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No Cure for Tomorrow
A compelling journey of taking risks with love and medicine with no promise of tomorrow
by Allison Sadowski
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Chapter 1
She kissed him knowing he would never remember her tomorrow. That was what she feared as she told herself it would be the case if Dr. Finley administered the final dose of Rigortoraristore to her patient—to her secret love, Michael Drisdale. A radical new trial drug she and her team at Bennedict Oncology Memorial Hospital had been working on for seven years. Years of blood, sweat, and tears. Years of sacrificing dating and dancing, replaced with research and testing, tied to countless tears over cold meals and cheap bottles of wine.
It was always a sacrifice I willingly made. When kids my age were playing dolls—feeding and changing them while dreaming of being mothers—my dolls had concussions, broken bones, and brain traumas that I had to operate on. Motherhood, dating, and ultimately love were just not in the cards. I studied medicine and found my passion in learning about illnesses and cures, asking questions like, Why should patients suffer and settle for their diagnosis, and how can we as physicians give them a better prognosis—a real fighting chance?
I studied tremendously, going all the way to become a doctor with specialties in oncology, neurology, and terminal studies for trials on cures for some of the rarest forms of cancer. Our team spent many hours having medical boards close doors in our faces, telling us we were crazy and that it could never be done. So many patients just didn’t fit the right criteria, and we watched countless people slip away—families losing hope as their loved ones faded.
There were risky side effects, ones that some found too hard to accept. For the treatment to work, it had to reach the part of the brain that controlled short-term memory while destroying the cancerous toxins in the affected area. By the time the trial ended, the patient’s prognosis was supposed to be a longer life, but their short-term memory would be that of someone severely affected by Alzheimer’s. The ethics of quality of life always came into play. We tried for years to add other medications to restore memory, but it was never successful enough.
The summer of last year seemed like any other day. I woke up early and headed to the hospital, retreating to the “dungeon,” my medical lab in the basement where we kept our latest testing equipment and trial candidates. We were working on our newest compatibility tests when a file appeared on my desk: Michael Drisdale, age 34. His type of brain cancer was a perfect fit for the trial.
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Chapter 2
It was a brisk fall morning. The leaves had already changed to their deep colors, and a few had begun to bury the earth floor. I was reading over Michael’s file one final time before his consultation. It had been a tiring morning—traffic was backed up, I burned my toast, and let my coffee go cold. I just wanted the day to be over before it had even begun. I reminded myself why I do what I do—to help save patients who are deemed unsavable.
My thoughts were interrupted by a sturdy knock on my office door and my receptionist introducing my next appointment, Michael. We greeted each other with a firm handshake and a polite gesture for him to have a seat. He was slightly taller than average, with dusty hair, deep chestnut eyes, and rugged good looks. I paused for a moment, taken aback by him, though I tried to be subtle. My once always stand-offish professional manner now felt awkward and a little shaky.
Michael had a way of seeming completely understanding as I discussed all the procedures. He handled the obviously difficult conversation with a slightly nonchalant humor. We were talking about this being his last line of hope and that his memory might not be restored in the short term, and he laughed and said,
> “Good, then I won’t remember how bad the hospital food is anyway.”
We chuckled, but deep down I pondered how Michael really felt. Did he always use humor to deflect hard times? Was he naturally always so full of life? I became enthralled by his passion and his hopes for living—his stories of the world he’d seen while driving long-haul routes across Montana in the springtime, his thirst for life and experiences, his hopes for more.
We would spend hours talking before procedures. I’d hold his hand, and he’d tell me not to worry, instead of it being the other way around. I started to long to gaze into his deep eyes as he drifted to sleep. I couldn’t wait for him to wake and smile at me.
When I went home at night, I had vivid dreams that Michael pulled through and that we were spending mornings together, side by side in each other’s arms. I thought I had buried those thoughts away. What was I doing entertaining these feelings—as a professional with a patient? During his most vulnerable state, he didn’t need a lover; he needed a savior.
