologist, "Amarjit (Jit) Singh, MD, PhD," doesnotexist and certainly doesnotrepresent Indian Americans. You can find several real physicians by that name on line, but he isnotone of them. As far as I can determine, there isno"Amarjit Singh, MD, PhD" in the entire United States.

There is likewisenoChildren's Hospital or adjoining "Ritz" in Indianapolis. There are a Peyton Manning Children's Hospital, and a Riley Hospital for Children, but the hospital in the story is fictional.

Thereisa real Cincinnati Shakespeare Company ("Cincy Shakes"), and they are very good. And of course there's a real William Shakespeare and a real "King Lear," though I don't know if Cincy Shakes has ever done "King Lear." But yes, Shakespeare can make you cry. The bastard.

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Background

The story developed after I was strongly affected by the story "Grief" (2014) by the wonderful writer Oshaw, who hasn't been active since 2017. It revolved around the effects on a couple of their daughter getting leukemia. Later I found that blackrandl1958, a friend of Oshaw's, was so taken by Oshaw's story that she wrote a companion piece called "Solace" (2018). Independently, Ohio had written a story with childhood cancer as a plot element in "Visiting Richard Gronier" (2008). The stories follow quite different trajectories, and I recommend all three. I'm sure there are more such stories at Literotica, but I'm unfamiliar with them. I'd appreciate readers letting me know of them in a comment or via Literotica communication.

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My editors

Almost everything I know about rare and expensive spirits I owe to NickTee. He told me about most of those that appear in the story. I'm sorry he lives on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, or he'd be not just a fellow writer but a drinking buddy.

I'm especially indebted for a close reading and detailed edits and discussion of an earlier draft of "Cancer," by Bruce1971, who improved the story greatly. Frankly, he could make a living from it if he were so inclined (I'm not trying to get tons of people to ask you to edit, Bruce. Really).

*****

As always, I accept all comments, whether positive or negative, even insulting ones, including anonymous ones. Of course I prefer the ones where you praise the story to the skies, but.... Anyway, if you post a comment under your Literotica account, I will try to reply to you personally.

Copyright 2025 by H. Jekyll. All rights reserved.

*****

Ch. 1: Sex

We'd always ultimately apologize -- each of us, both of us -- once we'd cooled off and avoided each other long enough. The fights were always about the sex, about its absence. Sometimes she'd go first, sometimes me. Then we'd hug or hold, to show that we still cared for each other despite everything.

Eventually, even that dwindled.

Kate was convinced she was in the right, and it made what happened later even worse. "Mikey is hurting! He could die! How can you think about doing that now?" That was her refrain when I'd try to initiate it. That or how selfish I was, or self-absorbed, or thoughtless, or narcissistic. There were other things in that vein -- and she'd been an English major. I'd hit back with how cold she'd become, how distant and sexless, how she'd piled forced abstinence on top of all the other anguish of our lives. Once I yelled "Fuck you! Just fuck yourself, you fucking bitch!" That was the worst thing I ever said, and I had to stay away from her a good long time before I could humble myself properly and apologize. It took several more days for her to fully accept it.

It didn't matter to Michael. If he was going to die, it wouldn't matter whether or not we drew some solace and pleasure from each other, whether or not we grabbed any life from the fucking jaws of death. But we didn't and he did.

Cancer killed our sex life and it killed our boy. On the way, it killed our marriage, though it had human -- or maybe inhuman -- help doing that. The sex had diminished but cancer murdered it. The marriage? We'll get to that. And actually, Michael was responsible for all of it. He was responsible but he wasn't to blame.

Rest in peace, my son.

*****

It was so different in the early days. We liked to think our sex was better than most couples', but who knows? A lot of people don't talk about it and there are people who brag about things they've never actually done. We had friends where it was common knowledge one was dissatisfied. Or both. And some where it was absolutely clear they clicked beautifully. All we really knew was that we loved each other and we loved how our desires and our bodies worked together. We were both experienced, so we didn't fumble around, though we never talked about previous partners. Why bother? We initiated it about equally often, maybe three, four, even five times a week. Is that normal?

