Free Tim Cratchit's Christmas Carol by Jim Piecuch Page A

breath. He did not need to check anything. The diagnosis was clear. The boy had a fibrous tumor, and the fibers were beginning to impair function in the nerves leading to Jonathan’s diaphragm. That was the reason the boy had trouble breathing, and the problem would continue to worsen until he eventually died of asphyxiation. Without treatment, Jonathan had no more than one or two months to live, if Ginny had accurately described the tumor’s rate of growth. How could he tell a mother that her child was going to die? Tim barely knew Jonathan, yet he was overcome with sadness at the impending loss of a life that had barely begun. Ginny would be devastated. Tim decided to withhold the worst part of the diagnosis. He would do what he could in the following weeks to ease Jonathan’s pain, and slowly prepare her for what was to come.
    After several calming breaths, Tim reentered the consulting room. Despite his effort to compose himself, his expression sent a wave of fear coursing through Ginny’s body.
    â€œIt’s bad, isn’t it, Doctor?”
    â€œYes, it is,” Tim conceded, wishing that he had been able to conceal that fact. “Jonathan has a fibrous tumor. It’s growing quickly, and some of the fibers are spreading from the main tumor into nearby parts of his body. The tumor and these tentacles are choking off the nerves and blood vessels, so that he can’t walk.”
    â€œBut you can do something to help Jonny, can’t you, Doctor?” Ginny pleaded.
    â€œI’m not sure,” Tim said honestly. “This is a rare condition, very difficult to treat. I’m going to need time to do more research before I can promise anything. If I rush ahead, it’s likely to do more harm than good.”
    Ginny began to cry. Tim wanted to console her, but the words would not come. How could he raise false hopes, only to see them dashed within a short time? Aware that something was wrong, Jonathan also began to cry. Tim lifted the child from the examining table and held him to his chest, fighting back tears of his own.
    One thing he could do, Tim knew, was keep Ginny and Jonathan off the streets, away from the danger and cold and hunger. Perhaps that would distract her from her child’s illness for a while, giving him time to try and find a remedy for Jonathan. Food and shelter would also help the little boy build up his strength, improving his odds of surviving if Tim decided to perform the surgery necessary to remove the tumor.
    Ginny stood, took Jonathan from Tim, dressed her child, and wrapped him in the blanket fragment. Her tears had stopped, though she still sniffled as she addressed Tim.
    â€œWe’ll be going, then, Doctor,” she said in a surprisingly firm voice. “I’m sorry to have troubled you, but thank you for what you’ve done.” Despite her disappointment and tattered condition, her bearing reflected an inner dignity. All of the harshness of life on London’s streets had hardened her, but it had not yet destroyed her pride. She had the same mixture of defiance and resignation as the captain of a sinking ship who put on his dress uniform and stood at attention by the wheel, watching the churning waters inexorably rise about him yet refusing to wail and thrash against a fate he could not alter. Tim sensed that if Ginny could somehow find a way to overcome her circumstances, she would prove to be a remarkable person.
    â€œWait a moment,” Tim said as Ginny grabbed the knob of the consulting room door. “I didn’t say I couldn’t help Jonathan, only that I need more time to see how I can proceed without making him worse. There are books, and other doctors, I want to consult. Until I do, you must stay close by. The tumor is growing rapidly, and if it turns out I can operate, I have to do so as soon as possible.”
    Ginny uttered a short, bitter laugh. “Sure, we’ll just set ourselves up right near your office