I woke the next morning with those foolish thoughts still lingering and vowed I wouldn’t lose focus or sight of saving Michael again. And it stayed that way for many months. But as time passed, it appeared Michael was not doing the same. His polite flirtations, the way he looked at me, the quiet pauses filled with yearning in his tone—they slowly sent shivers down my spine and made my heart skip a beat while I listened to the sounds of his heartbeat through my stethoscope.
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Chapter 3
The clouds turned a dark gray that afternoon in November. My thoughts were heavy lately about how close Michael and I had become, with such a deep connection and understanding of each other. Suddenly, rain started to fall—gently at first. We still locked eyes and smiled through it, but then it picked up. I gasped, and Michael rushed over and pulled me from under the rain to the rooftop overhang for shelter.
I could feel my breath against his, our rhythmic sounds like that of a medical machine. Our eyes locked again, this time more intense. I felt a rush all through my body, a warm tingle—and with that, Michael pulled me in close, his hands brushing back my wet hair, and kissed me softly. The gentle taste of his lips, with a hint of rain, made my heart tremble. We kissed more deeply and held each other close for what felt like a pleasant eternity.
He laughed in his usual casual way.
> “Well, if you wanted to get me out of the rain, Doc, this is one way.”
We smiled for a moment. It was so risky, so wrong—but in that moment, it had never felt more right.
From then on, Michael and I were stealing moments in the office—when the nurses would walk out, a playful pull, an innocent touch that sometimes turned into a passionate kiss when all eyes were away. I was making memories with a wonderful man—but a man I wasn’t supposed to entertain, and a man who might never stay.
We were getting to the final days leading up to his procedure. I tried to remain calm and professional while discussing the process and the risks. I couldn’t stop feeling worried, overwhelmed with the thought of Michael’s true fate. I asked him again about his consent and the risks of it all—how I dreaded the idea that he might wake up not remembering us, not knowing the special moments we had shared.
I told him I loved him in that moment. He took me gently by the hand and said there was no way he would forget the most kind and beautifully brilliant woman in the world. He told me he loved me too, and that we would grow old together and make medical history.
That night, he kissed me lovingly on the forehead. We decided to spend the night together. My body trembled, eager to feel his gentle yet rugged embrace—to fulfill our longing and be in each other’s warmth. It was the most beautiful and magical night. When our love was spent, we lay still, our hearts pressed together, breathing softly in each other’s arms.
When he parted that morning after our quiet goodbyes, the cold dread crept over me. I wanted to run back to the hospital and start from scratch—find another way to cure him. One where he would live a long, happy life with me, remembering my name, our kiss, the stories we shared, and the life we wanted to have. A cure that wouldn’t steal his memory but protect it.
I wanted to protect him—and my heart. This love, this sadness and worry, I had never felt before. It was real. It was strong. And I was terrified. I had to get to him, to tell him I couldn’t lose him, that we had to keep trying. Maybe with chemo, maybe with some miracle medicine man or something. I couldn’t and wouldn’t let go.
And with tears streaming down my face, I took one last breath and headed to him.
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Chapter 4
Spending time reasoning with Michael was how I thought it would go—Michael reminding me that the other options wouldn’t work, that he believed in me, that he believed in the treatment. He reassured me with his calm words, stealing small kisses and gentle hugs as I cried into his embrace.
The day of the procedure was a solemn one for me. I smiled, doing my best to be the professional physician my patient needed while my colleagues stood beside me—but inside, I was crumbling. I scrubbed in and gowned up, the team gathered around, going over final discussions.
Michael was there, ready, calm as always. The team members prepared to put him under anesthesia. A firm squeeze of my hand, a wink—and Michael drifted off into my care.
I took a deep breath and went into surgeon mode. Every cut with the scalpel, every region of the brain I operated on, I did with care and heavy thought. This was my patient—my Michael. The man I now knew I loved. And I wasn’t going to let him slip away.
Then came the moment where I had to make a decision—which medication to add with the main injection. I went over it in my head, replaying all my work, my efforts, my experience. I used the skills of a professional; my hands worked clean and precise.
I watched as the medication was injected into his skin and saw the neuropathways in his brain light up. Suddenly, I knew exactly what I needed to do—as if God Himself came down and guided my hands. We had done it. Medicine had done it. A miracle was made that day on the operating table.
