Free Rocking the Pink by Laura Roppé

finally settled on Dr. Andrew Hampshire, an unassuming family man of my exact age, whose easy laugh struck me as an anomaly for someone in his line of work.
    Dr. Hampshire was warm and instantly likable, even when he was the bearer of bad news. And, most impressive to Brad and me, he was a dead ringer—both physically and temperamentally—for the best-friend character, Wilson, on the medical drama House (who, strangely enough, also happens to be an oncologist). Brad and I loved that show, so it was a no-brainer.
    In addition to reminding us of one of our favorite TV doctors, Dr. Hampshire was ridiculously knowledgeable about cancer, and particularly about this newly discovered villain on the scene, triple negative breast cancer. He’d read all the latest studies and been to the latest triple-negative summits (facts we discovered when Brad, who’d
initially been wary of Dr. Hampshire’s youth, interrogated him in a manner befitting an episode of Law & Order).
    And, best of all, Dr. Hampshire, who much later insisted we call him Andy, understood our complicated sense of humor (i.e., that it was Brad’s job to make jokes and mine to laugh at them). Indeed, despite the serious context of most of our discussions with Dr. Hampshire, visits with him inevitably devolved into chortles of laughter on all sides.
    But at my first appointment, as Brad and I searched for a doctor who could turn our world right side up again, we had not yet eased into the comfort of our cancer-comedy routine. No, at our first oncology appointment, Dr. Hampshire was warm but all business, matter-of-factly detailing the chemotherapy I would endure over the course of the next several months.
    â€œWe have to hit the cancer with the strongest chemo drugs available because it’s so aggressive,” he explained.
    â€œBring it on,” I told him, full of false bravado. And, handing him a picture of the girls, I added, “Here’s why I need to get better. I’ll do whatever it takes.”
    Dr. Hampshire looked at the photo—I mean, he really looked at it—and nodded. He had a wife and three young kids of his own. His daughter’s poem about a nature hike with her heroic dad was hanging on the wall behind his head, I noticed.
    â€œIf you were my wife,” Dr. Hampshire said, and he looked right into my eyes, “I’d recommend this exact chemo regimen. It’s best to do everything in your power against this thing now, so you never second-guess yourself later.”

    My life was in this man’s hands. And he would care for me as if I were his own beloved wife.
    Dr. Hampshire shifted his gaze to Brad, who nodded.
    Brad trusted him. An understanding had passed between them.
    We’d found our man.
    Brad handed Dr. Hampshire a copy of my album. “And there’s also this.” His voice quavered, just a little bit. “She wrote all the songs.” Brad looked over at me, his face awash in tenderness and pride.
    Dr. Hampshire scrutinized the CD cover, looking surprised. “So, you’re a rock star?” he asked me, grinning.
    â€œWell, no, not really.” I’m pretty sure I batted my eyelashes shamelessly at him. “But when this is all over, I’m going over to England to film a music video!” I sounded a little bit maniacal, even to myself.
    Dr. Hampshire was gracious. “Laura,” he said, a fountain of reassurance, “you’re going to film that music video. You’re going to be just fine.”
    I clenched my jaw. Damn straight.
    Thank you, Dr. Hampshire.

Chapter 13
    Newlyweds Brad and Laura Roppé sat side by side on the first day of Constitutional Law class. The professor looked down at his class list, taking roll in alphabetical order:
    â€œBradley . . . Rope?”
    â€œRo- pay,” Brad corrected. “Here.”
    The professor smiled at Brad and then looked down at his list, searching for the next name. “Laura . . .