When we didn't make love, we cuddled and caressed a lot -- and, yes, the cuddling and caressing led to a lot of the sex. We tried different things. One day, Kate stumbled onto copies of bothThe Joy of SexandThe Kama Sutraat a used bookstore -- in the discard bin of all places -- and we went through them together and got thoroughly turned on. They gave us ideas. Some things inThe Kama Sutraweren't humanly possible, but we were game. Then Kate foundThe Story of Oand was entranced. We bought scarves and blindfolds, and I found an antique, buffalo-skin riding crop in a sex shop. Kate couldn't wait to try it.

"Beg, you slut."

"Please, no. Please. Please don't hit me... harder."

"Count."

"Two! Oh, please. Don't hit me... again."

"Count."

Once we got our safe words right, we could play a while, naughty lashes stinging just enough to be good and leaving lovely pink marks on her ass, but not hurting enough to be bad. Then, one night Kate wanted to loosen the safe words and find how much she could tolerate. The next morning, she winced when she sat at the breakfast table, and she had bruises on her bum. Maybe we should drop the crop?

"Oh? Didn't you enjoy it, Steffy?

"I think you enjoyed it too much."

Kate grabbed me and kissed me. "We'll just be more careful."

"Would you enjoy it as much?"

Kate wasn't alone in wanting to explore. I was the one who pushed anal. No pun intended. Kate might have gotten high from the whip and the role-playing, but sodomy was dirty. I wore her down on that one. We studied the explanations and illustrations and warnings and all that inThe Joy of Sex, and we went carefully, the way a geeky, college-educated couple would. It was hot, and, yes, dirty. Hot enough to do again sometime. Fun, but definitely not a mainstay. And I may be overstating. Our sex was overwhelmingly sweet, vanilla love between spouses, more so over time, until it diminished and then suddenly stopped.

*****

But should sex even be part of the conversation? Yes, it should. There are people with stricken children who take special comfort in it. They find it helps them get by. Holding each other, coming together, then holding each other some more so they can withstand what they'll face the next day and the next, and the one after that. We got to know other cancer families pretty well. One couple let on that their sex was all that kept them going, though I'm sure it helped that their little girl survived. She's in high school now and plays volleyball, and they send a Christmas card every year.

It didn't work out that way for Kate and me.

*****

Sexual waning had begun long before the cancer, but the King would arrive on his own schedule.

It first diminished because we had a problem pregnancy. No, not "we." Kate had the problems. Not with the work of getting pregnant, which had been wonderful, both before and after we got our at-home test results and the official diagnosis. "Work?" More like enhanced playing. Of course, with her pregnant I wanted to be a little careful, so it was ever more vanilla, but it was still great until --

Until Kate began throwing up. And with the nausea came the exhaustion. She'd stop in the middle of housework and sit. I'd come home to find the house a mess and Kate collapsed in front of the TV. She'd apologize, then I'd get snippy, thenI'dapologize because, damn it, she was carryingourbaby. Finally, I'd finish the cleaning or cooking or whatever, while carrying guilt and slow-burning anger and even more guilt because she was suffering.

"Don't worry about it, babe." We were both tired.

This progressed to something like all-day sickness. She couldn't eat, not much. Nothing tasted good, and she couldn't keep much down. I got truly worried when the baby kept growing but Kate didn't.

"Wait! Wasn't she heavier last week?"

"It happens sometimes," said the nurse. "We'll keep an eye on it."

The doctor changed her diet and gave her meds and suggested more bed rest. She finally started to catch up. But the sex? Yeah, right. There just weren't that many evenings when Kate felt both well enough and sexual enough for it. I got used to relieving myself in the shower.

And then -- no, we're not there yet. Not even close. Kate developed pre-eclampsia. That's where her blood pressure spikes and her kidneys aren't right. It can kill both of them. There are medications, but the treatment is basically to nurse her along to an early delivery. They don't order complete bed rest anymore, just "activity restriction," as the gynecologist phrased it. At least Kate didn't have to feel guilty about not doing much.

There was an additional thing. I remember the exact phrase the gynecologist used. I was sitting off to the side in the examining room while the doctor studiously pretended to be clinical and general:

"You need to be sure not to put anything into your vagina."