I stitched him up with care and watched as he was wheeled off to recovery in the ICU. I gave him a wave goodbye and, in my thoughts, a kiss—hoping I’d see him later.
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Chapter 5
The silence was brutal—the ticking of the clock the only sound. My heart was heavy with anticipation. Did it work? Would Michael and I be lying by a roaring fire in December’s snowy embrace? Had time stood still for us?
He had spent most of the day sleeping off the sedation and had only recently come to, according to the nurse. I gave him a little more time, wanting him to process—this was, after all, a life-altering miracle of a surgery.
I slowly opened the heavy ICU room door. Michael was awake. He looked so small and innocent in the hospital bed. His tube had been removed, and I walked over with a nervous, cautious stride. Clearing my throat, I managed to ask how he was feeling.
He paused for a moment—his eyes fluttering, as if searching for the right words. It felt like an eternity, even though it was only seconds, waiting for his response. Then he focused on me and began to smile. After clearing his throat, he said,
> “Well, Doc… guess there’s no hope for forgetting that awful meatloaf I had yesterday. So much for forgetting hospital food.”
He let out a laugh, and in that moment all my anxiety and tension melted away. He remembered. He was okay. He was back.
I was alone with him in that moment. I sat at his bedside and held his hand. I couldn’t resist and leaned in for a soft kiss, trying not to hurt him. I felt happier than I had ever felt—sudden dreams of life between us filled my mind.
We talked for a few moments about all our plans. He wanted to sail with me on a boat, drink coffee in Paris beneath the stars, lie on sandy beaches with our toes buried in the cool sand, and swim in the glistening night waters of the Caribbean Sea.
We carried on until Michael began to tire. I kissed his forehead and told him to rest. Realizing I hadn’t eaten all day, I decided to step out—but not before saying goodbye.
> “Goodbye, Dr. Finley,” he smiled. “I’ll see you soon.”
I strolled down the hospital hallway toward the elevator, feeling victorious. Along the way, fellow staff congratulated me on the success of the surgery. Thoughts of a greasy cheeseburger and catching up with friends were suddenly interrupted—the sharp chime of a Code Blue echoed through the halls.
My instinct was panic—to run to Michael, to tell myself he was fine, that this couldn’t be him. I dashed out of line and flew down the stairs as fast as I could, overwhelmed with terror. When I reached his floor, staff were everywhere around his room—machines beeping, voices shouting orders, chaos spilling into the hallway.
I screamed for them to let me in. They were doing CPR. It was like watching from outside my own body—watching Michael’s life, our plans, our hopes, and our dreams slip through my fingertips.
And then it happened. That sound. The one you dread. The noise you never get used to—the flatline.
I shrieked the loudest scream my body could bear.
“Michael, no—don’t leave!”
I grabbed the ambu-bag and fought with everything I had—every squeeze, every shock from the paddles—but it was no use. My Michael was gone.
The moments after that were a blur. Time stood still while my heart shattered and ached, as if pieces of my soul were being ripped away from within me.
I stayed in a daze for a while, grasping at the realization of all that I had—and then lost. Time slipped in and out like the consciousness of a patient. My heart was heavy and full of despair for a long time after.
I didn’t know how, or if, I could ever be a doctor or surgeon again. Some cuts are just too wide and too deep, and the hemorrhaging of emotion can completely overtake you. I also didn’t know if I would ever love again, or have faith in humanity.
I lost something that day in the ICU.
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Epilogue
Years have since passed since losing Michael. He taught me to believe in myself and not to give up—to find joy in laughter and the purity of real love.
I still work in the field and have since made some truly innovative steps in this crazy world of oncology and trying to cure brain cancer. When I hear a gentleman’s laughter or think back on a warm, funny line, I think of him. For those brief moments we had after the surgery, we caught a tiny glimpse of our future—and oh, what a future we would have held.
I know life throws curveballs; in medicine, we’re taught that on our very first day. By the time we’re in practice, we think we know everything there is to know about medicine. But Michael taught me something far greater—he taught me love and beauty.
Though there is no cure for tomorrow and no guarantee for today, would I have changed a thing for you—for us?
No.
Love conquered anyway.
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The End
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