Hypothetically, she might be referring to anything at all, and I'm sure she had patients who had to stop using dildos or beads or bananas or whatever, but in practice what she meant was me.

That was less a problem than it might be. I could kiss and caress Kate, and I could massage her. I liked it and she loved it, and then she could do me back. There was this period, this short window when she felt better, a sort of sexual Renaissance, when we did everything that wasn't explicitly forbidden. I enjoyed massaging her breasts, which blossomed with pregnancy and sometimes leaked a little fluid that I would lick. I'd run my hands over her belly, swollen and marked by little blue veins, and I'd feel our baby moving inside her.

I remember one time -- the best time -- Kate playing with my balls and my cock, running her fingertips all the way down between my legs, then all the way back up to the bell head and spreading my slippery pre-cum around it. Again. More. I remember her keeping me erect with one hand and leaning over me on her other arm, dipping a swollen breast to my lips so I could lick it and suck it, the soft skin and the prominent nipple, then sliding it out and swinging the other one over for me to catch, all while still playing with me down below.

"Come on, baby." She played with me some more. "You milk me while I milk you."

After a bit, I reached up to pull her face to me so we could kiss. Her hair tickled my face as we kissed, and she ran her hand around and around the bell until I came and grunted and gasped into her mouth. I wish I could make the lovely sounds she makes when she comes, but she seemed to like mine. Afterwards she got a warm washcloth. It was hard to hold still while Kate cleaned me, because I was so sensitive afterwards, and she loved it. "Oh, you're a bad, bad boy," she said.

"God, I love you," I panted up to her.

"I love you to the moon and back," she replied, and kissed me.

It went both ways. I worried that having the baby inside her would keep Kate from getting high, but I was wrong. There was no danger of my tongue going in deep, so I'd use it. She would writhe and grab my hair and pant, and I would try to keep her from coming as long as she'd kept me. I'd slow down or even stop because the baby would move and Kate's enormous belly would distend or contract right in front of me, while I was busy tasting her. I'd listen to her and watch her face, her mouth, as she came. My Kate. We listened to and followed instructions, and the doc had never actually said shecouldn'thave orgasms. I wondered if babies could feel their mothers coming.

Then our son was born. Michael Lee Hanrahan.

*****

They took him early, by C-section, and kept him for two weeks. Driving back and forth to Children's Hospital was too much for Kate, what with the dregs of the pre-eclampsia and the surgery, so we stayed at "the Ritz" -- what they called the Children's Hospital hotel. The medical center had bought it and refurbished it and built a third-floor skybridge that was all glass, so when you'd cross over to the hospital side on a sunny morning, it was almost like looking down from the heavens. You'd know everything was going to be fine. Rooms on the higher floors were reserved for doctors, staff, medical students, and patients' families, including us. Kate spent ten days there, and I'd stay when I could. She could rest but go down to the neonatal ICU whenever she wanted to, day or night, to be with tiny MLH. It was the most rest she'd had in months.

I'd thought because she'd had the C-section instead of a vaginal birth, that we could "resume intercourse" almost right away, even before she left the Ritz. That just showed how little I knew. Penetration? What penetration? I could touch her, and she could touch me, but we had to be especially careful around her incision. In the end, we pretty much waited out the six weeks, just like everyone else.

Not that Kate was immune to sexiness. Going to our room one day we passed a tall doctor, an Indian fellow by appearances, in a Sikh turban, well-trimmed beard and mustache, the full tall-dark-handsome package. Kate turned to watch him receding down that hall, and I said:

"I'm glad he's in oncology. I prefer a middle-aged woman looking between your legs."

"Oooooo. Is my Stefan getting all jealous?" She sounded delighted.

"Oooooo. Is my Kathryn getting all sexed up?"

"I don't want to get too sexed up until you can do something about it, honey." She squeezed my hand.

"Well, get your tongue back in your mouth."

She punched my arm.

*****

We decided to go to our standby of doing whatever wasn't specifically forbidden, but Michael Lee Hanrahan put a stop to that. He was fussy. He was colicky. He wouldn't sleep the night through, or the day, or even sometimes the hour. Kate's Mom, Mollie, helped for a couple of weeks, but after she left Kate had Michael alone most days and was beaten down and depressed. We knew a couple whose daughter was sleeping all night at two months, and we could have killed them. In the evening and at night I'd pitch in, but Kate couldn't catch a break.

Not that long ago, they had this over-the-counter stuff called "paregoric." That's camphorated tincture of opium, which must have been wonderful. Mommy would give a drop to her newborn, then maybe take a few drops herself, and both would sleep peacefully. Today they expect us to be made of sterner stuff.

So, no sex. Not "never," but what can you do when you crave sleep, and even if you begin something, you'll probably be interrupted?

One night I had a plan. I told Kate she needed a good, full-body massage to relax. She should strip down so I could do it right.

"I'm too tired, Stef."

"It's not sex, hon," I lied. "Just relax. I'll keep my sweats on. It'll help you." So, she stripped.

I was careful not to be too forward, to avoid running my hands over those magnificent, lactating breasts. Oh, maybe just brush the sides a little. I'd certainly stay away from her nipples. Then her thighs and abdomen. I'd keep my hands away from her incision, and especially from her vulva, going all around but staying in safe territory. Reasonably safe. I was sure it would turn her on.

I was doing that when she started snoring.

She was asleep.Reallyasleep. Not faking it to get out of sex. I know because when she's truly out Kate's breathing gets deep, and regular, and sometimes sounds like a soft, little snore. That's what I mean. She looked and sounded so content. My Kate. So I sighed, then turned off her bed lamp and pulled the sheet and blanket up and kissed her hair. I got ready to go into the bathroom to play with myself -- when Michael started crying.

Kate awoke instantly and half sat up, the new mother rewired with hair-trigger responses to baby sounds.

"Don't, Katie. Go back to sleep. I'll take him."

I think she was asleep almost as fast as she'd awakened. I went out and closed the door quietly, so she wouldn't hear him, and decided I'd take the whole night.Crap!I thought, but she couldn't be on call all the time.

So, it was Michael and me, downstairs, as far from Kate as we could be inside the house. He was screaming while I changed him and heated up some mother's milk from the fridge. He had diaper rash, so I slathered butt cream on him.

"Just a minute, kiddo. Dinner's coming up."

I fed him and took him to the rocking recliner. Anything to quiet him. He took some milk, but it didn't help. He still screamed. I rocked him some more and it still didn't help. I lifted him above my head.

Shutup! God, where was paregoric when you needed it?

I almost shook him, and that was when I realized how easy it would be, how a thoroughly decent parent, in the heat and despair of the moment, could shake an infant to death.

I held him aloft a bit longer.

"Yeah, big guy, it's just you and me."

I brought him down to my chest and talked to him while I rocked.

"Well, old man. Someday you'll be doing this for your own kid. I think Mommy will appreciate my taking you tonight. She needs a break. Your wife will thank you down the road. They have to carry the main load, you know. So do it. It'll be worth it. Trust me, Mikey. I got all that pleasure of helping make you, so I guess I should try to share the work.

"Huh? The pleasure? Oh, boy! We'll talk to you about sex someday, but thelastthing in the world you'll ever want to hear is your parents telling you about sex. Your friends? That's a different matter. It's all you'll want to talk about, most of it just passing misinformation. And you certainly wouldn't want to know... and we'dnever, evertell you... some of the things your Mommy and I have done with each other. You wouldn't believe them anyway."

Tiny Michael Lee Hanrahan settled in, maybe because of my voice, maybe because of what I was telling him. Maybe I should insert a smiley emoji about here, but either way, he settled. I knew he'd stir again in a while. I opened my laptop with one hand and held him to my shoulder with the other, put the extra diaper over him to be sure he was warm enough, and looked for a website that dealt with how to handle fussy babies. It would be a long night.

*****

There was a voice.

"Honey?"

A soft voice and a soft hand on my shoulder.

"Honey? It's 6:30. You need to get ready for work. Get dressed, and I'll make you breakfast."

A soft voice and a soft hand and then Kate leaned over and there were soft lips on my cheek. She held her face to mine. The sun was shining through the kitchen window. Michael had slipped to my lap, where he was sleeping beautifully, and my laptop was folded shut and wedged against the armrest.